displayed against the dark window behind. He wore his requisite sharply creased chinos, blue button-down shirt, short, supple brown leather jacket, and perforated driving gloves. He hadn’t aged in Rich’s eyes; he seemed always to have looked this way.
“How long can you stay?” the father asked as he turned up a long, winding dirt road leading to the house.
“Just a couple of hours. I have to get back to Washington.”
A smile crossed his father’s thin lips. “You make it sound as though the White House is expecting you,” he said, his voice pinched, nasal.
Rich let the comment pass and turned to take in the passing greenery. Two Hispanic gardeners working on the property waved as the car passed; his father returned the greeting with a flip of a finger.
“José still work here?” Rich asked.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t he? He’s well compensated and loyal.”
Is he saying I’m disloyal?
Rich wondered. It didn’t matter. There undoubtedly would be many such comments to consider.
They pulled into a circular gravel drive and came to a stop. Rich revised his earlier observation that his father never aged. Out of the car, he looked older, slightly stooped; Frank Marienthal had always been proud of his erect posture. As they approached the front door of the 1860s colonial-style home, its white clapboard and antique green shutters and door immaculately painted, the flowering shrubs on either side of the walkway manicured and healthy, he also took note that his father’s gait wasn’t quite as assured as it had been in past years. Still, he exuded presence and purpose. That hadn’t changed.
Rich dropped his knapsack on the granite floor and followed his father into the kitchen, where Rich’s mother, Mary Marienthal, a short, slender woman with carefully coiffed white hair and a rosy complexion, worked alongside a black woman in a white uniform.
“Richard, darling!” Mary said, skirting a large stainless steel prep table in the center of the spacious kitchen to hug her son. “Let me see you.” She stepped back and took him in from head to toe. “You look wonderful. A little tired. Not getting your rest?”
“Not lately, Mom.” He went to the black housekeeper and gave her a hug. “How you doing, Carrie?” he asked.
“Oh, just fine,” she said. “Getting older faster.”
He joined her laughter. “You don’t look a day older than when you first came here,” he said.
“Hungry?” his mother asked.
“No, thanks. Had something to eat before I got on the train. A beer, maybe.”
He looked through the open door to a long hallway leading to the dining and living rooms. At the end was his father’s home office, where he was sure his father had retreated. Small talk in kitchens bored him. Small talk in any room bored noted criminal attorney Frank Marienthal.
A bottle of Killian Red in hand—no glass, thank you—Rich left the kitchen and went to the office. The door was open. The elder Marienthal sat behind his large custom-made, leather-topped curved desk. Floor-to-ceiling windows behind him afforded a restful view of gardens to the rear of the house.
“Come in,” his father said.
Rich entered and went to tall bookcases that took up an entire wall. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Perusing books on the shelves delayed the conversation he knew was about to ensue. Eventually he turned, smiled at his father, whose stern expression didn’t change, and took one of a pair of red leather armchairs across the desk. He raised a blue-jean-clad leg and dangled it over an arm, in contrast to his father’s stoic, proper posture.
“You wanted to talk to me,” Rich said.
“Yes. I’ve heard about Louis Russo’s murder.”
“Where did you read it?”
“I didn’t read it. I was called about it. I’m surprised I didn’t hear it from you.”
“I’ve been busy since it happened. I’m sure you can understand that.”
Frank Marienthal paused, his position behind the desk
“How long can you stay?” the father asked as he turned up a long, winding dirt road leading to the house.
“Just a couple of hours. I have to get back to Washington.”
A smile crossed his father’s thin lips. “You make it sound as though the White House is expecting you,” he said, his voice pinched, nasal.
Rich let the comment pass and turned to take in the passing greenery. Two Hispanic gardeners working on the property waved as the car passed; his father returned the greeting with a flip of a finger.
“José still work here?” Rich asked.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t he? He’s well compensated and loyal.”
Is he saying I’m disloyal?
Rich wondered. It didn’t matter. There undoubtedly would be many such comments to consider.
They pulled into a circular gravel drive and came to a stop. Rich revised his earlier observation that his father never aged. Out of the car, he looked older, slightly stooped; Frank Marienthal had always been proud of his erect posture. As they approached the front door of the 1860s colonial-style home, its white clapboard and antique green shutters and door immaculately painted, the flowering shrubs on either side of the walkway manicured and healthy, he also took note that his father’s gait wasn’t quite as assured as it had been in past years. Still, he exuded presence and purpose. That hadn’t changed.
Rich dropped his knapsack on the granite floor and followed his father into the kitchen, where Rich’s mother, Mary Marienthal, a short, slender woman with carefully coiffed white hair and a rosy complexion, worked alongside a black woman in a white uniform.
“Richard, darling!” Mary said, skirting a large stainless steel prep table in the center of the spacious kitchen to hug her son. “Let me see you.” She stepped back and took him in from head to toe. “You look wonderful. A little tired. Not getting your rest?”
“Not lately, Mom.” He went to the black housekeeper and gave her a hug. “How you doing, Carrie?” he asked.
“Oh, just fine,” she said. “Getting older faster.”
He joined her laughter. “You don’t look a day older than when you first came here,” he said.
“Hungry?” his mother asked.
“No, thanks. Had something to eat before I got on the train. A beer, maybe.”
He looked through the open door to a long hallway leading to the dining and living rooms. At the end was his father’s home office, where he was sure his father had retreated. Small talk in kitchens bored him. Small talk in any room bored noted criminal attorney Frank Marienthal.
A bottle of Killian Red in hand—no glass, thank you—Rich left the kitchen and went to the office. The door was open. The elder Marienthal sat behind his large custom-made, leather-topped curved desk. Floor-to-ceiling windows behind him afforded a restful view of gardens to the rear of the house.
“Come in,” his father said.
Rich entered and went to tall bookcases that took up an entire wall. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Perusing books on the shelves delayed the conversation he knew was about to ensue. Eventually he turned, smiled at his father, whose stern expression didn’t change, and took one of a pair of red leather armchairs across the desk. He raised a blue-jean-clad leg and dangled it over an arm, in contrast to his father’s stoic, proper posture.
“You wanted to talk to me,” Rich said.
“Yes. I’ve heard about Louis Russo’s murder.”
“Where did you read it?”
“I didn’t read it. I was called about it. I’m surprised I didn’t hear it from you.”
“I’ve been busy since it happened. I’m sure you can understand that.”
Frank Marienthal paused, his position behind the desk
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