Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [77]
He indicated that she should put them on his desk as he picked up the phone and dialed an office within the Dirksen Building. She did as instructed, careful to keep the two priority ones separate, and quickly left. She’d been with Widmer long enough—since he first came to Congress—to know when to leave him alone. This was one of those times. She was almost to the door when he barked, “Where’s Lowe?”
She turned. “Geoff was here earlier, sir, but he left just before you arrived.”
“Get holda him. Now!”
“Yes, sir.” She’d almost said, “I’ll try,” which might have prompted something like, “Do better than try.” Or worse.
She went to where Ellen Kelly was in her office at the far end of the suite.
“Do you know where Geoff went?” she asked.
“No.”
“Try and reach him on his cell, Ellen. The senator is anxious to talk to him. I’d do it, but I’m swamped.”
“And I’m not?” Ellen said, not looking up from her computer screen.
Widmer’s secretary turned on her heel, a sour expression on her face, and went to her desk, where she dialed Lowe’s cell phone number. After six rings, a recorded voice informed the caller that the cell phone user was not available, and suggested leaving a voice mail message.
“Geoff, this is Carol. Senator Widmer is anxious to speak with you. Please call the minute you hear this.”
Lowe’s cell phone rang in his pocket, but he ignored it. He stood in the foyer of Rich and Kathy’s building and held his thumb against the buzzer for their apartment, a string of four-letter words augmenting the metallic sound.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered as he left the foyer and got into his car.
This time he answered the ring of his phone.
“Geoff, it’s Ellen.” Her voice was muffled, as though she used a hand to keep others from hearing.
“He’s not there,” Lowe said.
“Geoff, the senator wants to talk to you right away.”
“Yeah, I bet he does. I can’t find Rich. Not a sign of him at the apartment. No answer on his phone. Damn! Did you try Kathryn at work?”
“She called in sick.”
He breathed hard. “What the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know, Geoff. But the senator—”
“Look, Ellen, make some calls, huh? You’ve met some of Kathryn’s girlfriends. See if you can find somebody who knows where the hell she is. Knows where Rich is.”
“The senator—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. We have to find Rich. I told you I tried to get him to give me the tapes and notes, and I thought he was going to. We need him and those tapes. That’s why Widmer wants to see me. He wants to know whether I have them.”
“I’ll make calls.”
“Good. Tell Widmer I’ll be back in an hour. Tell him I—I’m pulling together top secret materials for the hearing. Tell him everything is on track.”
He ended the call and dialed 411, requesting the number for Mackensie Smith, in the Watergate Apartments.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Smith?”
“Yes.”
“This is Geoff Lowe, Mr. Smith. I’m a friend of Rich Marienthal.”
“Oh, yes. He’s mentioned you.”
“And he often speaks of you. I know you handled his book contract.”
“I wouldn’t say I handled it. Looked it over. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been trying to get hold of Rich, Mr. Smith. I thought you might know how I can reach him.”
“Sorry, but I’m no help. You’re not the only one looking for him.”
Lowe forced a laugh. “The vanishing author. Well, I thought it was worth a try.”
“If I do hear from him, I’ll mention you’re looking for him.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that. Have a good day, and sorry to have bothered you.”
Another call went to Hobbes House in New York. “This is Geoff Lowe, on Senator Karl Widmer’s senior staff,” he told the receptionist. “It’s important I speak with Sam Greenleaf.”
Greenleaf came on the line. “I’m glad you called,” he said. “I’ve left three messages on Rich’s machine. You don’t know where he is?”
“No. That’s why I’m calling.”
“Russo’s murder was a hell of a shock.”
“Tell me about it. Look, not having Russo testify in person at the hearings is a blow. But it’s not fatal—as long as we have Rich’s taped interviews with him.”
“And Rich to validate