Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [66]
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Kathryn? It’s Mackensie Smith.”
“Oh, good morning, Mr.—Mac.”
“There’s a lot of people worried about you and Rich.”
“Worried about us?”
“Calls not being returned. Did you get my message and the note I left in your mailbox?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, but it’s been so hectic here that—”
“I’m sure it has,” Smith said, “but Rich’s mom and dad are concerned that they haven’t heard from him. His father called me last evening and—”
“I told Rich he’d better call his folks, but with all that’s going on, I guess it slipped his mind.”
“You’re both okay?”
“Yes, yes. We’re fine.”
“Can I speak with Rich?”
“He’s not here, Mac. He went out for the day.”
“Can you reach him? His cell phone?”
“I’ll try, and have him call you.”
“Have him call his father first.”
Smith hung up and pondered the conversation. What was going on there?
“Did you reach him?” Annabel asked when she emerged from the shower, her body wrapped in a large blue towel, wet red hair secured beneath a smaller towel.
“I spoke with Kathryn. He wasn’t there, out for the day, she says. I can’t figure it out, Annie. What’s he trying to be, his version of J. D. Salinger? It obviously has to do with his book.”
“You asked him to call you?”
“After he calls Frank and Mary.” He got up from behind his desk and gave her a damp hug. “You smell good,” he said.
“Thank you, sir. Go get your shower in. Your scent will improve, too. I’ll make breakfast.”
Later that morning, Mac dropped her at the gallery in Georgetown before proceeding to the university, where he was scheduled to meet with the law school’s incoming dean. The intense heat spell of the past week had broken. The air was less humid and there was a slight coolness to it, both conditions representing a welcome change.
“What’ve you got?”
Bret Mullin sat in the central computer room of the precinct where an officer had done an Internet search for the name Richard Mariontholl.
“Nothing under that spelling,” he told Mullin. “But there’s this.”
He handed the detective a printout of entries for Richard Marienthal. There was a bio from the rudimentary Web page Kathryn had created for Rich; a listing of some of his magazine articles from the Washington Independent Writers’ Web site; a photo of him atop a piece he’d written for Washingtonian magazine; and a page from Hobbes House’s Web site announcing the forthcoming publication of a book by Marienthal: “a startling, explosive exposé of murder in the highest of places.”
“This the guy you’re looking for, Bret?”
“Must be. Got an address and phone for him?”
He was handed it a minute later, again from the computer database.
“Thanks, pal.”
“Anytime.”
Mullin went to the detective’s bullpen and laid the pages on his desk next to the artist’s sketch that had been given him earlier that morning. Joyce Rosenberg’s description, captured by the police sketch artist, was surprisingly close to the photo taken down from the Internet.
So this is the guy, he thought, leaning back and finishing his coffee, now cold, from a Styrofoam cup. Sasha had said that Richard Marienthal was writing a book based upon Russo’s life in the Mafia, and that after many meetings in Israel, Russo had come to Washington to meet with him. Russo gets iced the minute he steps off the train by a slick black guy who’s done time in mob school and disappears. Then that guy is found shot dead, floating in the lilies at Kenilworth Gardens. Had the mob ordered both hits, taking Russo down because he’d ratted on them a dozen years ago, then making sure the shooter wouldn’t live to finger them?
Possibly.
But something didn’t compute for Mullin with this scenario. Murder in the highest of places? What did that mean?
Vinnie Accurso entered the area and took the desk across from Mullin, interrupting his partner’s series of silent questions. “Whatta you got there?” Accurso asked, pointing to the sketch and the downloaded pages.
“Our man,” Mullin said, turning them so Accurso could better see them.
“The guy at Union Station?”