Murder in Georgetown Page 2

  “Joe?”

  “Yeah. Who is it?”

  “Yvonne.” Yvonne Masters was an editor at the Washington Post, where Potamos was a reporter assigned to the police beat.

  “Come on, Yvonne, you know I was out all night. I just got to bed.”

  “Joe, I’m sorry, but this is a biggie. Senator Frolich’s daughter has been murdered.”

  Potamos blinked and scratched his belly through a gap in his pajamas, shook his head, and said, “Yeah? Jesus, when did that happen?”

  “Sometime last night. They pulled her out of the C and O early this morning. We just got a positive I.D. on her.”

  “The senator’s daughter. That’s… yeah, that’s a biggie all right. Who caught the case?”

  “Let’s see… Languth. Detective Peter Languth.”

  “Peter. They must be punishing him. He’s got nineteen in. All right, I’ll get to it.”

  “Joe, I am sorry but—”

  “I know.”

  “Gil wants you to call him.”

  “Gardello? All right. A shower, I need a shower. See ya.”

  Potamos’s dog, Jumper, had slept through the call at the foot of the bed. He’d inherited her six years ago at the scene of a rape/murder of an old woman in Foggy Bottom who lived alone, the dog her only companion. Whoever killed her had beaten the animal pretty badly. It had lost an eye in the process. Potamos had taken her to the vet and, after an expensive week there, brought her home. She was a mongrel through and through, but Potamos decided after watching a public-television special on African termites that she was descended from the rare African aardwolf. Aardwolves, according to the special, used their front paws to pound their way through the thick walls of termite mounds, then leaped high to flick the insects from the air with their tongues. Jumper possessed both traits: She could jump higher from a standstill than any animal Potamos had ever seen, and she woke him most mornings by pounding him with her paws.

  “Get up,” Potamos mumbled as he got out of bed and went to the bedroom window. It was raining harder now, and a wind had kicked up, hurling raindrops against the panes.

  He stumbled into the bathroom, tossed his pajamas into a corner, and turned on the shower, letting it run while he brushed his teeth. He stepped into the stall. The water was ice-cold. “No hot water. Great, just goddamn great.” He put his head beneath the water, lathered his hair, and shivered as cold rivulets found his body. He rinsed, dried himself, used a blow dryer on his thick, black curly hair, and returned to the bedroom, where Jumper was now curled up contentedly on his pillow.

  “Get up,” Potamos said. “No pillows. How many times I have to tell you that?”

  He put on the same blue button-down shirt he’d worn the night before, and the same gray slacks and tan tweed sport jacket. He chose a different tie—maroon instead of brown—and a scuffed pair of Docksiders, picked up his tan Burberry trench coat from where he’d dropped it on the living-room floor, put a leash on Jumper, and rode the elevator down six floors to the lobby, where the condominium manager was putting up a crude sign near the front door: BOILER SHUT OFF FOR REPAIRS UNTIL 6 TONITE.

  “Why don’t you warn people ahead?” Potamos said.

  The manager shrugged and walked away.

  After returning to the apartment and feeding the dog, Potamos called Gardello.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Gardello said. “I’ve been calling. You were supposed to call me.”

  “I took a shower. There’s no hot water. I walked the dog. I’m very tired. I was up all night.”

  “Yeah, well, call in when you’re supposed to. Look, Joe, here’s what we have….”

  Potamos took notes as Gardello, who was managing editor on the city side, outlined what they had on the Frolich murder.

  “What’s the father say?” asked Potamos.

  “Nothing yet. We have that covered. Why don’t you run down guests at that party on the barge, employees who worked it, anybody who might have picked up on something.”

  “You have a list?”

  “Some.” He read off a dozen names. “Joe, you might check out the booking agency that sent the band. They were there all night, maybe saw something, heard something. It’s Elite Music, on Wisconsin.” He gave Potamos the address. “Got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Call in later. Every hour.”

