Murder at Union Station Read Online Free PDF Page A

to get involved through somebody over there.”
    “And all I have to do is find this Russo—if he
is
headed for Washington—and keep tabs on him. Right?”
    “That’s pretty much it. Here.”
    Stripling was handed a manila file folder. Inside was a black-and-white photograph. A small white label at the bottom of the picture had the name Louis Russo printed on it, and the date 1991.
    “How old was he when this was taken?” Stripling asked.
    “Not sure” was the reply.
    Stripling was handed a slip of paper. Written on it was a phone number with a 212 area code, and the name Courtney Tresh.
    “Who’s he?” Stripling asked.
    “She. NYPD. She can give you some background. Say you’re from the Liberty Press.”
    “Liberty Press?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Why don’t
you
call her?” Stripling asked.
    “Like we said, Garson wants us out of it.”
    Stripling again consulted the sheet of paper. “According to this, Russo should have landed at Newark hours ago. Hell, if he is coming to Washington, he’s probably here by now.”
    One of the agents pulled a cell phone from a briefcase at his feet and gave it to Stripling.
    “No, thanks, I have my own,” Stripling said.
    “Use this one,” he was told. “We’ve got the number programmed in the computer. We’ll get in touch if we come up with anything that might be of help to you. Don’t call us. We’ll call you. Thanks for coming in.”
    Stripling was to the door when one of the agents said, “The attorney general won’t be happy if you don’t find Russo.”
    “The attorney general. Garson, you mean.”
    When Stripling was gone, one of the agents asked the other, “Do you know any more than you let on about why the AG is so interested in Russo?”
    “No. But you can bet that for Garson to take a personal interest,
his
boss has one, too.”

SEVEN

    D amn!”
    Rich Marienthal shifted into neutral and slapped the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “Damn! What the hell is going on?”
    “Must be an accident,” Kathryn Jalick said from the passenger seat of the Subaru Outback.
    Marienthal and Kathryn had been stalled in traffic for twenty minutes on the Lee Highway, halfway between Falls Church, Virginia, and Washington, only a few miles from D.C. They’d driven to Falls Church the previous day to attend the funeral of one of Kathryn’s aunts. The post-funeral gathering was held at the home of one of the deceased’s sons, a retired FBI agent who lived in the Falls Church area and who urged Rich and Kathryn to stay over. Marienthal balked at the suggestion, but Kathryn, pleased to be with family she seldom saw, prevailed.
    Now, after a late start back to D.C.—“I told you we should have left more time,” she’d chided cheerfully—they sat in the traffic jam, Marienthal’s frequently consulted wristwatch ticking off the minutes.
    He leaned on the horn.
    “That won’t help anything,” Kathryn said.
    He clicked on the radio and tuned to all-news WTOP in search of a traffic report.
    “He told me the train when he called,” Marienthal growled. “He’s due to arrive any minute, if he’s not there already.” Another slap on the wheel, harder this time, shook it, and Kathryn feared it might break. She placed her hand on his thigh to calm him, but it was a futile gesture. He squirmed in his seat, leaned out the window to look ahead, and blew the horn again, causing the driver in front to turn and gesture, not a friendly one.
    While Marienthal fumed, Kathryn thought less cheerfully about the past twenty-four hours.
     

     
    Lately she’d been caught between what the reality of their relationship had become and what she wanted it to be. The fact was, things had slid downhill over the past months, and she wasn’t happy about it. There hadn’t been anything tangible to point to, certainly nothing like physical abuse or a suspicion that Rich might be cheating on her. Her sister in Kansas, one of the few people in whom Kathryn confided, had asked