A leading Democrat on Widmer’s committee, a firm supporter of President Parmele, issued his own statement: “The hearings proposed by Senator Widmer represent nothing more than a blatant political witch hunt, based upon the questionable word of an aging, demented former Mafia killer, who for the past twelve years has been secluded under the witness protection program, and who now claims to have taken part in the assassination. His charges, contained in a recently published book, are ludicrous at best. Basing hearings on such absurd information makes a mockery of legitimate Senate hearings into important matters of state. I and my Democratic colleagues on the committee strenuously oppose this waste of taxpayer money in the interest of political gain.”
Marienthal’s name appeared near the end of the piece: “The book in which the charges are leveled, written by D.C. author Richard Marienthal, has just been published. Attempts to date to speak with Marienthal have been unsuccessful. According to his publisher, Hobbes House, the author’s whereabouts are unknown.”
Marienthal replaced his sunglasses and ate his pie, finished his coffee. He left the restaurant, a replica of a fifties diner, and returned to the street level. He took a circuitous route to the windows of the B. Dalton bookstore and viewed them from a distance. A pile of his books, with one perched on top to allow passersby to see the cover, occupied the window nearest the entrance. He overcame the temptation to enter the store and walked to Best Lockers, behind the Amtrak ticket counter and near Exclusive Shoe Shine. The lockers had been closed to the public after 9/11 as a security measure, but had been opened again. After taking a minute to make his decision, Marienthal located an empty locker and slid the canvas shoulder bag inside. He paused, removed the bag, and zipped it open. The tapes were bundled in plastic bags and secured with rubber bands, the notes filed in three-ring binders. He placed the bag’s contents in the locker, closed the door, and pocketed the key. The shoulder bag was like a pet rock or favorite wallet to Marienthal; no sense in leaving it behind.
Before departing the station, he went to a bank of public telephones next to Best Lockers and dialed his home phone.
“Hi,” he said. “How are you doing?”
“I am so happy to hear your voice,” she said. “I’m all right. You?”
“Okay.”
“The phone’s rung off the hook all day. I took a sick day. I shouldn’t have. Reporters. They’re so tenacious. Your father called.”
“I’m sure he did. Did Geoff call?”
“No, but Ellen did. How can I reach you?”
“You can’t. It’s better that way. I’d better go. I’ll get back to you.”
“So soon? I-”
“This’ll be over soon, Kathryn. Just think about that vacation we’ll be taking.”
“I will,” she said. “You take care.”
He hung up, left the station on to Massachusetts Avenue, and took a taxi back to Winard Jackson’s apartment. Had he stayed on the phone much longer or lingered by it, he would shortly have had the pleasure of meeting Timothy Stripling.
Stripling had spent most of the afternoon in the FBI’s central communications room at the Hoover Building, where a series of wiretaps had been initiated, under a special order from the attorney general of the United States. His authority to authorize such invasive measures had been widely expanded in the interest of homeland security, Tim knew, and indeed, no home seemed to be safe any longer.
The first tap had been placed on the phone registered to Richard Marienthal and had become operative at the tail end of Kathryn Jalick’s conversation with Ellen Kelly. Kathryn’s call from Marienthal had not only been recorded but was traced to a specific bank of public phones at Union Station. Stripling left the Hoover Building before the call was over, but no one resembling Marienthal was at the station. He drove the streets around the station but came up empty. Meanwhile, the agents back at the Hoover Building were placing additional taps on phones when Stripling left, and said they’d contact him twenty-four hours a day on the cell phone they’d provided if another lead developed. He’d now been given a number he could use to call directly into the com center, and used it first to report his failure to locate Marienthal.
He drove to Georgetown and had a sundae. Back in his car, he dialed a number on his cell phone.
“Jane? It’s Tim Stripling.”
“Hello, lover. Bad timing.”
“Got a client, huh? Any time later?”
“In an hour. Make it two.”
“Yeah, two. I prefer you fresh. And rested. See you then.”
With any luck, his cell wouldn’t ring at an inopportune time.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Mullin was at the unoccupied bar, the flowers sitting next to a vodka on the rocks, when Sasha came down from her room pulling a suitcase with wheels. She spotted him and entered the bar. You get better looking every time I see you, he thought.
“Right on the button,” he said, indicating his watch. He wanted to kiss her.
“I try to be.”
“Drink? We have time.”
She seemed unsure.
“If you don’t want, it’s okay.”
“All right. I checked out earlier.”
Her eyes went to the flowers, and Mullin handed them to her, accompanied by an inexperienced grin. “Just a little something to say goodbye. They’re not much.”
“They’re lovely, as lovely as the thought,” she said, sniffing the petals and taking the stool next to him. He lighted her cigarette and said to the bartender without checking with Sasha, “A white Zinfandel for the lady.”
Her mood was somber, which wasn’t lost on him. “Problem?” he asked.
“I didn’t know,” she replied.
“Didn’t know what?”
