Murder at Union Station (20 page)

“Check this out,” Accurso said, handing Mullin a printout of the initial forensic examination of the bullets from the gun found on the body in Kenilworth Gardens. “Perfect match with the ones that took down Russo at Union Station.”

Mullin grunted and dropped the report on his desk. “No surprise, huh?” he said.

“Another case closed by D.C.’s finest,” said Accurso.

“The hell it is,” Mullin said.

“What?”

“Sure, we’ve got the shooter cold. But
why
did he shoot the old man? And who shot
him
?”

A young detective sitting nearby chimed in: “A mob hit, Bret. Just that simple. And the shooter gets shot to keep his mouth shut.”

Mullin said nothing.

“What are you thinking, Bret, that this so-called mystery man who knew Russo’s name before anybody else did might know why it happened?” his partner asked.

“Yeah, of course, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

“What guy are you talking about?” the young detective asked.

“Nothing,” Mullin said.

Mullin’s phone sounded and he picked up the receiver. “Yeah, all right,” he said, hanging up. To Accurso: “We’ve been summoned.”

“God?”

“Yeah.”

They were about to leave for the office of the chief of detectives when Fred Peck came to where they sat. “How’s it going?” he asked.

“Fine, Fred,” Accurso replied.

“You guys caught a break with the station shooter, huh?” Peck said.

Mullin and Accurso looked at him blankly.

“The forensics match on the bullets,” Peck said. “Hey, by the way, I see we’re trying to locate that guy who knew the victim at the station. You working that?”

“What guy?” Mullin asked.

“The one who said his name right after the shooting. Heard on TV that we’re looking for him.”

“We wouldn’t know about that, Fred,” Accurso said. “Excuse us. God wants to give us commendations and a promotion.”

“He does? For what?”

Mullin and Accurso walked away, leaving Peck staring after them. When they were gone, he went to an office on another floor where one of the department’s sketch artists was interviewing a witness to a shooting the night before, showing her cards on which a variety of facial features were displayed. “A chin like this one?” he asked her.

She shook her head.

The artist noticed Peck in the open doorway. “Excuse me,” he told the woman and followed Peck into the hall.

“Sorry to bother you,” Peck said, “but I know you’re doing a sketch this afternoon with that TV reporter.”

“That’s right,” said the artist. “Mullin set it up.”

“I know, I know. I was just talking to Bret and Vinnie about it. I’ll need a copy of what you come up with.”

“Sure. No problem. You working that, too?”

Peck patted the artist on the shoulder. “Thanks. Drop it by my office when you’re done.”

Mullin and Accurso took chairs across the desk from the chief of detectives, Philip Leshin. Leshin was as big as Mullin, but in a different way. While Mullin’s body had gone soft, Leshin had kept in shape. He neither drank nor smoked and was a regular at a gym close to headquarters. His shaved head glistened in light from overhead fixtures; a heavy five o’clock shadow was already evident.

“What’s up, Phil?” Mullin asked.

“You tell me,” Leshin said. He was in shirtsleeves. His tie was wide and colorful, like his suspenders.

“Tell you about what?” Mullin asked. He realized his hands were trembling and kept his fingers laced together on his lap.

“This TV reporter, Rosenberg. Fox News. She says on the air that we’re trying to find the guy from the station shooting.”

“Yeah, she’s right,” Mullin said.

“You know we’ve got the shooter. Bullets match.”

“Right,” Accurso said.

Mullin said, “I think this guy we’re looking for can fill in the blanks, Phil, maybe tell us why the old guy was gunned down.”

“That may be, but how come Fox News knows about it? You been talking to somebody over there?”

“No,” Mullin said, motioning with his hands for emphasis, then quickly linking them again.

“You and Vinnie were in the reporter’s piece last night. In the background.”

“Sure we were,” Accurso said. “We were there at the gardens.”

“We did the interviews with the couple that found the body. Others, too.”

Leshin stared at Mullin, who twisted in his chair.

“That’s it, huh?” Leshin said. “You just happened to be standing there when she did her report.”

Mullin and Accurso nodded in unison.

Leshin leaned back as far as his chair would allow and placed his hands behind his head. A small, satisfied smile crossed his lips. He said, “If that’s true, then why is that TV reporter coming here this afternoon to give a description to a sketch artist?”

Mullin’s shrug was exaggerated. He moved his head left and right, changed position again in his chair, and said, “Because I think that’s the way to go, Phil.”

He didn’t express what he was really thinking:
Who told
you
about it?

“You don’t agree?” Accurso asked their boss.

“It’s okay with me as long as it doesn’t eat up much of your time. What’s
not
okay with me is talking to the media—about anything! That’s what we have Public Affairs for.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Mullin said, wiping beads of perspiration from his upper lip.

“You let this reporter give her description, that’s it. No comments to her. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Got it.”

“Good. By the way, the woman Mr. Russo was living with in Israel is flying here today.” He glanced at a paper on his desk. “Sasha Levine.”

“She claiming the body?”

“Once the M.E. releases it. Shouldn’t need it anymore now that we’ve got the shooter.”

“I’d like to talk to her,” said Mullin.

“Go ahead. She’s due here at five. But, Bret—”

“What?”

“Don’t make this a big deal. Yeah, it would be nice to know why Russo got it, but it’s not priority.”

Mullin and Accurso stood to leave, but Leshin asked Mullin to stay. The big detective looked at Accurso and raised his eyebrows.

