Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [62]
“You have plans for tomorrow?”
“No. I have to call Richard and—”
“This writer?”
“Yes.”
“What’s he like, this writer?”
“He’s very nice.”
“An old guy?”
“Pardon?”
“Just wondered whether he’s an old guy. Maybe I know him. Maybe I read stuff he wrote. I read a lot.”
“No,” she laughed. “He’s quite young. I really must go inside. I don’t want to fall asleep on you here in the car.”
“Sure, I understand.”
“Good night, Detective.”
“It’s Bret, huh? Look, I’ll call you tomorrow? Maybe if you’re not doing anything tomorrow night, we could have dinner again.”
“I—perhaps. Thank you again, Bret.”
He watched her enter the hotel, sat for a minute, then went to a bar near his apartment and had a few more drinks before calling it a night. His last act before going to bed—and after feeding Magnum and downing one final drink—was to write down the name she’d mentioned, misspelling it Richard Mariontholl. He’d check this guy out in the morning.
And he’d be sure to call her about dinner.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
That same evening, Mac and Annabel Smith returned to a phone ringing in their Watergate apartment after having enjoyed dinner out. Annabel picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Annabel? It’s Frank Marienthal in New York.”
“Hello, Frank. Your timing is good. We just walked in.”
“Glad I still have good timing,” he said pleasantly. “I seem to be losing other things.”
“Join the club,” said Annabel. “You’re looking for Mac, I assume.”
“If he’s available.”
She held her palm over the mouthpiece.
“I’ll take it in my office,” Mac said, heading there. “I’ve been meaning to call you, Frank,” he said after settling in his chair and picking up the phone. “How are you?”
“Quite well, Mac, although Mary has been having problems. But that’s not why I called. I wanted to talk to you about Richard.”
“We had Richard and his lady friend, Kathryn, to dinner recently.”
“I know. He was here that afternoon and told me he’d be seeing you. Did he discuss his book with you?”
“Barely. I asked him a lot of questions, but he seemed reluctant to get into it.” Smith laughed. “I told Annabel I didn’t know many writers who didn’t want to talk about their books.”
“I’m concerned, Mac. You know about that murder at Union Station.”
“Yes, I do.”
“And that his killer has also been found dead.”
“I heard that, too, just recently. What does Rich say about it?”
“Nothing. I haven’t spoken to him since he was here. I’ve been calling but keep getting his infernal machine. He hasn’t returned my calls. That’s not surprising. We don’t always see eye to eye. But Mary’s left a message, too. You’d think he’d at least return a call to his own mother.”
Annabel brought Mac a cup of tea; he nodded his appreciation. He was glad for the distraction. Frank Marienthal’s anger about Rich’s apparent lack of responsiveness was escalating.
Smith said, “Frank, I know that Rich’s book is based upon this Louis Russo’s life with the Mafia. The question is, What does Russo’s murder mean to Rich, not necessarily in regard to his book, but personally?” He paused before asking, “Do you think Rich’s life might be in jeopardy?”
“Don’t you?”
“I don’t know. It crossed my mind, of course, but I’m afraid I haven’t given it much thought. Based upon your call, maybe I should—give it more thought. You obviously have.”
“Let me level with you, Mac. You know that Rich’s book is being published by Hobbes House.”
“Of course. I reviewed the contract.”
“I’ve been doing some research on Hobbes House. It’s a conservative publisher, a willing extension of right-wing causes.”
“And not reticent about it.”
“It doesn’t publish novels.”
“Rich told us his will be their first.”
The elder Marienthal said, “Hobbes House has put Rich’s book up on its Web site. I’ve been checking it every day. It showed up today for the first time.”
“And?”
“It doesn’t list it as a novel. It doesn’t indicate anything about whether it’s fiction or nonfiction. All it has is the cover and this descriptive line: ‘A startling, explosive exposé of murder in the highest of places.’”
Smith grunted.
“Have you seen the