Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [69]
“Always aim to please, Mark. I’ve got a breakthrough for your friends.”
“My friends?”
“You know who I’m talking about. I’m due for a raise.”
“Timothy, please, I—”
“Seven-fifty starting today. And a bonus of two thousand.”
“For Christ’s sake, Tim.”
“I’m serious, Mark. It’s either that or you get somebody else. My expenses have suddenly gone up.”
“What’s this breakthrough?”
“We have a deal?”
“All right. But—”
“I’ll get back to you. Or maybe your friends will. Ciao.”
Marienthal didn’t take time for a leisurely breakfast at a trendy Georgetown patisserie that morning. He was at the local branch of his bank when it opened at nine, presenting the keys to his safe deposit box to the by-now-familiar woman on the platform. He’d been in and out of the safe deposit vault on a daily basis for almost a year.
“How’s your book going?” she asked as she inserted his keys and the master key into his rented boxes.
“Oh, good. Yeah, pretty good.”
“That’s great.”
She discreetly left as Marienthal emptied the contents of the boxes into a large canvas shoulder bag. He signaled her; she returned and together they locked the boxes.
“Thanks,” he said.
“See you this afternoon?” she asked, aware of his habit of returning materials to the boxes just before the bank’s closing time each day.
“Not sure,” he said.
He walked quickly to his car parked around the corner, opened the trunk, deposited the canvas bag in it alongside a suitcase, slammed the trunk closed, looked around to ensure no one was paying attention to him, got behind the wheel, and eased his way into traffic. A half hour later, he was checked into the River Inn in Foggy Bottom, a small, all-suite hotel within walking distance of the Kennedy Center, a favorite of visitors contemplating a longer stay in Washington. He used his cell phone to call Kathryn Jalick at the Library of Congress.
“For you, Kathryn,” a colleague in the rare documents room said.
“Rich?”
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“Are you okay?”
“Fine. I’m fine. You?”
“Okay.”
“Look, Kathryn, just remember what I told you. Nobody, and I mean nobody, is to know where I am.”
“I know.”
“Don’t write down the number here. Don’t write down anything and leave it around the apartment.”
“I won’t. But, Rich, what about your folks? Mac Smith? What do I tell them?”
“Just say I’m out of town on business. I’ll be gone a week, maybe longer.”
“All right.”
“When will you tell Geoff?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure what I’ll tell him. That’s what I have to figure out while I’m here. Don’t worry. Just go about your life like normal.”
“Normal.”
“It’ll be over soon. I love you.”
She glanced at her colleague, who was busy preparing a rare document for a researcher due to arrive later that morning. “I love you, too,” she whispered, hung up, and brushed a tear from the corner of her eye.
CHAPTER THIRTY
He was fortunate. The bullet didn’t do any major structural damage to the knee. Mostly soft tissue trauma.”
The young physician delivering good news to Katie Accurso, Bret Mullin, and a contingent of senior police officers led by the commissioner had just come from performing surgery on Vinnie Accurso’s leg. He wore OR greens and black clogs; a wilted surgical mask hung loosely around his neck.
“That’s wonderful,” Katie said, breaking into tears. “Can I see him now?”
“Give him a couple of hours in recovery,” the doctor said.
An MPD public information officer conferred briefly with the commissioner before going downstairs to brief press camped at D.C. General’s front door. The commissioner and others filed from the room after offering their good wishes to Katie, leaving her alone with Mullin.
“I’m so thankful,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief he’d assured her was clean. “He could have been killed,” she said.
“The perp was a lousy shot,” Mullin said.
“Will you find him?” she asked.
“Our guys are all over the neighborhood,” he said. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He handed her the plastic bag of fruit from Eastern Market. “Vinnie bought this just before he got shot.”
“What is