Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [123]
“No. Thanks anyway,” Lowe said, looking past Mac into the apartment’s recesses.
“I told you she’s not here,” Smith said. He walked to the open sliding glass doors to the terrace and looked back. “Join me, Mr. Lowe?”
They stood side by side, their hands on the terrace’s railing, their attention on the Potomac River. “I’m well aware, Mr. Lowe, why you and Senator Widmer would like to have those tapes. Your hearings won’t have much bite without them.”
“We can do without them,” Lowe said, his voice betraying his true feelings.
“Perhaps,” said Smith. “Let me ask you a question. There’s considerable doubt about the veracity of what Mr. Russo said on those tapes. What I don’t understand is why you and the senator would want to hold a public hearing based upon allegations that can’t be substantiated.”
Lowe’s hands in motion substituted for words. “The book, the taped voice of a dead man, the questioning. It’s politics,” he said finally.
“Politics,” Smith repeated, not trying to keep scorn from his voice. “The game of politics. Well, though everybody seems to say it is, I don’t consider politics a game, Mr. Lowe. Politics are more important than that. Is winning the political game that vital to you and your boss, Mr. Lowe? Are you and the senator really willing to destroy a president of the United States in order to win what you consider a game?”
“Parmele doesn’t deserve a second term,” Lowe said.
“Isn’t that for the voters to decide?”
“As long as they have the facts.”
“The facts as you perceive them. Mr. Russo’s claims don’t represent facts. They might be true, but there’s not a shred of evidence to back them up. I’m a lawyer, Mr. Lowe. I deal in evidence. I deal in the facts. And one fact, as far as I’m concerned, is that you and others like you don’t belong in government on any level. I find you despicable. I think it’s time you left. Thanks for stopping by.”
“You’re part of this, aren’t you?” Lowe snarled. “You’ve been helping Marienthal hide those tapes all along. Well, Smith, you and anybody else involved in this cover-up will answer to Senator Widmer and the committee. We’ll drag you in front of it and make your life miserable.”
Smith left the terrace, went to the apartment door, and opened it. Lowe glared at him from the terrace, fists clenched at his sides, his face red and sweaty.
“Good day, Mr. Lowe,” Smith said from the door.
Lowe stormed from the terrace and pushed past Smith, his shoulder bumping him. Smith watched him go down the hall to the elevators and disappear into one.
Smith went to his office, where he called Frank Marienthal’s room at the Watergate Hotel to tell him what had transpired.
“He’s gone to New York?” the father said. “What’s he doing there?”
“Visiting Mary, according to Kathryn, and then having a meeting with his publisher.”
“I will never understand that boy,” Marienthal said. “I will never understand any of his generation.”
“Well, Frank,” said Mac, “I suppose they’ll never understand us, either. Look, I suggest you grab a flight back home and catch up with Rich there. In the meantime, Kathryn will decide what to do with the tapes. That’s the way it should be.”
Kathryn Jalick entered the apartment she shared with Rich Marienthal. She changed into shorts and a Library of Congress T-shirt. She poured a glass of wine and put a Buck Hill CD on the stereo. She sat on the couch, the bag of tapes at her feet, leaned back, closed her eyes, and thought of him, of what they’d been through since he started the book. Was it all behind them now? She hoped so. She wanted things to be the way they were when they first met, easy and loving, finding the time to draw upon that love. She was deep in that reverie when the phone on the table next to the couch rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Hi. Where are you?”
“On the train. You’ll never believe what happened. We were pulling into the Baltimore station. I had this sudden urge to go to the bathroom and went. I left my shoulder bag on my seat. When I came back, it was gone.”
“Somebody stole it?”
“Yeah.