  “I understand Pete Languth caught this one.”

  “Right. You know him pretty good, huh?”

  “He’s a psychopath.”

  Gardello laughed. “You two must get along then. Call me.”

  Elite Music was above a trendy furniture store.

  “Joe Potamos, Washington Post. I’d like to talk to somebody who can tell me about the musicians who played the barge party last night,” he said to the busty redheaded receptionist.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Walters is the only one who can divulge that information.”

  “‘Divulge’? What do we have here, a national security problem?”

  She drew a deep, haughty breath. “Mr. Walters is president of Elite Music. You’ll have to speak with him.”

  “Fine.”

  “He’s extremely busy right now.”

  “But he’s here.”

  “Yes. He has a client with him.”

  “How long will he be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “I prefer that you make an appointment. We work on appointments here.”

  Potamos looked around the room. The walls were covered with photographs of Elite Music musicians in the company of Washington’s high and mighty. Framed letters of appreciation for having provided good music were mixed in with the photos. A large clock had been created from a drummer’s cymbal. Coat hooks were in the form of quarter notes.

  “Would you like to?” the redhead asked.

  Potamos grinned. “Very much.”

  “An appointment.” Ice in her voice. No sense of humor.

  “I’ll wait.”

  Another frustrated deep breath. “If you wish. Have a seat.”

  “Thanks.”

  He passed the next twenty minutes reading the current issue of the Washingtonian. Then the door to an inner office opened and a short, pudgy man in a blue and white striped shirt, red bow tie, and red suspenders came through, followed by two middle-aged women in fur coats.

  “…and you needn’t worry about a thing,” the man told the women. “It’ll be a lovely party. I’ll send our best people.”

  The furs left and the man looked at Potamos, then at the redhead. “Mr. Walters, this is Mr. Potamos from the Washington Post. I told him he needed an appointment, but…”

  A big plastic smile and an extended hand. “I’m William Walters,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m covering the Valerie Frolich murder and want to know the names of the musicians who worked the barge party she was on.”

  “My God, yes, I heard. Incredible. But she wasn’t killed at the party. Why are you interested in my musicians?”

  “They might have seen something, heard something, that’s all. How many did you have there?”

  “Corrine?” Walters said to the redhead.

  “Six. Dixieland.”

  “Oh, yes, six Dixieland jazz musicians. We have the best, all types of music.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you do. How about their names and numbers? I’d like to talk to them.”

  “Oh, I’m not sure I’d like to do that. Don’t misunderstand, Mr. Potamos. I’m always anxious to help the press. Publicity is very important in this business.”

  “Mr. Walters, we’re talking about the murder of a U.S. senator’s daughter. I don’t want to spend any more time here. The names? Do I get ‘em from you, or do I take another route?”

  “I’d like to think about this.”

  “And so will I.”

  The door opened and a man and woman entered, both in fur coats.

  “Jonathan, Melissa,” Walters said,
his smile bigger than ever.

  “I’m still going to sue you for fraud,” Potamos said.

  Walters and his two clients stared at Potamos.

  “You charged me for eight musicians, but two of them were ghosts, didn’t play a note, just held their instruments up to their mouths and pretended.”

  “Really, I will not—”

  “Names, then I go. No names, a good feature on using ghosts in bands.”

  Walters smiled at his visitors and whisked them into his office, turning to say to the redhead, “Give him what he wants.”

  ***

  Potamos’s next stop was Martin’s Tavern, his favorite Georgetown hangout. He ordered steak and eggs and called the numbers given him. He managed to reach four of the five male musicians, none of whom had anything to offer. His last call was to the pianist, Roseann Blackburn.

  “Miss Blackburn, this is Joe Potamos from the Post. I’m working on the Valerie Frolich murder and wanted to talk to you about the party. Mr. Walters at Elite Music gave me your name. Did you see anything last night that might have bearing on the kid’s death?”

