Murder at Union Station (16 page)

“Yeah, the press and confidential sources and all that. Shield laws.” He leaned close to her face. “Did MPD leak it to you?”

She took a few steps back. “No comment,” she said, smiling. “Look, Mullin, you’ve always been square with me, and I’ve never screwed you. Level with me. I have it right, don’t I? He’s from Haiti, name is LeClaire, carries a French passport?”

Mullin nodded.

“So why would this LeClaire shoot an old Italian guy in the back of the head in Union Station?”

“I don’t know,” Mullin said. “Hey, as long as you’re asking all these questions, Ms. Rosenberg, how about answering one of mine?”

“If I can.”

“The guy who told you the name of the victim at the station, you know, the guy you mentioned on your newscast.”

“What about him?”

“Who is he?”

She laughed. “I’d love to know.”

“So would I. You got a good look at him?”

“No. Just a passing glance.”

“But you kind of know what he looks like. Right?”

“I suppose so.”

“Tell you what. How about giving a description to one of our sketch artists?”

Her laugh turned to a giggle. “Me? Give a description to a sketch artist?”

“Yeah. You see, Ms. Rosenberg, I’d like to know who he is, too. I’d like to find him.”

“Why? Why is he important?”

“Once I find him, I’ll figure that out. Game?”

“Sure. Now, am I right about the guy down there in the weeds?”

“They’re lilies.”

“Whatever.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Thanks.”

“What time can you come by headquarters tomorrow?”

She started to suggest first thing in the morning, but remembered her nine o’clock date with Tim Stripling. “The afternoon,” she said. “Around three?”

“I’ll be there.”

The medical examiner’s people carried the covered body of Leon LeClaire on a stretcher up to the parking lot and slid it into the back of their van. Two uniformed officers remained at the scene, now cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape. The WTTG crew videotaped the action while Joyce Rosenberg provided commentary. Mullin and Accurso waited until the police vehicles and the TV truck left the parking lot before getting in their own car and driving off.

“What was that about with the reporter?” Accurso asked.

“Her sources are good, Vinny.” He explained his plan to have her meet with an MPD sketch artist the next afternoon.

“You really think it’ll help find this guy?”

“Maybe, maybe not. It’s worth a shot.”

They spent what was left of the day at headquarters filling out their reports.

“Come on, I’ll buy you a drink,” Mullin said when they were finished.

“A rain check, Bret,” Accurso said, gathering his things. “Katie and I have plans this evening.”

“Yeah, sure. See you in the morning.”

Mullin stayed at headquarters after his partner departed. Aside from arranging for a sketch artist to be available the next afternoon, he accomplished little until leaving at eight, pretending to read files and make notes until it was late enough to face his loneliness. He stopped at Lauriol Plaza, where he downed margaritas on the outdoor terrace and filled up on beef fajitas. He considered swinging by the Market Inn, where an old friend, a jazz pianist, appeared nightly, but thought better of it once he was in the car. He was too tired, aided by the alcohol, to extend the night. He went home, fed Magnum, got out of his clothes—his feet hurt, especially one on which he’d developed a painful hammertoe—and sat in his recliner, fighting to stay awake through the news on TV.

“. . . MPD has verified the victim’s identity as Leon LeClaire, Haitian-born and carrying a French passport. His last known residence was New York City. Fox News has also learned that LeClaire matches the description of the man accused of being the shooter in the recent Union Station murder. And exclusive sources tell me that MPD interest in the so-called mystery man—who told this reporter at the scene of the Union Station murder the name of the victim before anyone else knew it—has intensified.”

The camera pulled back to a wider shot; Mullin and Accurso could be seen in the background.

“I’m Joyce Rosenberg reporting.”

TWENTY-ONE

H
ad Mullin decided to stop in at the Market Inn that evening, he would have crossed paths with a detective colleague, Fred Peck, who sat with Timothy Stripling in one of the bar area’s secluded booths.

The restaurant, beneath the freeway at 2nd and E Street, not far from the National Air and Space Museum, had been a fixture there for forty-five years, attracting a wide variety of Washingtonians—seafood lovers, jazz lovers, Supreme Court justices, and other law lovers at lunch, and those looking to extend the evening beyond the city’s early-to-bed reputation or their own. The sounds of jazz-tinged show tunes, smoothly played by Mullin’s piano-playing friend, accompanied by a bassist, wafted through the smoky bar. The anti-smoking police hadn’t invaded Washington yet, but no one doubted it wasn’t long before they did.

Peck, a gaunt man with a prominent hooked nose and sizable bags beneath large brown eyes, and whose slightly curved spine caused him to appear to be always going forward, belonged to a small faction of the Washington MPD known as deep throats. Prior to the success of Woodward and Bernstein’s account of the Watergate affair, the group had been known as the canaries. No matter what they were called, the view of them by others on the force wasn’t benign.

