Margaret Truman - Murder at Union Station

Her need to justify the changes in him trumped more rational explanations.

Maybe it was only natural that after three years, the fire that had characterized that earlier time would simmer down to embers, passion replaced by a more comfortable, less impetuous relationship. Maybe she’d been neglectful of late, taking him for granted and no longer bothering to be sexually provocative.

Like last night. They were in the guest room. She read in bed; he sat at a small desk making notes in a journal he’d started keeping. Kathryn came to him, wrapped her arms around him, and coyly suggested that making love in an ex-FBI agent’s house would be fun, something to remember. During the first year together, they’d enjoyed sex in what might be considered unconventional venues-in a bathroom at a friend’s house in the midst of a party; on a train; in a public park one night.

“Right under J. Edgar Hoover’s nosy nose.” She giggled in his ear.

He turned and kissed her on the cheek. “A rain check, huh? I want to get these notes down before I forget them, and get some sleep. Tomorrow’s the big day.”

Kathryn banked that rain check along with others she’d accumulated recently, read a few more pages, and fell asleep.

They overslept. And now they were planted in traffic on the Lee Highway, halfway between Falls Church and Washington, D.C.

Traffic began to inch forward, but a snail could easily outrun them. At least there was movement. WTOP’s traffic reporter said that there had been a multi-vehicle accident with fatalities on the Lee Highway. She felt a pang of guilt.

Marienthal’s cell phone rang.

“Yeah? Hey, Geoff. What? We’re stuck in goddamn traffic on the Lee Highway. Huh? Yeah, I know, but don’t worry about it. I’ll be there in time to meet him.” He glanced at Kathryn, who raised her eyebrows and looked away.

“Look, Geoff, we’re starting to move. Call you later. What? I told you I’d be there. Nothing to worry about. Bye.”

A few minutes later they passed the accident, a chaotic scene with ambulances and fire trucks. The burned-out remnants of a car had been pushed to the side of the road.

“How awful,” Kathryn said, averting her eyes from the grisly scene. “Nobody survived that one.”

Marienthal wasn’t listening. He passed a few slow-moving cars whose drivers were still rubbernecking and muttered something under his breath. The accident was indeed a grim scene. But he felt no pang of guilt; he had other scenes on his mind at the moment.

The Amtrak train from New York pulled into its berth at gate A-8 on time. Russo was nauseous and took one of the many pills he carried in a blue plastic case. He was also still weary and wanted to put his head down and sleep. But he couldn’t do that. He sat up straight and tried to blink away his fatigue. He debated stopping in the restroom before leaving the train but decided instead to look for a men’s room in Union Station.

“Are you all right?” the conductor asked as he slowly walked to the door, his cane leading the way, small suitcase in his other hand.

“Yes, I am fine. Thank you.”

“Want help with that?” she asked, indicating the suitcase.

He shook his head. “No, no, thank you.”

He stepped from the train and was bumped by another exiting passenger, a young businessman carrying a briefcase and in a hurry. There was no apology.

“Idiota,” Russo growled.

There was a time when such an incident might have prompted the old man to strike back. He’d killed over such discourtesy and disrespect. He watched the man disappear in a crowd of people who’d left the train and were rushing to whatever had brought them to Washington: meetings with government officials, business lunches, bullshit, reuniting with family, who knew?

He walked slowly toward where the arrival gates emptied into the station itself, but was stopped by a sharp pain in his side. He drew deep breaths and waited for it to subside before continuing. Immediately to his right was a public men’s room. His need to urinate was suddenly intense, as it had been for the past year since the diagnosis. Prostate cancer. There were instances when he couldn’t make it in time to a bathroom and suffered the embarrassment of soiling himself.

He paused before entering the facility. Marienthal had said he’d be at the gate to meet him, but he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. He took in the people milling about, more than a few of them African-Americans. He didn’t like the blacks, didn’t trust them. Not that he’d had any bad times with them, but he was brought up to trust only his own, Italiano, people of honor. And Sasha.

As he took a few steps in the direction of the entrance to the men’s room, he noticed the tall, slender, well-dressed black man leaning against a wall and reading a newspaper. The man lowered the paper and locked eyes for a second with Russo, then raised the paper to cover his face. Did he sense something in the man’s eyes? The pain in Russo’s side and the need to reach a toilet were momentarily forgotten.

But that was immediately replaced by a sharper pain. He walked as quickly as possible into the men’s room.

When he emerged minutes later, the man with the newspaper was gone. Russo looked for Marienthal. Where was he? People passed him in a rush, the staccato rhythm of women’s heels on the white marble floor sounding louder to him than it actually was. The whirl of human movement around him became dizzying, and he felt light-headed. He turned and stared into a shop window filled with travel accessories, closing his eyes against his reflection in the glass.

A mild panic set in. He hated the accompanying feeling of hopelessness that had been cropping up frequently of late. Crowds confused him, and he’d avoided Tel Aviv’s bustling shops and restaurants for that reason, to Sasha’s annoyance.

Where was Marienthal?

He couldn’t continue to stand there, he knew. He had to move to avoid passing out.

The sense of confusion and disorientation increased as he walked aimlessly into the train concourse, behind the Amtrak ticket counter and past the Exclusive Shoe Shine’s raised platform, where Joe Jenks awaited his next customer.

“Shine, sir?” Jenks said to Russo.

“What?”

“Shoeshine? Best in D.C.,” Jenks said, flashing a broad grin at the old man with the red toupee and cane. “Comb your hair in your shoes when I’m done.”

Jenks’s face went in and out of focus. He looked puzzled.

“Chiacchierone incoerente,” Russo snapped at the bootblack, who put up his hands as though to defend himself against the old man’s obvious anger.

“Have a nice day, man,” Jenks said, shaking his head as Russo continued to glare at him before resuming his path deeper into the mass of humanity that was Union Station at that hour. Marienthal’s phone number was in his pocket but Russo didn’t look for a phone. He needed to get outside, away from the crowds whose chatter, mixed with music from restaurants, and blaring train announcements, assaulted him.

A woman brushed him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling.

For a moment, he thought she was Sasha, and he wondered where he was. Tel Aviv? No, Washington, D.C.

He turned right, in a direction that promised an exit from the huge station to sunlight and fresh air, passing a florist’s kiosk and one selling Godiva chocolates, the Main Hall with its soaring 96-foot-high ceilings, modeled after the Baths of Diocletian and the Arch of Constantine in Rome, ahead, its doors leading out.

He tried to walk faster, but pain in his legs and side prevented it. He stopped and took in air, closed his eyes against the blur of movement around him, then opened them.