Murder at Union Station (17 page)

Stripling smiled. “So who’s this sketch artist sketching? You’ve already got the Union Station shooter.”

“He tells me—the artist tells me—Mullin tells him a reporter from Fox News is coming over to give a description of the guy who knew the name of the victim at the station.”

“Really? She knows him?”

Peck shrugged and sat back. “Beats me. I guess she does. You know her?”

“Who?”

“The reporter who’s coming over.”

“I think so. Why is Mullin so interested in this guy?”

“I don’t know. He’s a lush, you know. Can’t always believe him.”

“But you’ll find out. And his name. Right?”

“You want me to?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How come?”

Stripling signaled for a waitress, who took an order for another round and bowls of clam chowder.

“How come?” Peck repeated.

“What?”

“The guy who knew the victim. I’d like to know why I’m finding out about him. Mullin’s interest in him. Like that.”

“It’s not important, Fred. I’d like a copy of the sketch your artist comes up with. Can do?”

“I suppose so.”

“And I want to know everything you guys learn about him.”

Stripling observed Peck as he sipped from his second drink. He knew what the detective was thinking. Now that he, Stripling, had indicated considerable interest in the so-called mystery man and was asking Peck to find out all he could, it took on urgency. Might warrant a bonus.
What a whore,
Stripling thought. That was his unstated view of everyone he’d managed to turn into informants. But it was a good thing there were plenty of them working in government agencies.
Without
them, he’d have been out of business a long time ago.

“I think I can wangle a bonus for you on this one, Fred,” he said.

“I wouldn’t argue,” Peck said with a grin.

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

It was a two-pound lobster for Peck, red snapper for Stripling, salads, and Key lime pie for the detective’s dessert.

“Call me tomorrow, huh?” Stripling said as he placed his American Express card on the check.

“I don’t know if I’ll know anything by then.”

“Call me anyway. By the way, the TV reporter’s name is Rosenberg. Joyce Rosenberg. Pull up what you can on her.”

“Okay.”

“And let me know if you guys come up with any new information, hard information, on the victim, Russo.”

“Okay.”

Before they parted on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, Peck laughed and said, “Boy, Tim, this is really going to keep me busy, getting everything you want. I’ll really appreciate that bonus.”

Stripling slapped Peck on his arm. “Hey, one thing you can never say about me is that I ask you to work cheap.”

“It’ll be cash, huh? Not deposited in the account.”

“Cash it’ll be. No sense cutting Uncle Sam in. You say hello to your wife, Fred. Buy her something nice on me.”

“Will do.”

Stripling watched Peck walk away and turn the corner. He checked his watch; it was still early. An attractive blonde, on the arm of a distinguished-looking older man, came out of the restaurant and passed him. He watched the sway of her hips as the couple went down the street, where the man held open the door of a silver Jag for her. Stripling pulled a small address book from his jacket pocket, found the number he was seeking, and dialed it.

“Hello,” a dreamy female voice said.

“Jane? It’s Tim Stripling.”

“Hello, stranger. Where’ve you been?”

“Busy. Doing God’s work.”

“God’s work?” She giggled.

“Got some time for me?”

“I always have time for you, lover boy. It’s a slow night.”

“Yeah, well, we all have to rest some time. I’ll be by in a half hour.”

“I’ll be waiting. Bring some of God’s money with you.”

“Oh, I will, Jane, I certainly will.”

TWENTY-TWO

L
obster and red snapper weren’t on the menu that night at the Watergate apartment of Mac and Annabel Smith. But they all ate well. After drinks accompanied by scallops wrapped in bacon, Mac grilled marinated chicken kebabs and vegetables on a hibachi on the terrace, whipped up his signature Caesar salad, and heated bread fresh from the Watergate bakery downstairs.

“Delicious,” Kathryn Jalick declared after her first taste of chicken. “What’s the secret to the marinade?”

“If I told you that, Kathryn, it wouldn’t be a secret any longer,” Smith said pleasantly.

“Spoken like a real chef,” Marienthal said.

“Mac’s a wonderful cook, but only when the spirit strikes him,” Annabel said. “I think he secretly always wanted to own a restaurant, but knows what an insane business that can be. I prefer a college professor for a husband.” She touched his arm.

“Actually,” Smith said, “I’ve been threatening for years to give up teaching, study cooking in Provence, and get a job in some restaurant kitchen. One of many unrequited fantasies.”

“Care to share them with us?” Kathryn asked.

“Not in mixed company,” Mac said, laughing. He turned to Marienthal. “So, Rich, we’re anxious to hear the latest with your book, and your read on the murder at Union Station. The victim, Russo, served as your inspiration, as I understand it.”

Marienthal appeared uncomfortable fielding the question. He sipped from a Belgian-style beer brewed in a Baltimore microbrewery that Smith, knowing Marienthal was a beer drinker, had bought especially for the evening. Rich looked at Kathryn, who avoided his eyes and focused on her plate.

Realizing an answer was expected, he said, “Well, things are going okay with the book. It’s at the printer and should be out soon.”

“What about Mr. Russo?” Annabel asked. “Had he come to Washington to meet with you?”

“Ah, yeah, he did.”

“You must have been in absolute shock,” said Annabel, “when you heard the news.”

“How
did
you hear?” Mac asked.

“I got a call.”

“I thought you might have been that mystery man they mentioned on TV,” Mac said with a chuckle. “The one who supposedly blurted out Russo’s name to the TV reporter.”

“I’d still like your marinade recipe,” Kathryn said.

“Sure, I’ll write it out after dinner,” Mac said. To Marienthal: “Did you get to see your folks when you were up in New York?”

