{"product_id":"murder-at-union-station-isbn-9780449007396","title":"Murder at Union Station","description":"When Washington’s splendid Union Station opened its doors in 1908, the glorious structure epitomized capital stylishness. Today, restored and refurbished, the station is again a hub of activity where the world’s most famous and infamous people meet–and often collide.  Now, in Margaret Truman’s new Capital Crime novel, this landmark locale becomes the scene of a sensational shooting whose consequences ricochet from seedy bars to the halls of Congress.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHistoric Union Station means nothing to the elderly man speeding south on the last lap of what turns out to be a one-way journey from Tel Aviv to D.C.–on a train that will soon land him at Gate A-8 and, moments later, at St. Peter’s Gate. This weary traveler, whose terminal destination is probably hell, is Louis Russo, former mob hit man and government informer. Two men are at the station to meet him. One is Richard Marienthal, a young writer whose forthcoming book is based on Russo’s life. The other is the man who kills him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRusso has returned to help promote Marienthal’s book, which, although no one has been allowed to read it, already has some people shaking in their Gucci boots. The powerful fear the contents will not only expose organized crime’s nefarious business, but also a top-secret assignment abroad that Russo once masterminded for a very-high-profile Capitol Hill client. As news of Russo’s murder rockets from the MPD to the FBI and the CIA, from Congress to the West Wing, the final chapter of the story begins its rapid-fire unfolding.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn addition to the bewildered Marienthal and his worried girlfriend, there is an array of memorable characters: rock-ribbed right-wing Senator Karl Widmer; ruthless New York publisher Pamela Warren; boozy MPD Detective Bret Mullin; shoe-shine virtuoso Joe Jenks; dedicated presidential political adviser Chet Fletcher; and President Adam Parmele himself–not to mention freelance snoops, blow-dried climbers, and a killer or two. There’s no place like the nation’s capital, and as her myriad fans know, Margaret Truman always gets it right. \u003ci\u003eMurder at Union Station\u003c\/i\u003e is a luxury express, nonstop delight.\u003cb\u003ePraise for Margaret Truman and \u003ci\u003eMurder at Ford’s Theatre\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dead-on descriptions of Washington’s most crack-ridden streets and exclusionary shindigs . . . Readers who enjoy travelogue, gossip, and social commentary in their whodunits will enjoy \u003ci\u003eMurder at Ford’s Theatre\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e–\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Truman can write suspense with the best of them.”\u003cbr\u003e–LARRY KING\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Truman ‘knows the forks’ in the nation’s capital and how to pitchfork her readers into a web of murder and detection.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–The Christian Science Monitor\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Truman combines her insider’s knowledge of life inside the beltway with a writing skill that grows more sophisticated and lively every year. . . . Let’s hope that . . . Truman has another book in the works.”\u003cbr\u003e–\u003ci\u003eThe Advocate\u003c\/i\u003e (Baton Rouge, LA)\u003cb\u003eMargaret Truman\u003c\/b\u003e has won faithful readers with her works of biography and fiction, particularly her ongoing series of Capital Crimes mysteries. Her novels let us into the corridors of power and privilege, poverty and pageantry, in the nation’s capital. Her new work of nonfiction is \u003ci\u003eThe President’s House\u003c\/i\u003e. She lives in Manhattan.Chapter 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHamilton, Bermuda\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA nasty squall had blown across Pitts Bay earlier in the  day, the wind tossing sheets of water against the landmark  pink facade of the famed Hamilton Princess Hotel. Blue sky  and sun followed the storm; the hotel was now bathed in  lambent light.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKathryn Jalick unlatched the sliding glass door of the  second-floor suite, slid it open, and stepped out onto the  small balcony overlooking the bay. She’d carried a large,  fluffy white towel with her from the bathroom, which she  used to wipe residual water from the two plastic chairs and  glass-topped table. She returned inside to retrieve a glass  of white wine she’d poured from a bottle purchased that  morning in one of Hamilton’s downtown liquor stores, and  took a chair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBelow was a pitch-n-putt green on which two men were engaged  in conversation between putts. She knew both, one better  than the other.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe’d been dating Richard Marienthal for three years. The  anniversary of their first meeting was Tuesday of next week;  marking such dates and occasions was important to Kathryn,  and she was good at it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey’d met at Irish Times, a popular place a block east of  Union Station, in the northwest corner of the Capitol Hill  area. Irish Times was one of three establishments within a  block of each other catering to those seeking a wee bit o’  Ireland; The Dubliner and Powers Court Restaurant were the  other two. A hundred years ago, when nearby Union Station  was on the drawing board, its planned location was on the  edge of Swampoodle, an infamous Irish slum, which was said  to be the ideal place to turn a dishonest dollar. Those days  were, of course, gone. A foul swamp had been transformed  into a thriving neighborhood anchored by the station. If  there were such a thing in Washington as an Irish  neighborhood—which there isn’t—the area around North Capitol  and F Streets would have to do. Although the pubs there were  practically interchangeable—same beers, same atmosphere,  same spirited conversation—patrons were fiercely loyal,  including Marienthal, who wasn’t Irish but for whom  authenticity was important, and who considered Irish Times  to be, well, more authentic than the others.