Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [120]
He stayed at her side. “He has the tapes. Right?”
“Yes. He has the tapes,” she responded, picking up her pace in the direction of the Main Hall and Massachusetts Avenue.
He grabbed her arm. “Kathryn,” he said, “don’t play games with me. I want those tapes. I need those tapes.”
“Get your hands off me,” she snapped, shaking him loose and continuing to walk.
He kept stride with her. “Rich wouldn’t have his book contract if it hadn’t been for me,” he said. “I set it up for him. He owes me!”
They reached Mass Avenue, where a dozen cabs awaited passengers. The dispatcher opened the door to the first taxi in line and Kathryn jumped in. So did Lowe.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked.
“I’m sticking with you, Kathryn. You’ll be in touch with Rich. He has the tapes. I want them. I’m hanging in with you until I get them.”
The cabdriver, tired of the delay, turned and asked, “You want a taxi or a marriage counselor?”
Kathryn’s nostrils flared as she glared at Lowe. “The Watergate Apartments,” she told the driver through clenched teeth.
The train hadn’t gone far when Stripling’s cell phone sounded.
“Yeah?”
“Subject’s female partner reported en route to Watergate apartment.” The terse message ended with a sharp click.
Stripling knew the Watergate was Mackensie Smith’s apartment. It occurred to him that no one knew he was on a train headed for New York, seated behind the subject of the search, Richard Marienthal—or that he was within reach of the infamous tapes at the heart of the search. Not that it mattered—except to the cop who would have his car towed. His whereabouts were otherwise irrelevant. What did matter was taking possession of the tapes and delivering them to Curly and Moe, or Mark Roper, or Gertrude Klaus, or whoever else wanted them.
He surveyed the rest of the car. No wonder Amtrak was losing money, he thought. There were only three other passengers, two women working on laptops seated at the far end of the car and a man at the opposite end who’d dozed off, his head resting against the window.
“We’ll shortly be arriving at Baltimore International Airport,” a voice soon announced over the PA system. “Passengers getting off at that station should be sure to gather any personal belongings.”
Stripling’s mind now shifted into a higher gear. How many new passengers would board this car at Baltimore? Would Marienthal decide to change his seat, perhaps move to another, more crowded car? Was there anything to be gained by waiting to arrive in New York before making his move to snatch the bag? He decided there wasn’t. He’d been on this train before. The Baltimore airport stop would be a brief one, no more than a few minutes.
This was the time to act.
When the train stopped and the doors opened, he would move quickly and definitely. He would get up, step to where Marienthal sat, press the gun to the writer’s head, simultaneously grab the bag from the seat, and run from the car. It would take only seconds. He mentally timed out his moves. Two seconds to get from his seat to Marienthal, two seconds to brandish the gun and swipe the bag, three seconds to run from the seat to the door. Seven seconds in all. It would happen so fast that by the time Marienthal recovered from the initial shock of a gun at his head, Stripling would be gone, down the stairs from the platform and into the crowd. Marienthal wouldn’t even see who’d taken the bag. And if he did, he’d never be able to mentally process the man he’d seen in those fleeting two seconds of face-to-face contact.
The train slowed as it neared the station, and Stripling tensed. He slipped his hand beneath his suit jacket and wrapped his fingers around the stock of the Smith & Wesson. Just don’t make a dumb move, he silently warned Marienthal. Don’t get hurt over some silly tapes.
Almost there.
Marienthal stood.
Stripling blinked. What was Marienthal about to do, get off at the Baltimore airport station?
Marienthal stood in the aisle next to his seat, looked down at his shoulder bag, and headed up the