Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [15]
Patty became a Unitarian-Universalist before the divorce, which salved her Catholic guilt. Joe’s father softened when they divorced, although it became Potamos’s mother’s turn to be anguished when Patty moved to Boston and visits with the grandchildren became less frequent.
Things settled down in Potamos’s life until he fell in love with Linda, a bright, vibrant, intense, occasionally hysterical Jewish woman who worked as a secretary at the CIA. That marriage lasted four months after he discovered she was cheating on him. That her lover was another secretary at the agency named Gertrude gave Potamos a certain comfort; at least he hadn’t lost out to another guy. The divorce was routine and quick, without kids to complicate things as there had been in marriage number one.
When his father was diagnosed with terminal cancer and told he had no more than six months to live, he summoned Joe to New York and handed him a check for $100,000: “Take it now. It makes no sense to wait until I’m dead.”
Potamos used the money to buy his one-bedroom Rosslyn condo. On the day he closed on it, he made a silent pledge: He’d never marry again. So far, so good, although there were times with Roseann when his resolve threatened to wilt. She was good-looking—but weren’t they all?—slender and small breasted, with long, strong fingers, a pianist’s hands. She wore her blue-black hair short and swept back at the sides, exposing the graceful line of a lovely neck. Her makeup was applied with a deft hand, just enough to add the proper touch of color to her naturally pale face. Well, maybe someday… maybe not.
Although he’d buried his head beneath the pillow to muffle the incessant one-two-three rhythm of the waltzes, he heard the phone ring. Roseann entered the bedroom. “It’s for you, Joe. Gil Gardello.” Gardello was Potamos’s editor at the Post.
Potamos moaned as he kicked Jumper off his legs, dragged himself from bed, and went to the phone in the kitchen.
“Yeah?”
“Joe, you hear about the plane that went down in New York?”
“No.”
“Was DC bound. Locals on board. No survivors.”
“Gee, I’m really sorry to hear that. What the hell does it have to do with me?”
“As soon as we get a passenger list, I want you to contact family members, get their reactions.”
“Jesus! What’s this—TV time? You want me to ask some wife how she feels about her old man dying in a plane wreck?”
“Be subtle, gentle.”
“Not me, Gil. Send some breathless intern.”
“Be here in an hour, Joe.”
“I’m not asking those questions.”
“An hour. Better still, a half hour. No point in washing up, the way you dress.” Gardello hung up.
Roseann, still in a film of nightgown, returned to the piano.
“I got to go,” Potamos said.
“On your day off?” she said, still playing. “Sorry.”
“At least I won’t have to hear you play those apple strudel songs.”
Her response was to play louder and with greater flourishes. He closed the bathroom door, showered, got dressed in his fashion, and left the apartment to the strains of “Wine, Women and Song.”
Chapter 6
That Same Day
New York
Within an hour, hundreds of people had converged on the area where the Dash 8 aircraft had crashed after taking off from Westchester County airport. State and local police, airport and airline personnel, volunteer fire departments, ambulance corps technicians, elected village officials, and Special Agent Frank Lazzara and his three colleagues looked out over what had