“I’m concerned, Mac. You know about that murder at Union Station.”

“Yes, I do.”

“And that his killer has also been found dead.”

“I heard that, too, just recently. What does Rich say about it?”

“Nothing. I haven’t spoken to him since he was here. I’ve been calling but keep getting his infernal machine. He hasn’t returned my calls. That’s not surprising. We don’t always see eye to eye. But Mary’s left a message, too. You’d think he’d at least return a call to his own mother.”

Annabel brought Mac a cup of tea; he nodded his appreciation. He was glad for the distraction. Frank Marienthal’s anger about Rich’s apparent lack of responsiveness was escalating.

Smith said, “Frank, I know that Rich’s book is based upon this Louis Russo’s life with the Mafia. The question is, What does Russo’s murder mean to Rich, not necessarily in regard to his book, but personally?” He paused before asking, “Do you think Rich’s life might be in jeopardy?”

“Don’t you?”

“I don’t know. It crossed my mind, of course, but I’m afraid I haven’t given it much thought. Based upon your call, maybe I should-give it more thought. You obviously have.”

“Let me level with you, Mac. You know that Rich’s book is being published by Hobbes House.”

“Of course. I reviewed the contract.”

“I’ve been doing some research on Hobbes House. It’s a conservative publisher, a willing extension of right-wing causes.”

“And not reticent about it.”

“It doesn’t publish novels.”

“Rich told us his will be their first.”

The elder Marienthal said, “Hobbes House has put Rich’s book up on its Web site. I’ve been checking it every day. It showed up today for the first time.”

“And?”

“It doesn’t list it as a novel. It doesn’t indicate anything about whether it’s fiction or nonfiction. All it has is the cover and this descriptive line: ‘A startling, explosive exposé of murder in the highest of places.’”

Smith grunted.

“Have you seen the manuscript, Mac?”

“No. I chalked it up to some sort of writer’s paranoia. You know, don’t let anyone see a work in progress, bad luck, that sort of thing. Have you seen it?”

“No. If Russo was killed because he turned on his fellow mobsters, they made sure anything else he knew about them was dead along with him. But that doesn’t mean Rich didn’t learn things from Russo. They might want to shut him up, too.”

“I’m not sure I agree with you, Frank. Russo spilled what he knew ten or twelve years ago. If the mob did kill him, it was strictly to get even for his having turned on them.”

“But what if it wasn’t the mob that killed Russo? And there’s this murder of Russo’s assailant. Who killed him, and why?”

“Look, Frank, I understand your concern. I’d be worried, too. I’ll try and get hold of Rich. When and if I do, I’ll let you know. Maybe between us we can get him to sit down and think things out.”

“I can’t ask more than that. I’ll come down at a moment’s notice.”

“You’ll hear from me.”

Smith hung up and dialed Rich Marienthal’s number. The machine answered.

“This is Mac Smith, Rich. It’s important that I speak with you. Please call at your earliest convenience.” He left his number and ended the call.

“A problem?” Annabel asked when Mac joined her on their terrace.

He recounted the conversation.

“Rich hasn’t returned any of their calls?” she said.

“According to Frank.”

“That is worrisome,” she said. “Maybe we should go over to their apartment.”

“I thought about doing that, but I’m not sure it’s appropriate. Rich is an adult. I got the impression from Frank that their relationship might not be all it should be.”

“Still,” Annabel offered, “something could be terribly wrong.”

Mac took a minute to think about it. Chances were that everything was just fine with Richard Marienthal and his good-looking girlfriend, Kathryn Jalick. To go banging on their door might be viewed as an unwarranted intrusion into their lives. Still…

“Okay,” he said.

They took the car from the Watergate’s underground parking garage-their reserved space had added thousands of dollars to the price they paid for their apartment-and drove to Capitol Hill. Annabel waited in the car as Mac went into the foyer and buzzed the apartment shared by Rich and Kathryn Jalick. There was no response. He noted on the intercom board the apartment number for the superintendent and pushed the button. A man with an East Indian accent answered. A TV playing loudly and a crying baby could be heard in the background.

“Sorry to bother you,” Smith said, “but my wife and I have been trying to contact two of your tenants, Richard Marienthal and Kathryn Jalick.”

“They’re not home?” the super said.

“There’s no answer from their apartment. Are they away? Have you seen them recently?”

“Today.”

“Did they indicate where they might be going?”

“Oh, no, they said nothing. Just hello to me,” he yelled over the background din.

“What time was that?”

“This afternoon. At lunchtime. What was your name?”

“Smith. Mackensie Smith. I’ll leave a note in their mailbox.”

“Very good. I will tell them Mr. Smith was here looking for them.”

“I appreciate that. Thanks.”

Smith returned to the car, wrote on a piece of paper the same message he’d left on the answering machine, and placed it in the mailbox, noting that the box appeared to be empty.

Back home at the Watergate, he said to Annabel, “Well, at least they’re alive, according to the super. I’ll call and let Frank know that we tried. Meanwhile, I’ve got an hour’s worth of work to get ready for tomorrow’s class.”

“And I’m off to bed,” Annabel said, kissing his forehead. “Don’t be too late.”

Mac immersed himself in his classroom preparation and, with the exception of an occasional mental lapse during which he thought of Rich and the call from Rich’s father, managed to relegate such thoughts to the back burner.

Rich Marienthal was well aware of the message Mac left on his answering machine. He called from where he and Geoff Lowe had been having dinner at the Capitol Grill to check for messages, and heard Smith’s voice, along with those of his father and his editor in New York, Sam Greenleaf. He’d hoped to reach Kathryn and get the messages from her, but wasn’t surprised that she was gone. His departure earlier that evening to meet with Lowe had fueled a spirited argument.

“Again?” she’d said when he announced he was going out for dinner with Geoff.

“What do you mean, again? I haven’t had dinner with Geoff in a while.”

“It has nothing to do with whether it’s dinner, Rich. It has to do with my never being with you. You’re either holed up listening to your tapes or reading the proofs-God, don’t you know what’s in the book by now?-or slinking off to meet with your buddy.” She said buddy as though describing a venomous snake.

His anger was rising and he tried to keep it in check, but failed, the way he always seemed to during confrontations with his father.

“Damn it, Kathryn, you pick the worst times to get on your high horse and criticize me. You know damn well I’m getting close to making all the work pay off, and Geoff Lowe is the reason for it. Now just shut up and leave me alone.”

“Shut up? You’re telling me to shut up? Who the hell do you think you are, Rich? What ever happened to the Rich Marienthal I fell in love with?”

“He’s standing right here, Kathryn. He’s no different, but you are, and I’m sick and tired of your goddamn harping about Geoff Lowe and what I do for a living. You don’t like it, then get the hell out.”

She fought back tears as she stomped into the bedroom, threw on a jacket, grabbed her purse, and stormed from the apartment, slamming the door behind her.