Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [20]
“Any further details, Joyce?”
“Not at the moment, Bernie. Back to you in the studio.”
Mullin was more awake now. Some unnamed young guy knew the name of the victim. How? Why? Was he connected with the shooting? Who is he? Where is he?
It took one more nightcap to snap off the final switch in Mullin’s mind.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I can’t believe it’s happened,” Kathryn Jalick said. “My God, to be shot down like that. It’s so… so barbaric.”
Rich Marienthal didn’t respond. He was glued to the news on TV, going from channel to channel to see whether any new tidbits of information about Russo’s murder were surfacing. A follow-up report on the Fox News channel now referred to the young man, who had known the name of the victim, as the mystery man. According to the reporter, Joyce Rosenberg, the MPD was interested in finding him and was asking him to come forward.
“That’s me,” Marienthal muttered to Kathryn during a commercial. “The mystery man.”
“Why did you tell that reporter his name?” she asked, joining him on the couch.
“I don’t know. I guess I was in shock. I didn’t know for sure it was Louis—I mean, I hadn’t seen his body and nobody told me it was him. But I knew, you know? I knew it was him. Maybe I was just thinking his name and blurted it out.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I tried to reach Geoff but got voice mail on his cell. I can’t believe he hasn’t called me. Hell, he must know by now. He knows everything.”
Kathryn fell silent as the news resumed on the screen. Rich leaned intently ahead, his foot tapping on the rug, fingers rolling on his thigh. She’d seen him anxious before, but nothing like this. She understood, of course. The book he’d been writing for the past year caused him to spend a lot of time in Israel. She’d never met any of the people with whom he dealt, and Rich had never invited her on his trips. Nor could she have gone if he’d asked. His visits there were lengthy, too long for her to be away from her job at the library.
He always returned with copious notes, cassette tapes, and transcriptions from his latest interviews. They never made it home. He’d immediately deposit them in two large safety deposit boxes at the local branch of the Riggs Bank. Later, his research secure, he would take her to dinner and was not reticent about details of his travels, including personal encounters and feelings and impressions—but never anything about the book itself. The subject seemed reserved for Geoff Lowe and their frequent meetings.
“That reporter said the police want you to come forward. Will you?” She asked this with some trepidation. Rich was well aware that she disapproved of what he and Lowe had forged, and tended to snap at her whenever she voiced what she felt—that the book was one thing, the plan he spoke of to promote it another.
“What?” he said.
“Will you go to the police and tell them about Russo?”
“No.” He turned and looked at her quizzically. “Why would I do that?”
She placed a reassuring hand on his leg. “I’m just worried, that’s all,” she said. “He’s been murdered, Rich, gunned down like some rabid dog. You knew him. You’ve spent time with him. Doesn’t that concern you?”
“Kathryn, I—”
“Who shot him, Rich? Why would somebody kill him? Maybe you’re in danger.”
He waved her concerns away and sat back. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “I don’t know who killed him, but nobody’s out to shoot me. So relax, huh?