  “No. Well, I really didn’t see anything except that she did have an argument with her father. I talked to her for a while during a break. She was nice. I heard about what happened on the radio. I can’t believe it.”

  “Yeah, hard to believe. Look, maybe I could come see you and we could talk. That possible?”

  “I suppose so. I’m practicing right now and I’m working tonight.”

  “Where?”

  “The Four Seasons.”

  “Fancy. Walters books good places.”

  “This isn’t through the agency. I play cocktail piano in the lobby two nights a week.”

  “I see. What time do you play?”

  “Five until eight.”

  “You take breaks?”

  She laughed. “As many as I can get away with.”

  “I’ll see you there. I figure I’ll know who you are unless there’s a dozen piano players.”

  “There’s just me. See you tonight.”

  The hot water was still off in his apartment. When he called the manager, he was told it would be off for at least another day. “How do I get clean?” Potamos asked. “Use lots of deodorant” was the reply.

  He sat in a director’s chair by the window and drew from a can of beer. Jumper was asleep on the hassock. “Dump,” he mumbled. Until recently he’d been living in a furnished room in a rundown building on Carolina and taking his meals in a nearby cafeteria. Then, about six months ago, his father had called from New York. Paul Potamos owned a diner in Queens. Joe had worked with him part-time during high school; his father had wanted him to come into the business fulltime after graduation, but Joe wanted college, so his father sent him to New York University, where he majored in journalism.

  The old man was proud when Joe graduated with honors, but then came marriage number one, to Patty Kelly, Irish Catholic with green eyes, freckles, and a distinct dislike for his family. The feeling was mutual. When Joe announced he planned to marry her, his father said, “If you marry someone who is not a Greek, you are no longer my son.”

  It had been a tough decision, but the freckles won out. That was the last time his father talked to him until that phone call. His mother had kept in touch but had to be secretive about it. His two sisters—one in Los Angeles (married to a Silicone Valley hustler), the other an inhalation therapist in Pittsburgh—sent him Christmas cards and birthday cards every other year. He almost lost his mother when he divorced Patty (she’d cried for days about losing her two grandchildren), and almost lost her for good when he remarried—this time choosing a nice Jewish girl named Linda, a secretary at the CIA. Four months after the wedding, she admitted she’d been cheating on him. Her lover turned out to be another secretary at the CIA, named Terri, which gave Potamos some comfort—at least he hadn’t lost out to a man. The divorce was quick and simple.

  His father’s phone call six months ago had been to say that he was dying, cancer, three months to live unless he took chemotherapy, maybe six months if he did. Joe flew to New York and they had a brief, touching reconciliation climaxed by Paul Potamos handing his only son a check for $100,000. He wanted the satisfaction of personally giving out his estate while he was still alive.

  Joe returned to Washington and bought the one-bedroom condo in Rosslyn, just over the Potomac via the Key Bridge. “A dump,” he repeated. But it was better than the rooming house. Anything was better than that.

  He tried to reach Peter Languth at MPD but was told Languth wouldn’t be back until later that night. He called other contacts but came a cropper. Everyone knew only what they’d heard on radio or television.

  “Gil, Joe.”

  Gardello asked what he’d come up with so far.

  “Nothing, except I talked to five out of the six musicians. Not much there except maybe the one I’m interviewing tonight. She works at—”

  “She?”

  “Yeah. You never heard of a female piano player?”

  “Interview? Joe, we don’t have time for socializing. They’re handling this like Watergate upstairs and we need information.”

  “That’s why I’m seeing her. She says Valerie Frolich had an argument on the barge with her father. I figured—”

  “Just figure fast. Call me.”

  “Of course.”

  | Chapter Four |

  Potamos sat in a corner of the Four Season’s large, luxurious lobby and watched Roseann Blackburn perform on a gleaming black Steinway in the center of the room. He hadn’t anticipated she’d be beautiful.

