Gentry thing.”
Frank watched her walk away. He knew there had once been a Mr. Talbot, and he wondered if the guy had ever won an argument. He patted his jacket pocket where he’d put the envelope of clippings, and got up.
The old man in the yarmulke and overcoat was working out chess moves by himself.
Frank walked over.
“You used to play here with a black kid,” Frank said.
The old man didn’t look up. “Karim,” he replied. “He’s dead.”
The old man moved white king’s bishop on f1 to b5. He stared at the empty seat opposite as though waiting for his invisible adversary to make his move. He was still waiting when Frank left the park.
TWENTY
Frank finished off the cheeseburger and the cole slaw. He considered the fries against two additional miles in the morning. He pushed the plate away and reran Jose’s meeting with Cookie.
“Cookie says he got it from Pencil. But Milt says Cookie told him he got it from Austin’s woman.”
Jose pulled Frank’s plate over and picked out a French fry.
“I think we got it as straight as Cookie could give it… that he got it from Pencil, and not Austin’s woman like he told Milt.”
“So Pencil was either ratting out Austin two years ago for actually killing Gentry, or he was trying to frame Austin to cover for somebody else killing Gentry.”
Jose dipped the fry in a puddle of ketchup.
“Whatever… Milt bought it.”
“And Milt made it more credible, claiming that Cookie got it directly from Austin’s woman rather than Pencil.”
“Worse than the used-car business,” Frank said.
They sat on the terrace of Potowmack Landing, a marina restaurant. The lunch-hour crowd filled the place. Lanyards and pocket clips carried ID badges from the Pentagon and Reagan National, a mile or two up the GW Parkway.
Jose dropped his chin to his chest and watched a 737 over the Potomac, wheels and flaps down for a landing at Reagan National.
“Rhinelander?” he asked Frank.
“We got an appointment with him at four. Janowitz’ll meet us there.”
“What’d the Dragon Lady have to say about him?”
“Nothing complimentary.”
Jose finished the French fry and studied the check.
“Even split?”
“But you ate my fries,” Frank protested.
Jose shot him his narrow-lidded Mike Tyson look.
“Even split,” Frank said.
Back in the office, Frank fired up the coffeemaker and Jose switched on the CD player. Frank spread out the clippings while Jose picked up Zelmer Austin’s case jacket. The coffee was ready just as Ahmad Jamal was wrapping up “Poinciana.” The two men settled into reading and making notes. Jamal moved on to “Ole Devil Moon.”
“You about through?” Jose asked an hour later.
Frank checked his notes. “Frederick Dumay Rhinelander the Third, born with a silver spoon in each hand.” He passed an Architectural Digest clipping to Jose. “The homes of Frederick Rhinelander.”
Frank watched Jose’s eyes widen.
A 23,000-square-foot lodge in Aspen, complete with its own mountain and helicopter hangar.
A palace in northern Virginia: 40,000 square feet fronting the Potomac, just upriver from a Saudi prince.
An apartment in Paris: gilt, mirrors, and Louis XVI furniture overlooking the Place Vendome.
Jose handed the article back. “Must be tough,” he said with a roll of the eyes, “camping out in Paris.”
“Yeah. Life’s unfair. A lousy three thousand square feet… cramped accommodations.”
“Guy makes… what?”
“Congressional salary? Hundred fifty, sixty. Somewhere in the neighborhood.”
“Chump change. Think he even notices it come in?”
“Don’t think he balances his own checkbook, Hoser.” Frank took a cautious first sip of his coffee. “Our boy Zelmer?” he asked Jose.
Jose picked up his notebook. “Found in the middle of Eaton Road, ten forty-five Thursday night, April 15, 1999. M.E. report: Death by multiple trauma, manner of death automobile impact.”
“What’d he have on his sheet?”
“Assault with deadly weapon. Assault, intent to maim. Vehicular manslaughter. Burglary. Breaking, entering. Grand theft auto.”
“Time?”
“He and Skeeter and Pencil came from the same neighborhood. The three of them hand in hand to Lorton in ’eighty-seven. Skeeter met up with one of Juan Brooks’s top boys doing time. All three get out in ’eighty-eight. Now they’re back, business gets big. Then our FBI man Atkins busts Brooks in ’ninety-two. Skeeter takes over. Goes low-profile. Stealth operator. Narcotics knows he’s up to his ass in the business, but nobody can lay a finger on them. Austin is a hanger-on. One of Skeeter’s gofers.”
“Until he kills Gentry.”
“According to the story as told by Cookie as supposedly told to Cookie by Pencil Crawfurd.” Frank tossed his pencil onto his desk in frustration. “We got zip. We got absolutely… positively… zip.”
“One thing we got.”
“What?”
Jose gestured to the clock. “An appointment to meet the MFWIC of the Subcommittee on D.C. Appropriations. You think he’ll introduce us to his real estate agent?”
There he is,” Frank said.
Janowitz stood in the hallway opposite the door to the Subcommittee on D.C. Appropriations.
“You’re on time.”
“You’re surprised?” Jose asked.
“On time for what?” Frank asked.
With an index finger, Janowitz pushed his glasses back so they touched the bridge of his nose. “Nothing definite,” he said. “Al… Mr. Salvani… said Rhinelander wasn’t happy about me digging in the files.”
“You didn’t talk to Rhinelander yourself?”
Janowitz shook his head.
“You getting stonewalled?”
“No. Al’s been helpful. Had one of his staffers show me around. Got me a parking pass and a building badge, a cubicle and a computer. But”-Janowitz held up two empty hands-“no files until Rhinelander approves.”
“Almost four.” Frank gestured toward the subcommittee doorway.
Janowitz pushed through the door. Frank and Jose followed him in. At a desk in the middle of the room, a largish formidable woman looked up at them. She wore a worried frown, and held a pencil frozen in midair over an appointments register.
Janowitz walked up to the desk. “Marge, Detectives Kearney and Phelps have an appointment with Congressman Rhinelander at four.”
She eyed Frank and Jose, then brought her pencil down and moved it over the register. The pencil stopped. She bent closer, as though to make certain of the entry, then looked up.
“Have a seat.” She aimed the pencil at an L-shaped leather sofa. Janowitz settled down, pulled a Palm Pilot from a jacket pocket, and began tapping with a stylus. Jose picked out a Reader’s Digest from a nearby magazine