“Why Louis came to Washington. I haven’t watched the news since coming here. I don’t watch it at home much, either. Always sadness and sorrow on the news. In Israel. Here. But I watched this afternoon. I didn’t know.”
“That what, he came to testify at that Senate committee?”
“Yes.”
“I just found that out, too. From the radio. How come you didn’t know? He didn’t tell you why he was coming here?”
She shook her head and sipped her wine. “All Louis told me was that Richard-”
“Marienthal. The writer.”
“Yes. All he told me was that Richard wanted to introduce him to some politicians who were interested in his story.”
“Did he also tell you that he shot people, especially that Central American dictator?”
She shuddered and reached for the flowers on the bar, brought them to her chest and closed her eyes.
“He didn’t tell you that?”
“My God, no.” She turned, eyes wide open, as though imploring him to understand, to believe her. “Louis told me something about his life with the Mafia, about the killing of enemies, the other crimes in which he was involved, the things that caused him shame. But to kill a man who is a leader of a country?”
Mullin was unsure of what to say. “Maybe he didn’t,” he said.
She said nothing.
“Maybe this writer, Marienthal, made it up. You know, to sell his book. They do that all the time.”
She shook her head. “No, that is not what it says on the news. It says that Louis was to testify at the hearings in your Senate, to say under oath that he killed the man on orders from your president when he was with the CIA.”
“Yeah, I know, but-”
“Louis told me that the book was about his life in New York, his days with his gang. Nothing about assassinations. I should have asked more, but I didn’t.” She touched the top of his hand with her fingertips. “Richard is missing. I heard that, too. Do you think-”
Mullin shrugged and downed his drink, motioned for another. “What do I think, that maybe something happened to him, too?”
Her eyes said she wanted an answer to that question.
Another shrug from the big detective. “I don’t think so,” he
said. “I mean, who knows, huh? They say your friend was killed by his former buddies he ratted on.”
“They say? Who are they?”
“The brass. The boys upstairs where I work.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I don’t know what I believe,” he said, starting on his new drink. “I just hear things, like you do. I sensed earlier that they want the tapes of Louis telling his story. There’s a senator here, an old guy from Alaska, who’s in charge of the hearings. There’s always hearings going on around here. Waste of taxpayer money. All political. Widmer-he’s the senator holding the hearings-he hates Parmele. The way I see it, he wants to hold the hearings to sink Parmele’s chance for another four years in the White House. That’s the scuttlebutt I hear.”
She cupped her glass in both hands and stared into it.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “What I said. Yeah, sure, maybe it wasn’t the mob that killed Louis. Maybe it was somebody working for Parmele’s cause, in the White House itself, out to save his political rear end.”
“We don’t think such things happen here,” she said.
He guffawed. “Think again,” he said. “We had the two Kennedy brothers shot dead. Hey, next time you’re over, visit Ford’s Theatre, where Lincoln was hit. Yeah, it happens here, too.”
He didn’t continue with what he was thinking, that Louis Russo wasn’t in the same league as JFK or RFK. Getting rid of an aging, sick mafioso wouldn’t be a big deal to someone with political aspirations or motives. The old guy’s life was meaningless in the larger scheme of things. The same with LeClaire, the Union Station shooter. You want to get away with murder, get rid of anybody who helped you pull it off. Murder 101.
“Richard has the tapes,” she said to herself.
“That’s what the senator wants, they say. The tapes, Russo’s own voice saying what he did. Any idea where he might be?”
“Richard? No. I spoke with his girlfriend today.”
“Did you? What’d she have to say?”
“She said he was away working on another book.”
“No way to reach him?”
“She said there wasn’t.”
“Hmm. Doesn’t sound kosher to me,” he said. She looked puzzled. He laughed at his choice of words.
She didn’t respond.
“Drink your wine,” he said. “Want another?”
“No, thank you.”
“Well,” he said, downing the remainder of his drink, “I guess we should head for the airport, grab some dinner.”
“Maybe I should take a taxi,” she said.
“How come? I said I’d drive you.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t drive, the drinks and all.”
He gave forth a reassuring laugh. “A couple a pops don’t affect me. I’m fine.”
She sat rigidly on the bar stool, staring at the back bar’s glittering array of bottles and glassware. “Hey,” he said, touching her shoulder. “If you don’t want to have dinner with me, that’s okay. I mean, I’ll be disappointed but-”
“Who are you?” she asked, turning to face him.
“Huh?”
“Who are you?” she repeated.
“You know who I am.”
“I don’t know who anyone is,” she said. “That man, Charlie Simmons, isn’t who he says he is. You told me that.”
“Right. I checked on him. I got his plate number and ran it. His name’s Stripling. Timothy Stripling. The way I read the info on him, he’s with some government agency. Hard to tell which one.”
“Why would he lie to me?”
“He’s looking for the writer and the tapes. You said he kept asking about them. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“So maybe he’s working for the senator from Alaska. That makes sense, don’t it?”