  Her hair was blue-black, and she wore it short, swept back at the sides and neatly trimmed to expose the back of her neck. She sat extremely erect on the piano bench, long, thin fingers gracefully arched over the keyboard, her beryl gown simple and floor-length, the bodice scooped low in front and even lower at the back. She was small-breasted, appropriate to her overall slenderness. Her makeup gave her cheeks and lips high color.

  Potamos silently sang along with the melody. He looked around the room. A power place, lots of blue and gray suits, and furs, men and women huddled in small nests created by overstuffed couches and chairs and looking as though they belonged. Self-assured. At home. Some familiar political faces, a couple of high-rolling businessmen, most faces not known to him.

  His waitress—dressed in a long black skirt and frilly white blouse—asked if he wanted another beer.

  “Not right now,” he said. “In a minute.”

  Blackburn played Scott Joplin’s “Maple Leaf Rag.” Potamos smiled and tapped his foot. She ended with a flourish. He applauded, realized no one else had, and stopped. She turned and looked at him, smiled, got up and crossed the lobby to where he sat. He stood. She held out her hand. He shook it. “You knew it was me,” he said.

  “You don’t look like a Four Seasons regular.”

  He looked down at his tie and old brown corduroy jacket. “I just got it back from the cleaners.”

  She smiled. “Mind if we go somewhere else? I’m not supposed to sit with customers.”

  “Yeah, sure. I’d better pay.”

  “Tell her you’ll be back.”

  “Yeah, all right.” He told the waitress, who looked at Blackburn, smiled knowingly, and said, “Okay.”

  Blackburn put a black shawl over her shoulders as they left the hotel and walked a block and a half up M Street to the Marbury House. “Want a drink here?” she asked. “A friend of mine plays in the tavern.”

  “Sure.”

  They settled into a booth. Potamos ordered a beer, Blackburn white wine. “Now,” she said, “ask me questions. I don’t have much time. They’re pretty strict about my breaks.”

  “Okay. Let’s see… By the way, you play terrific.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You do it for a living?”

  “Yes.” She laughed. “Occasionally it adds up to that. Anyway, I do play the piano for my daily bread.”

/>   Potamos nodded. “I like music. I don’t play any instruments or anything like that, but I’m a good listener. I have a great stereo system and a big record collection.”

  “Really? What kind of music do you like?”

  “Oh, I like all of it—jazz, rock, even some country-and-western.”

  “I’m classically trained, but there isn’t much call for that, so I play anything.”

  “Classical. I like classical music. My father was an opera buff.”

  She smiled, almost purred. “I love opera…. Well, enough of this. By the way, Mr. Potamos, I told a friend of mine that I was meeting you tonight and he said you’d written one of the biggest stories of the decade, the one about that senator—what was his name?—Cables, that’s right, Senator Cables, the one who—”

  “Yeah, sure, Senator Richard Cables, loyal American who gets caught making millions by arranging illegal arms deals with Middle East potentates. He should’ve done time, but his money talked.”

  “You won a prize for uncovering that story.”

  “That’s right. I tried to trade it for my back alimony bills, but my ex-wife turned the deal down.”

  “That’s… that’s funny.”

  “It wasn’t to her. The barge party, Miss Blackburn. Tell me what you saw and heard.”

  “Call me Roseann?”

  “Sure. Not Rosie?”

  “Roseann.”

  “I’m Joe.”

  “Hello, Joe.” They shook hands.

  “The party.” He took out a note pad and pen. “You said you heard the deceased arguing with her father, Senator Frolich.”

  “That’s right. She hung around the bandstand. I liked her, full of life, very quick. She was a good-looking girl, very turned on, sexy. She did a lot of dancing with a young guy. They were both in Indian costumes.”

  “Why?”

  “The party had a theme, something to do with a fur trader named Fleet. I never did get all of it.”

  “What’d Valerie argue with her father about?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I did hear him say something about wanting her at the house the next day—that’d be today—and she evidently didn’t like the idea.”

  “Know why?”