“Yes, I did. Dad said to say hello.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Pretty good, I guess. He’s slowing down. Doesn’t practice much anymore.”

“I don’t blame him,” Mac said. “Criminal law can take a lot out of you. It can be, well, almost criminal.”

“You should know,” Kathryn said.

“Yes, I suppose I should. I’m sure he had some comments about the murder. After all, your dad represented Russo in the plea proceedings and put you in touch with him.”

“That’s right,” said Marienthal. “He wasn’t crazy about the idea at first, but I guess he realized how much I needed a book like this under my belt.”

“I’m dying to read it,” Annabel said.

“So am I,” Mac said.

“You’ll be among the first to get a copy,” said Marienthal. “I have to thank you again, Mac, for going over the publishing contract so thoroughly with me. I really appreciate it.”

“The least I could do. As I told you, publishing law isn’t my bag, but I was happy to do it.” He shook his head and laughed. “I’d never seen a contract like that, Rich. The publisher—what is it, Hobbes House?—really stacked things in their favor. That returns policy is a license to steal.”

Marienthal laughed, too. “I know,” he said. “The publisher sells books to bookstores on consignment. The store orders, say, ten, sells two, sends the other eight back to the publisher for full credit.”

“How does that impact the writer?” Annabel asked. “I looked at the contract, too, but my bag, as Mac puts it anachronistically, was matrimonial law.”

Mac answered. “From the way I read it, Rich gets paid royalties twice a year, provided he’s earned any beyond the advance. But the publisher has the right, according to the contract, to withhold a big portion of what’s due him in the event there are returns during the next six-month accounting period. It’s a hell of a float for the publisher.”

The peculiarities of the publishing industry occupied the conversation through the end of dinner.

“We’ll have dessert on the terrace,” Annabel announced.

“I’ll help clear,” Kathryn said.

While the women took dishes to the kitchen, Smith and Marienthal went out on to the terrace. The night air was still hot and heavy. A full moon illuminated ripples on the river. The spires of Georgetown University were lighted in the distance. A peaceful setting. Rufus, the Smiths’ great blue Dane, settled down next to Smith’s feet.

“What are the plans to publicize the novel, Rich?” Smith asked. “Will you be doing interviews, book signings?”

“I think so,” he replied. “I don’t think those plans are firmed up yet.”

“Getting late, isn’t it? You say the book is about to be published.”

“Yeah, you’re right. They’d better get on the ball.”

“I didn’t realize Hobbes House did fiction, Rich. I know they publish a lot of conservative nonfiction.”

His comment seemed to make Marienthal uncomfortable. After a false start, he said, “They want to branch out and do fiction. I guess I submitted my novel to them at the right time.”

“Good for you,” Smith said. “The public seems to have an insatiable appetite for novels about organized crime, the Mafia. I’m sure your book will do extremely well.”

“I hope so,” Marienthal said.

“Did Mr. Russo have a family in Israel?” Smith asked.

“No, not really. He lived with an Israeli woman named Sasha.”

Smith fell silent for a moment before saying, “I suppose the prevailing theory is that the mob killed him. You wouldn’t think they’d carry a grudge that long, but they evidently do.”

“Looks like it,” Marienthal said. “Did you represent mobsters when you were practicing law here in D.C.?”

“Not mafiosi. Other gang leaders.”

“Any of them go into witness protection?”

“No. Some copped a plea and did less time as a result. What was it that Russo told you that so captured your imagination? As I recall, you said he was a lower level mobster in New York, not a major player.”

“Well, he—any chance of another beer, Mac?”

“Coming right up.”

Annabel and Kathryn accompanied Mac back to the patio. Annabel carried a platter of fancy cookies bought at the bakery; Kathryn brought a tray holding cups and saucers, cream and sugar, and spoons. Annabel went to the kitchen and returned with a carafe of hot coffee. Once they were all seated, Mac said, “I was talking with Rich about Mr. Russo. It’s pretty evident that his former criminal associates got even with him for having turned against them.” He said to Kathryn, “You know, of course, that Rich’s dad represented Russo during the trial.”

“Yes,” she said. “Rich has told me all about it.”

This led to a discussion of the ethics of cutting deals with members of organized crime in order to put others, usually higher-ups, away.

“I’ve always had trouble with it,” Annabel said. “Some murderer with a dozen killings under his belt cops a plea, turns on his bosses, and gets paid off with a sweet deal, the witness protection program, a new life and identity, money, other perks. I just can’t square that in my mind.”

“Was Russo a murderer?” Smith asked.

“Yes,” Marienthal replied. “Quite a few. Mob stuff, disputes over territory, or matters of discipline—or, as the bosses see it, honor.”

Annabel wrapped her arms about herself, as though it had turned cold. “Gives me the shivers, these people who place so little value on life.”

Smith said, “I’ve always found it interesting and ironic the way organized crime has to operate. It’s a major industry in this country—at least it was—but it can’t resolve business disputes in courts of law as other industries and companies do. So it’s got to solve its differences privately.”

“By killing competitors,” Kathryn said. She’d said little since they’d gathered on the terrace.

“What was Russo’s attitude about having killed people?” Smith asked.

“He was— Oh, I don’t know. He viewed it as a job, I suppose. He grew up in the streets, saw the wiseguys dressed nice and on the arms of pretty women. I know he was a killer, but he could also be a nice guy. At least he was to me.”

“Mellowed with age,” Annabel commented.

“I suppose that happens to everyone,” Marienthal said, “even mob muscle men.”

As they were about to call it a night, Annabel mentioned a newscast she’d seen late that afternoon on which the discovery of the body in Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens had been reported.

“I saw only a portion of it,” she said, “but the reporter indicated the body might have been of the man who shot your Mr. Russo in Union Station.”