She turned her hands palms up in a gesture of confusion. “They break into my apartment,” she said. “The tapes. They were looking for the tapes, copies of them?”
“Could be.” The bar tab was placed in front of him and he slapped cash on it. “I’d like to know where this writer friend of yours is.”
“It sounds as though many people want to know where he is,” she said.
“Maybe we can get a missing person’s search going,” he said. “Of course, if his girlfriend says he’s not missing, just away, that makes it tough, but I’ll see what I can do.” He didn’t add that his boss’s admonition to drop any search for Marienthal would make it even tougher. He stood and hitched his trousers up over his belly. “Well,” he said, “if you want, I’ll get you a cab. I’d still like to drive you and have dinner, but that’s up to you.”
She didn’t reply as she slid off the stool, extended the handle of her suitcase, and looked toward the lobby. Mullin took the flowers from the bar and held them up. “Don’t want these?” he asked.
She lowered her head and let out a sustained, pained sigh. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Please forgive me. Louis always said it was better to distrust friends than to be deceived by them.”
“And you don’t trust me,” he said.
She thought a moment before saying, “I don’t trust myself. Yes, please, drive me to the airport.” She took the flowers from him, smiled, and said, “I think you are a kind man, Detective Mr. Bret Mullin. Thank you for being kind to me.”
“No problem,” he said, unsure of what else to say. “Let’s go. You can smoke in the car if you want.”
THIRTY-NINE
The phone was ringing when Mac Smith walked through the door.
“Mac. Frank Marienthal.”
“Hello, Frank. How are you?” Smith said, cradling the cordless phone to his ear as he deposited two bags of groceries on the kitchen counter of his Watergate apartment.
“I’ve been better. I’m in Washington.”
“Oh. Business?”
“Family business. Richard. I’m staying at the Watergate. I’d like to see you.”
“Want to come up to the apartment?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
Mac gave directions to his building in the complex and hung up. Ten minutes later, the New York criminal attorney was seated with Smith on the terrace, glasses and a bottle of sparkling water on the table.
“Sorry to barge in on you on short notice,” the elder Marienthal said. He wore a dark blue pinstripe suit, a white shirt, and a solid maroon tie. Smith had changed into loose-fitting jeans and a pale green short-sleeved polo shirt.
“I’m pleased to see you, Frank. I know why you’re here, of course. Richard’s disappearance has been all over the news. How much play has it gotten in New York?”
“Not as much as here, it being a Washington story. Christ, Mac, to think that Richard got himself into a situation like this is anathema to Mary and me. The potential ramifications are immense. A sitting president may be accused of authorizing the assassination of a foreign leader when he was heading the CIA. The accuser is murdered in Union Station, and his killer is also murdered. And now Richard is missing, presumably with those goddamn tapes on which Louis Russo weaves some tale about killing on orders from our government.”
“Yes. You don’t believe his claim?”
“It doesn’t matter whether I believe it or not. I represented Russo, you know. The important thing is that whatever he told Richard for the book is being used for political gain. Do you know Senator Widmer?”
“I’ve met him a few times,” Smith said.
“He’d do anything to derail Parmele’s bid for a second term, even use the rants of a mob killer.”
“Have you spoken with Kathryn?” Smith asked.
“Ms. Jalick? Yes, I have. She’s lying about Richard’s whereabouts. Hardly the sort of young woman Mary or I envisioned for Richard. As long as he has those tapes-”
“What can I do to help?” Smith asked.
“Help me find Richard,” Marienthal said. “Before the wrong people do.”
Annabel came home from her gallery and Marienthal
stayed for dinner. Naturally, most of the talk at the table was a continuation of what he and Mac had discussed earlier. It was over coffee that Marienthal took something from a large manila envelope he’d carried with him to the apartment and handed it to his hosts. It was a copy of his son’s book, The Contract: The Assassination of Constantine Eliana, and the People Behind It by Richard Marienthal.
As Annabel flipped through the pages, stopping at a photo section in which the Chilean dictator’s image was featured, along with scenes from the assassination, and earlier photos of Adam Parmele as CIA chief, commingled with more recent shots, Mac sat glumly, chewing his cheek and tapping his fingertips together.
“It’s obviously not a novel,” Annabel said, laying the book on the table.
“That’s not how the contract read when Rich asked me to review it. It’s not what he told me.”
Marienthal said in a low voice, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Annabel asked.
“For Richard’s dishonesty. I asked you to vet his contract, Mac, and you did, under false pretenses.”
“He and his publisher obviously had their reasons for wanting it to be known as a work of fiction,” Smith said. “I’m sure they tried to hide the true nature of the book for as long as possible.”
“Which doesn’t make it any less dishonest,” said the father. “I read the book on my way here. It’s filled with speculation and innuendo, vague references by Russo to contacts he had with the CIA. How absurd, this minor league thug claiming he had direct contact with CIA agents who contracted with him to shoot Eliana, on Adam Parmele’s orders.”
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