Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [83]
Parmele’s image came on the screen.
“According to our sources, the hearings will be conducted despite the loss of the key witness, Louis Russo, with the writer, Richard Marienthal, introducing taped interviews with the former Mafia boss. Attempts to reach someone at the White House or in Senator Widmer’s office were unsuccessful. I’m Joyce Rosenberg. More on this story as Fox News develops further information.”
Rich and Kathryn watched the Fox report on the TV in Marienthal’s suite at the River Inn.
They’d discussed the ransacking of the apartment—someone obviously after Rich’s tapes and notes—and speculated on who might have been behind it. Now there was no need to speculate on what people knew about the Widmer hearings and Louis Russo’s connection to those hearings. The whole District knew, thanks to the voracious cable TV channels, and the nation would shortly.
“Oh, my God,” Kathryn said, her eyes wide.
“It’s started,” Marienthal said to no one in particular, getting up from the couch and going to the kitchenette, where he refilled his glass with Coke from the fridge.
Kathryn followed him. “What are we going to do?” she asked.
“What are we going to do?” he said. “You’ve got to stay out of this, Kathryn.”
“How can I stay out of something I’m already knee-deep in?” she asked. “I’m here!”
He returned to the suite’s living room, pulled aside drapes on the window, and peered into the darkness. She came up behind and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Rich,” she said softly, “this has gotten out of hand. You’ve got to drop it, get rid of the tapes and notes, tell Geoff you’re not testifying, and wash your hands of the whole mess.”
He continued looking through the drapes without speaking. Finally he allowed the drapes to close again, turned, and embraced her. They stood that way for a minute before returning to the couch. Kathryn turned off the TV, looked at him, and said, “I love you, Rich. I hope you know that.”
He nodded. “What about the book?” he asked.
“You can’t stop that,” she said, “but you don’t have to be used the way Geoff and Senator Widmer are using you. You supported President Parmele when he ran. What Russo claimed will destroy him and his run for a second term.”
His jaw was rigid as he said, “You know how I felt about that, Kathryn. I’m a writer. It’s not my business to decide who gets second terms. I don’t care about politics. All I wanted was a good book, a best-selling book. Let the chips fall where they may.”
“I know that,” she said, carefully choosing her words to avoid stifling what promised to be a calm, reasoned, and useful conversation, the first they’d had in a while. She shifted on the couch so that she faced him. “Look,” she said, “I was a hundred percent behind you when you started the book. The novel! How could I not be? It all seemed so logical and right, learning how the Mafia works from an insider to give your novel authenticity. Your father represented him and paved the way for you to meet Russo. I remember how hard you worked to convince him to open up and tell the story. And I know the difficulties it caused with your father.” She paused, weighed her next words, and added, “It all made sense until Geoff Lowe came along.”
“Want a beer?” he asked.
“No.”
He pulled a can of beer from the refrigerator, returned to the living room, and took a club chair across the coffee table from her. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chin propped on interlaced hands. On the table was a list of phone messages she’d taken from their answering machine and delivered to him at the hotel.
“Rich,” she said.
“What?”
“Get rid of the tapes.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“You know why. Russo’s dead. The tapes have him saying in his own voice that he assassinated Constantine Eliana and did it for his crime family under orders from Adam Parmele. The tapes are the only things I have to back up what’s in the book. Without them and without Russo, the book will be dismissed, debunked, chalked up to a writer’s imagination.”
“Then turn them over to the White House.”
He guffawed.