Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [122]
“Why is Mr. Lowe with you?” Mac asked.
Kathryn explained, ending with a rueful laugh. “He thinks Rich has the tapes with him. If he only knew they were in this shopping bag that he was sitting next to in the cab.”
Kathryn removed the plastic bags containing the tapes and Rich’s handwritten notes from the shopping bag and laid them on the table.
“Have you heard them?” Mac asked.
“No,” Kathryn said, “and I don’t want to. You can listen if you’d like.”
“I have no interest in hearing them,” said Smith. To Annabel: “You?”
She shook her head.
“What does Rich want you to do with them?” Annabel asked.
Kathryn inhaled and blew air through pursed lips. “He told me to ask for your advice, Mac.”
“He did, did he?” Smith said. “What if I don’t have any advice?”
“That would be a first,” Annabel said, playfully.
“Let me explain,” Smith said. “These tapes—or more accurately, the use they might be put to—have significant political ramifications. If they end up with Republicans like Senator Widmer, they’ll be used to attack a sitting president, who, I might add, is doing a good job in my opinion. But what if the charges made by Russo on the tapes are true? What if the president did order the assassination of a visiting head of state while CIA director? Hardly the sort of thing a president of the United States should have on his résumé.”
Annabel went into the kitchen to get something to drink and returned with a pitcher of iced tea she’d prepared earlier. She poured three glasses, handed them to her husband and to Kathryn, and raised her glass in a toast. “To the famous tapes,” she said, adding, “are you interested in my opinion about what should happen to them?”
“Of course,” Mac said.
“The question is whether the man on those tapes is telling the truth. Unfortunately, he’s dead and can’t vouch for what he told Rich. It’s my understanding that Rich never came up with any corroborating evidence to support the claims about President Parmele. Am I right? Mac, you’ve read the book.”
“Skimmed it,” he said. “No, there doesn’t seem to be anything to corroborate Mr. Russo’s story.” He looked at Kathryn: “Do you know of anything, Kathryn? Has Rich indicated any supporting evidence he might be sitting on?”
“No,” she said, sipping her cold tea. “He said a few times that he wished there were some hard facts to back up Louis Russo.”
“Well, Kathryn,” Smith said, “the only advice I can give you is to do with the tapes what Rich wants done with them. After all, they do belong to him.”
Annabel chimed in: “Has Rich told you, Kathryn, what he wants done with them? Has he instructed you what to do with them?”
“He told me—”
“Yes?”
“He told me that if you didn’t feel strongly about the tapes going to someone—to the president or Senator Widmer—that I should use my own judgment.”
“I’ve thought recently,” Smith said, “that another option would be to donate them to an institution for safekeeping, not to be opened to researchers for a specified period of time.”
“But does it matter how much time passes,” Kathryn asked, “if what’s on the tapes isn’t true?”
Neither Mac nor Annabel replied.
“I think I’d better go,” Kathryn said, “but I don’t want to bump into Geoff Lowe again if he’s still downstairs.”
“No problem,” said Annabel. “We’ll leave through the garage. I’ll drive you.”
“Oh, no, there’s no need to—”
“I insist,” Annabel said.
Kathryn put the tapes and notes back into the shopping bag, and Mac walked her to the door. “I wish I had some wisdom to dispense,” he said, “but somehow I know you’ll do the right thing without anyone’s advice.”
“I’ll try,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.
When they were gone, Smith called down to the desk. “Is Mr. Lowe still there?” he asked.
“Yes, he is, Mr. Smith.”
“Send him up.”
Lowe’s first words upon entering the apartment were “Where’s Kathryn?”
“She left,” Smith said.
“Left? Where did she go?”
“I have no idea, Mr. Lowe. We haven’t been formally introduced.” Smith extended his hand, which Lowe took weakly. “Iced tea?” Smith