Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [34]
Rich took him up on the offer and moved south. Within a month, he’d landed another PR job, this with an aerospace manufacturer’s D.C. office, where again he ground out press releases lauding the company’s achievements, putting a spin on its less-than-successful ventures, and praising the company’s management and its contributions to the nation’s security. That job lasted two years—until a man named Louis Russo entered his life.
He walked into the splendidly redone Grand Central Station and checked the electronic departure board for Metro North trains to Bedford Hills. The next was scheduled to depart in an hour. He bought a round-trip ticket, had a beer and salad at the bar at Michael Jordan’s steakhouse overlooking the vast terminal, then went to gate 29 and boarded.
The hour trip passed quickly, as though it hadn’t happened. He’d slipped into a trance state, oblivious to people in the car, sights through the window, and the train’s motion itself. His mind was assaulted by images past and present. Although he hadn’t seen Louis Russo’s lifeless body in Union Station, he could see it as though he were standing over it. That image kept melding into a kaleidoscope of scenes: sipping sweet tea with Russo and Kasha in their Tel Aviv apartment; getting drunk with other students in a jazz joint near NYU; falling off his bike as a kid and opening a gash on his forehead requiring stitches at an emergency ward; Kathryn, naked and enticing him from the computer to the bedroom; Russo’s face rimmed with blood; Greenleaf’s arm around his shoulder; Pamela Warren’s stern, unsmiling face when he first met with her at Hobbes House; the Twin Towers on 9/11; spectacular explosions in Baghdad; scenes from The Sopranos; Kathryn cooking spaghetti in their kitchen; his mother comforting him after the stitches; his father lecturing him on what it takes to be a success.
“Bedford Hills,” the conductor announced over the train’s PA system.
Marienthal looked out the window and saw his father’s black Mercedes parked near the entrance to the small, suburban train station. The car’s tinted glass shielded a view of the man behind the wheel, but Marienthal didn’t need to actually see him to know the expression that would be on his face.
“Hi, Dad,” Marienthal said, opening the front passenger door and slipping onto the tan leather seat.
“Hello, son. Glad you could find the time to spend a few hours with us. Been a while.”
Marienthal held back from reaching over and offering an awkward embrace of his father, who immediately drove away from where he’d parked and headed for the family home in the prosperous enclave of Bedford.
“How’s Mom?” Marienthal asked.
“All right, although I’m worried about her. She seems befuddled from time to time. Not as sharp as she used to be.”
Marienthal looked at his father, whose eyes never left the road, his patrician features clearly displayed against the dark window behind. He wore his requisite sharply creased chinos, blue button-down shirt, short, supple brown leather jacket, and perforated driving gloves. He hadn’t aged in Rich’s eyes; he seemed always to have looked this way.
“How long can you stay?” the father asked as he turned up a long, winding dirt road leading to the house.
“Just a couple of hours. I have to get back to Washington.”
A smile crossed his father’s thin lips. “You make it sound as though the White House is expecting you,” he said, his voice pinched, nasal.
Rich let the comment pass and turned to take in the passing greenery. Two Hispanic gardeners working on the property waved as the car passed; his father returned the greeting with a flip of a finger.
“José still work here?” Rich asked.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t he? He’s well compensated and loyal.”
Is he saying I’m disloyal? Rich wondered. It didn’t matter. There undoubtedly would be many such comments to consider.
They pulled into a circular gravel drive and came to a stop. Rich revised his earlier observation that his father