Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [35]
Rich dropped his knapsack on the granite floor and followed his father into the kitchen, where Rich’s mother, Mary Marienthal, a short, slender woman with carefully coiffed white hair and a rosy complexion, worked alongside a black woman in a white uniform.
“Richard, darling!” Mary said, skirting a large stainless steel prep table in the center of the spacious kitchen to hug her son. “Let me see you.” She stepped back and took him in from head to toe. “You look wonderful. A little tired. Not getting your rest?”
“Not lately, Mom.” He went to the black housekeeper and gave her a hug. “How you doing, Carrie?” he asked.
“Oh, just fine,” she said. “Getting older faster.”
He joined her laughter. “You don’t look a day older than when you first came here,” he said.
“Hungry?” his mother asked.
“No, thanks. Had something to eat before I got on the train. A beer, maybe.”
He looked through the open door to a long hallway leading to the dining and living rooms. At the end was his father’s home office, where he was sure his father had retreated. Small talk in kitchens bored him. Small talk in any room bored noted criminal attorney Frank Marienthal.
A bottle of Killian Red in hand—no glass, thank you—Rich left the kitchen and went to the office. The door was open. The elder Marienthal sat behind his large custom-made, leather-topped curved desk. Floor-to-ceiling windows behind him afforded a restful view of gardens to the rear of the house.
“Come in,” his father said.
Rich entered and went to tall bookcases that took up an entire wall. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Perusing books on the shelves delayed the conversation he knew was about to ensue. Eventually he turned, smiled at his father, whose stern expression didn’t change, and took one of a pair of red leather armchairs across the desk. He raised a blue-jean-clad leg and dangled it over an arm, in contrast to his father’s stoic, proper posture.
“You wanted to talk to me,” Rich said.
“Yes. I’ve heard about Louis Russo’s murder.”
“Where did you read it?”
“I didn’t read it. I was called about it. I’m surprised I didn’t hear it from you.”
“I’ve been busy since it happened. I’m sure you can understand that.”
Frank Marienthal paused, his position behind the desk not changing, his eyes focused on his son. “Frankly, Richard, I do not understand it.”
“Well, I can’t do anything about that. About your not understanding it, I mean.”
The father’s dark blue eyes bored holes in his son. “Maybe I should educate you a little, Rich. I’ve tried to do that throughout your life, but you’ve always resisted, of course. Rebellion and such.”
“Dad, I—”
Frank Marienthal’s hand slowly came up, fingers widely separated. “Please, hear me out. You do know, Richard, that I was firmly against this book of yours. I tried to dissuade you at every turn for many reasons, not the least of which is the secondary use it might be put to.”
Rich removed his leg from the chair’s arm and planted both feet on the floor, as though girding himself for war. In a sense, he was.
The elder Marienthal continued. “When you first asked me to intervene with Russo and put you together with him, I initially refused. Remember?”
“Sure I remember.”
“But you pressed the issue and I acquiesced. You said you needed to interview him for background material for a novel you were writing about the mob. You used privileged information to make your case with me. Frankly, Richard, I resented it then, and I resent it now.”
Rich waited a moment before responding. “Look, Dad,” he said, “that so-called privileged information