Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [106]
“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.”
“Evidently Richard believed him,” Annabel offered.
“Which doesn’t surprise me,” Marienthal said. “Richard’s a dreamer, always has been. That’s why he became a writer, I suppose. I wanted him to go to law school.” He looked at Mac and smiled. “If there’s one thing you lose in law school, it’s your sophomoric na¨õveté. Right, Mac?”
“Maybe to a fault,” Smith said, feeling a growing need to defend his friend’s son.
Annabel brought coffee to the table and returned to the kitchen to get a plate of cookies. The phone rang; she answered. A moment later, she returned to the dining room carrying the cordless phone. “It’s for you, Mac,” she said. To both men sotto voce: “It’s Richard.”
Mac glanced at Marienthal before taking the phone from her. “Richard?” he said.
“Yes, Mac. I hope I’m not disturbing your dinner.”
“We’ve just finished. Your father is here.”
“Dad’s in Washington?”
“He certainly is. I’ll put him on.”
“No, Mac. In a minute. I need to speak with you. I need some detached advice.”
“Hold on a minute.” Mac placed his hand over the phone and said to Marienthal, “He wants to run something by me, Frank. Give me a few minutes with him.”
Marienthal’s face was gray and sunken, as though attacked by a sudden burst of gravity. Large circles puffed beneath his eyes; his mouth was a tight, thin slash.
Smith walked away from the table, went to his office, and shut the door. “Before we get into advice-giving, Richard, I want you to listen to me. I understand you’re under considerable pressure,