Murder at Union Station Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.

EIGHT

    T he 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