Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [36]
Frank’s eyebrows went up, and he smiled. “Where did I go wrong?” he said through a deep, prolonged sigh. “You’re going to lecture me about lawyer-client privilege? As I recall, you refused to go to law school as I wanted you to do. Another bit of sophomoric rebellion.”
“I didn’t want to be a lawyer,” Rich said, “any more than I wanted to accept the appointment to Annapolis. I know you meant well in encouraging me in those directions, but they didn’t represent what I wanted. Why can’t you accept that?”
“How is the writing career coming?”
“You didn’t answer my question. You changed the subject, the way you always do. A courtroom technique I would have learned in law school, I suppose.”
Rich took a swig of beer, started to place the bottle on the desk, but instead lowered it to the rug next to him. He felt his anger rising, and silently told himself to keep it in check. He’d lost control too often in the past when in such conversations with his father. Each time, his volatility rendered him helpless in contrast to his father’s calm, reasoned approach. No matter how right he might have been during those confrontations, losing control quickly became the issue, the only issue. He wouldn’t let it happen again.
“Why so combative, Richard?”
“Why is it that whenever I disagree with you, you call me combative?”
“I was asking about your writing career.”
“It’s going fine. I met with my editor this morning before coming here.”
His father slowly shook his head.
“Yeah, I know,” Rich said, reaching down for his beer and finishing it. “It’s Hobbes House. The fact is…”
“The fact is, Richard, that Hobbes House’s reputation isn’t a secret to anyone, including you.”
“They wanted the book!”
“Of course they did.”
“Dad—”
“You and your book are being used, Richard. Isn’t that evident? You’re bright enough to see through that.”
“Thanks.”
“And you used Louis Russo. The man is dead because you lied to me about the sort of book you were writing. You called it a novel.”
“It started out that way. But I changed my mind. Hobbes House is still calling it a novel to keep things under wraps until publication.”
“Why did Russo come to Washington? ”
“Whoa, hold on,” Rich said. “You claim you resented me when I asked to be put in touch with Louis. Well, I resent being accused of using him and being responsible for his murder. He agreed to talk to me—thanks to you—and he went on to tell me his story, the whole story. I really liked Louis.”
“I’m sure that’s a comfort to him.”
“He agreed to come to Washington of his own free will. Sasha—she’s the woman he lives with… lived with in Tel Aviv for years—told me she thought going to Washington was good for him, gave him a sense of purpose.”
“You haven’t answered my question. Why was he in Washington?”
“To meet with me. We were going to talk… about the book.”
“I thought you finished it.”
“I did. I just thought—”
“You believed the story he told you?”
“Yes. Didn’t you?”
“No, and I told you that. You entered into this agreement with a sick, delusional old man.”
His posture relaxed somewhat as he lapsed into what would pass for reverie. “I remember well his tales of intrigue, Richard. He was like so many of them, looking to enhance his image by inflating his importance. A strange thing about mafiosi. They consider themselves super-patriots, keepers of the flag and flame, appreciating their country more than law-abiding citizens. Crooks? They’re desperate for respectability, Richard. They know they’re nothing more than common thugs, leg-breakers and murderers. They cost this nation millions in labor union extortion and other illegal activities. Yet they seek approval from politicians and have gotten it on occasion. Louis Russo was no different. He was just a soldier in the Gambino family who got squeezed by authorities and decided to break his oath. Frankly, Richard, I’m surprised