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe had been at the bar with Winard Jackson, an up-and-coming  tenor sax player, when another friend brought Kathryn and a  female friend into the room. If there was such a thing as  love at first sight, Kathryn experienced it that evening,  and try as she might to appear cool and disinterested, her  immediate infatuation with him was almost comically obvious.  Marienthal’s black musician friend, Jackson, eventually  whispered in his ear, “I think the lady’s smitten with you,  man. Time for me to split.” Marienthal and Kathryn were soon  alone at the bar, where they lingered over fresh, bubbly tap  beers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt became apparent to Kathryn as they drank and talked that  this Richard Marienthal was different from other young men  she’d met since moving to Washington six years ago to pursue  a career as a librarian. First hired by the Daughters of the  American Revolution’s Library of Genealogy and Local  History, she later landed a plum job at the prestigious  Library of Congress, where she still worked. The daughter of  a plainspoken Kansas pharmacist, Kathryn found most other  men with whom she’d worked or dated too slick and sure of  themselves, consumed with their appearance, terminally  ambitious, and always pretending to know more than they did.  Like Geoff Lowe, the young man practicing putting with Rich  on the grounds of the Hamilton Princess.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarienthal was none of those things. He was big and tousled,  a teddy bear type. His face was boyish, although she judged  him to be in his late twenties or early thirties. His smile,  too, was boyish, meaning it looked the way it probably had  when he was a little kid, with a hint of mischief in it.  Smiles change with age, she knew, but his hadn’t. She liked  it. This night in Irish Times, he wore a  gray-and-red-checked shirt, baggy chino pants, and a tan  safari jacket frayed at the neck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSlightly tipsy, they decided to have dinner together, after  which he escorted her home to her apartment on the fringe of  Foggy Bottom. She hoped he would kiss her good night, which  he did, lightly, like a campaign promise, without  commitment. She hoped he would commit to seeing her again,  which he also did, saying he would call the next day. He  kept his word.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He’s so gentle and kind, and really funny,” Kathryn told  her sister back in Topeka on the phone that night. “And he’s  a writer, too. Very handsome in a rugged sort of way, but  not macho, if you know what I mean. He’s tall. I mean, a lot  taller than me. I kidded that we’d have trouble dancing  together. Know what he said? He said he’d install a little  microphone in one of his shirt buttons and I could talk into  it.” She giggled. “Know what else he told me? He told me my  glasses not only make me look smart, they make me look  sexy.” Kathryn Jalick had worn big round-shaped glasses  since junior high school. She had never been happy about  having to wear them—until this night. She and her sister  laughed. Kathryn’s sudden acceptance of her black-rimmed  glasses was symbolic of her acceptance of the large young man.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThree months later, she moved into Marienthal’s apartment in  the Capitol Hill district, a block from the bustling Eastern  Market at Seventh and C Streets, where they’d been living  since, discovering more about each other every day and  liking what they learned; haunting the market in search of  fresh produce and honing their cooking skills for small  dinner parties with friends; lazing in front of the small  fireplace when the winds blew and ice covered the streets of  Washington, D.C.; and strolling the neighborhood on Sunday  mornings, buying the papers and going back to bed, where  they usually spent the rest of the day under the covers  catching up on the news and with each other.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe wrapped the white terrycloth robe tighter around her  against a chilled wind off the bay and continued to watch  Rich and Geoff Lowe on the putting green. She couldn’t hear  their words, but she knew what they were discussing. How  could she not? That’s all Richard had talked about for the  past year. He was consumed with it, driven. “I’m a man on a  mission,” he would often say when she questioned the long  hours he worked on the book. She wished Rich hadn’t gotten  involved with Lowe, a pretentious sort if she’d ever seen  one, and she’d seen plenty of them in Washington, D.C.,  basking in the reflected glory of their powerful political  bosses, like secretaries to high-profile physicians who  assume their bosses’ status and press it upon patients.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeeting like this in Bermuda was Lowe’s idea, silly  cloak-and-dagger stuff, Kathryn thought. She didn’t like the  influence Lowe seemed to have developed over Rich. The man  she’d fallen in love with had been changing before her eyes  since hooking up with the young Senate staffer, and not for  the better.