“See you downstairs,” Accurso said.

“Close the door, Bret,” Leshin said after Accurso was gone.

Mullin did as requested and faced his boss.

“How’s the drinking, Bret?” Leshin asked flatly.

“The drinking? What about it?”

“I hear you’ve been hitting the bottle pretty good lately.”

Mullin guffawed.

“True?”

“No, of course not. Who’d say something like that?”

“Sit down, Bret.”

When Mullin was seated, Leshin stood over him. “You don’t look good, Bret.”

“Whatta you mean?”

“You look like hell. Your hands are shaking. I saw it.”

“No, I’m—”

“Bret, listen to me. You’re a good cop, have been for a long time. But I don’t like being squeezed. I get a call from up top about somebody saying they saw you drinking on the job or drunk someplace, and bingo, I’m on the hot seat to do something about it. Understand?”

“Sure, Phil, and I wouldn’t do anything to make it tough on you. But I’m telling you, I’ve got the drinking under control. Last night, I had a couple of margaritas with dinner. That’s it. You have a drink before dinner?”

“I don’t drink.”

“Yeah, I know, but what I’m asking is whether having a drink or two before dinner is such a big deal. It’s like—it’s like, you know, civilized.”

Leshin laughed lightly and returned to his chair. “‘Civilized,’” he said absently, shaking his head.

“I’m fine, Phil,” Mullin said, pushing himself up from the chair. “Believe me, I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about a thing with me.”

Leshin covered his eyes with one hand and waved Mullin from the office with the other.

I wish I didn’t have to worry about you
was what Leshin was thinking.

I should have had a second vodka this morning
was Mullin’s thought as he left the office.
Stops the shaking
.

TWENTY-SIX

T
ony and Joe’s fish restaurant was in Washington Harbour, on the Potomac at 31st Street, in Georgetown. Formerly the site of a cement factory, it had been developed into a riverfront park in 1986 by Arthur Cotton Moore, who’d created the mixed-use development of shops, restaurants, offices, and apartments. Architectural critics termed the complex hideous; Washingtonians and tourists ignored any architectural shortcomings and enjoyed the open feeling, the boardwalk promenade, the computer-controlled central fountain, and whimsical sculptures scattered throughout the area.

Stripling arrived early and took an outdoor table with an umbrella, on the river side of the terrace. He’d just been served an iced tea when Jimmy Gale, wearing an open-necked white shirt and carrying a blue denim sport jacket over his arm, skirted other tables and took a chair across from the former CIA operative.

“Maybe we should eat inside,” Gale said. His face was blotchy; a film of perspiration testified to the heat.

Stripling smiled and took in the terrace with open hands. “It’s lovely out here, Jimmy. Liable to catch a cold in the AC.”

Gale, who was in his mid-forties, pulled a damp handkerchief from a pants pocket and dabbed at his face. “I don’t have much time,” he said. “We’re busy. Very busy.”

Stripling waved a waitress over. Gale had an iced tea, too. Both men ordered shrimp Caesar salads.

“What do you want, Tim?” Gale asked, downing a glass of ice water. “As I said, we’re very busy. I shouldn’t even be here.”

“The Widmer hearings,” Stripling said, not looking at him.

“What about them?”

Stripling now faced him. “It’s like Los Alamos. What’s all the secrecy?”

“I don’t know. It’s Senator Widmer’s hearings. Ask him.”

“Your boss is on the committee, Jimmy. Of course you know what’s going on.”

Gale looked about nervously. His tea came and he eagerly drank it. Stripling sat back, glass in hand, and took a certain quiet pleasure in Gale’s overt anxiety. Exerting power over others was something he’d come to enjoy after years of creating the conditions under which such power was possible. There had been so many Jimmy Gales, each having made a single human misstep in their lives, an isolated indiscretion, a drunken moment, a loss of control over their passions, a mistake in judgment experienced by every person at some point in their lives. The difference was that these very
human
beings worked for the U.S. government.

Stripling had first learned of Gale eight years ago, while still on the payroll of the agency. His success at identifying and turning government employees into informants for the agency had been beyond expectations. The stable of men and women he’d developed, willing to pass on information if asked, had grown to more than a hundred. Of course, there were those who left government service, and by extension lost their usefulness to Stripling and the CIA. But there were always others to take their place. Amazing, Stripling often thought, how vulnerable people were to having their private lives exposed, how willing they were to risk their professional and personal reputations in the pursuit of a vice or secret pleasure.

He’d found Washington’s brothels, call girls, and escort services to be a particularly rich source of recruits. Married men who frequented such services were easy targets, although Stripling was judicious in his selection of which ones to pursue. If he’d elected to enlist every married man who visited one of the prostitutes on his payroll—some of whom agreed to install a tiny camera in the bedroom in return for easier money than plying their usual trade—the stable would have been too large and unwieldy to control.

Prostitutes providing other than conventional sexual experiences had been especially good to Stripling over the course of his career. That certainly was the case with Jimmy Gale. Married and with three children, Gale had come from Colorado to Washington with his family a dozen years ago to work for the senator from Colorado, and had quickly established himself as one of the most respected staffers on the Hill, a man fiercely loyal to his boss and mentor and someone whose word could be trusted. His reputation in his community of Rockville, Maryland, was equally positive. Gale was active in civic affairs, Little League, his church, his kids’ schools, and the local Republican club.