Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [116]
He made frequent trips to the men’s room or outside to escape the reading room’s atmosphere. He couldn’t justify being there like some hotel detective hiding behind potted plants in search of straying spouses, but he didn’t know what else to do. Ellen had been unsuccessful in convincing Kathryn to lead him to Rich. Senator Widmer had become irascible, even by his standards, and most of his wrath was directed at Lowe. He understood the senator’s anger to some extent; the whole idea of hearings into Parmele’s days as CIA director had been Lowe’s, prompted by his having met Richard Marienthal. It was like handing Widmer a prized political gift, the sort of scandal that despite its origins had legs, would capture the media, and by extension sway public opinion. Was it true? It didn’t matter. This was politics. Indeed, this was war, and Lowe viewed himself as a consecrated combatant.
All he wanted that day was to get lucky, to see Marienthal walk into the library to meet Kathryn, carrying a bagful of tapes. If he didn’t listen to reason about handing them over—he’d use his best “It’s for the good of the country” speech—he’d hit him over the head and just take the damn tapes, run back to Widmer’s office and present them to the old bastard like a sacrificial offering: “Here! I offer you this young virgin! I came, I saw, I conquered! Reward me!”
He was sitting on a low concrete wall outside the library, tie pulled loose, collar open, sweat running down his face, watching people come and go, when Kathryn Jalick emerged through the main entrance after having offered her handbag for inspection by security guards inside. Keeping employees and visitors from leaving with purloined books was as pressing an issue at the Library of Congress as guarding against the unbalanced entering with guns.
Lowe turned so that his back was to her as she ran past thirty feet from him and waved down a taxi.
“Damn!” Lowe said as he got up and watched the cab with Kathryn in it pull from the curb and go to the corner, where it stopped for a red light. Another empty taxi approached from the same direction as the previous one. Lowe stepped into the street and stopped it, climbed in the back. “See that cab up there at the light?” he said to the driver. “Follow it.”
The driver, a burly black man with a beard, turned and frowned. “Like in the movies?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” said Lowe. “Just do it, okay? I’ll take care of you.”
Rich Marienthal anxiously awaited Kathryn’s arrival at Winard Jackson’s apartment. After having contacted her at the Library of Congress, he’d placed a call to the family home in Bedford, New York.
“Mom? It’s Rich.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“We’ve been so worried about you,” she said. “You’ve been on the news. No one knew where you were. Your father is furious. He’s in Washington looking for you. He’s with Mackensie Smith.”
“I know. I spoke with him there. He didn’t tell you?”
“No. Richard, what is going on?”
“I’ll explain it all later, Mom. Look, I’m sorry about what’s happened, but it’s all going to work out fine. Just fine. I’m coming to New York.”
“When?”
“Today. Tonight. I’ll come to the house.”
“Thank God you’re all right,” she said, and started to cry.
“Come on, Mom,” he said, “no tears. You’ll make me feel guilty.”
“I know,” she said. “I don’t mean to—”
“I have to go now,” he said. “See you later.”
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
His next call was to Greenleaf at Hobbes House in New York.
“Sam, it’s Rich Marienthal.”
“Jesus, where have you been?”
“Staying with a friend.”
“I don’t mean where you were. I mean, why did you disappear? The book’s just coming out. The media’s going nuts wanting to interview you. Geoff Lowe—”
“How is my buddy Geoff?”
“Rich, what about the tapes and the hearings?”
“What about them?”
“Don’t get cute with me, Rich. You may be enjoying your reclusive