Peck had been a cop for twenty-four years. In the beginning, he’d been a respected and effective officer, with a bright future—in fact a little too bright, according to colleagues who watched him advance through the ranks faster than normal. That’s when speculation began to surface about why Fred Peck seemed to be favored over others when it came to promotions.

No one ever developed hard evidence that Peck had become a throat, a conduit of information to MPD hierarchy and Internal Affairs about the activities of colleagues. But suspicion had always been evidence enough in the gossip-driven Washington MPD. Shoulders turned cold, comments were made, and eventually veiled threats began to surface, nothing overt, but pointed enough to send Peck scurrying to handlers up the line in search of cover. He was taken off the street and assigned desk duty in the Missing Persons Unit, his current assignment.

While this took him out of the loop on the street, it didn’t interfere with his penchant for ingratiating himself with authorities—and profiting from it—inside the MPD and outside as well. That’s how and why Tim Stripling entered the detective’s life.

Stripling’s primary duty while a full-time employee of the Central Intelligence Agency was to develop relationships with individuals in a wide variety of government agencies and departments, much like his overseas colleagues worked to nurture moles inside foreign governments. His budget to accomplish this was off the books; Congress would not have been happy knowing it was supporting an inherently illegal activity.

The guidelines Stripling used to target potential candidates were the same as those used by overseas agents operating out of embassies—look for individuals with personal problems, particularly those involving money. Through various contacts within law enforcement, augmented by myriad records—credit card usage, credit reports, bank loans, and other personal financial dealings easily accessed—Stripling came up with Peck as one likely candidate.

Peck’s wife, Helen, although known to MPD wives as being somewhat pretentious—but within acceptable limits—was a pleasant woman, a doctor’s daughter who mixed easily with other spouses. Her relationship with her husband was not as easygoing. She frequently complained to him that his salary as an MPD cop simply wasn’t sufficient to maintain the lifestyle she had once had and felt they deserved. Tired of defending himself to her, Peck decided to make an all-out effort to advance himself within the department and deliberately sought out those who could be of help. Like Stripling, with his mission to recruit moles within governmental agencies, the MPD’s hierarchy was also on the lookout for officers willing to pass along information on wrongdoing within the force. A ranking officer within Internal Affairs identified Peck as a good candidate. Although no money was paid for information, Peck found himself short-listed for promotion and soon joined the detective ranks.

The increased salary was welcome at the Peck household. But as is often the case, the additional income was soon taken for granted and Helen’s complaints resumed. Taking a second job was out of the question for Peck; department regulations prohibited it. So when a friend of his on the Capitol Hill police introduced him to a man named Timothy Stripling, who billed himself as an intelligence officer, Peck willingly listened to what Stripling was offering—a monthly fee for doing nothing more than keeping his eyes and ears open within the MPD and passing along information Stripling might require from time to time.

It didn’t take Peck long to agree. The money was easy and steady. He wouldn’t be passing on state secrets like some traitorous spy. Whatever information he shared with Stripling would be going from one government agency to another—and in the interest of national security, as Stripling assured. Nothing wrong with being paid for being a patriot. A good deal all the way around. Helen now drove a new car, the living room sported new furniture, and Helen’s harping about money had stopped. Life was good, or at least better furnished.

“So, Fred, you’re looking, as they say, buff,” Stripling remarked after they’d been served drinks and a platter of crisply fried calamari.

“Healthy living,” the tall detective said, spearing calamari with a fork.

“How’s Mrs. Peck?”

“Fine, just fine.”

“That’s good to hear. So, my friend, what’s new at the great police department in the sky?”

Peck consumed another piece of calamari. “Still heads in the blue. Nothing much new, Tim. How’s life outside the Company?”

Stripling sat back in the booth and grinned. When he’d announced to Peck and to others in similar situations that he was leaving the CIA as an employee, there was predictable concern. Did this mean the end of the gravy train? But he’d assured them that he would continue working for an intelligence service as a consultant and would still be the source for supplementary money. Their services were needed more than ever, he told them, because of the continuing terrorist threat to the country.

“Enjoying myself,” Stripling said. “There’s something to be said for this consulting life. No daily pressures, more time to smell the roses and improve my putting game.” He came forward. “So, tell me, for example, what’s going on with the Union Station shooting.”

Stripling always found it amusing when, after asking Peck such a question, the detective would take in his surroundings, close the gap between his face and Stripling’s, and lower his voice. Stripling had learned to widen that gap before Peck started speaking. The detective’s breath wasn’t sweet.

“Like you said, Bret Mullin’s handling the case.”

Stripling’s expression said
And?

Another furtive glance around the crowded bar: “He’s set up a sketch artist for tomorrow.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I talked to the artist. He’s a faygele, you know? Light in the loafers.” He adopted a swishy voice and ran a pinkie over his eyebrow. “An artiste.”