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarienthal looked up and waved, gave her that boyish grin.  She returned the greeting and raised her glass. “Up in a  minute,” he yelled, and walked off the green with Lowe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey had dinner that night in the hotel’s Harley’s Bistro, a  large, modern room with huge windows overlooking the pool  and Hamilton Harbor beyond, Rich, Kathryn, Lowe, and Ellen  Kelly, who worked with Geoff but who was obviously more than  that; they shared the same hotel room. Kathryn wished she  and Rich could spend a week alone in romantic Bermuda, but  that wasn’t in the cards. He’d been away for almost three  weeks, returning to Washington from Israel only yesterday  and announcing they were flying to Bermuda to meet Lowe and  Ellen Kelly, who’d already been there a few days enjoying  themselves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnsurprisingly, Lowe dominated the dinner table  conversation, ranting about politics, which, Washington  style, he seemed to feel only he had a handle on, and  vilifying the current administration and president. Adam  Parmele was in his first term and running for a second.  Geoff Lowe was a short man, not much taller than Kathryn,  who was five feet, four inches tall. He was chunky, with a  large face dominated by a broad nose that would not be out  of place on a professional prizefighter. Balding  prematurely, he had strands of blond hair long at the sides.  He was type A personality personified; even when seated he  seemed to be in motion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRich and Kathryn had heard Lowe’s lectures too many times  over the past year to react with anything but feigned  interest, and she sensed a similar paralysis in Ellen,  although Lowe’s colleague and girlfriend seemed to exhibit  dutiful interest in his words. But the redheaded, green-eyed  Kelly also seemed aware of Rich and Kathryn’s situation  because she would turn the conversation around to them  whenever Lowe took a break.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“How was Israel this time, Rich?” Ellen asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarienthal laughed and sipped his wine. “Great place. Same  as it’s always been,” he said. “I’ve been there so often  lately I ought to start wearing a yarmulke.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Adam Parmele’s approach to the Israeli-Palestinian  situation, if you can call it an approach, is ridiculous,”  Lowe said, obviously not interested in learning more from  Rich. “His whole foreign policy is a joke. Anybody with half  a brain could have seen that when he was running—waffling,  saying one thing one day, reversing himself the next.” He  shook his head and sat back in his armchair. “Another four  years with this liberal bumbler and we’ll really be down the  drain—the economy, crime, foreign policy, all of it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAgain, Ellen changed the subject out of deference to Rich  and Kathryn, asking Kathryn a question about her job at the  library, which led to a lengthy tale of how she’d only  recently been promoted into the rare documents room, which  answer carried them through dessert but stopped short of  coffee with Sambuca.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey ended the evening in the lobby. At least Kathryn  thought it had.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Flight’s at noon,” Lowe said. “Airport shuttle leaves at  nine-thirty. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarienthal looked at Kathryn, whose face said she wanted to  get away from the other couple.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thanks, no,” Marienthal replied.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“There’s something we still have to go over,” Lowe said.  “Why don’t you two gals browse the shops? Some of them are  still open.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKathryn hoped Rich would remain firm in declining a drink  with Geoff, but he disappointed her. If there were one thing  about him that sometimes bothered her, it was how he always  seemed to understand both sides of any debate. On the one  hand, it was an appealing trait, often heading off potential  arguments. On the other hand, it was waffling, and he was  easily led at times, the most persuasive—or the last—voice  heard having the most influence on him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We’ll make it quick, hon,” he told her. “Meet you in the  room in an hour.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKathryn and Ellen watched the two men cross the lobby and  disappear into the wood-paneled Colony Pub.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m beat,” Kathryn said. “Think I’ll head up to the room.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Me, too,” Ellen said. “By the way, it’s great what Rich is  doing, Kathryn.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKathryn’s curt nod did not convey what she really thought.  She wished Rich had never agreed to Lowe’s proposal. If only  he hadn’t. If only they could turn back the clock a year. If  only she didn’t have this nagging feeling of foreboding that  kept her awake nights. If only . . .New York Times bestselling author \"A dazzling series.\" --The Atlanta Journal-Constitution","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302019715301,"sku":"NP9780449007396","price":7.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780449007396.jpg?v=1767733122","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/murder-at-union-station-isbn-9780449007396","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}