Murder at Union Station

TWENTY-FIVE

Bret Mullin awoke that same morning with a hangover. He often boasted about never suffering them, no matter how much he’d consumed the night before-no frayed nerves, dry mouth, and pulsating headache. “Something in the Mullin genes,” he liked to say.

But like an inveterate gambler who always claims to be ahead in his wagers, Mullin wasn’t being entirely truthful. As he’d grown older, his ability to handle the juice had diminished, and hangovers, to a greater or lesser degree, were no longer alien.

He considered calling in sick but didn’t. He’d already used up his yearly allotment of sick days, and it was only July. After two glasses of milk to help quell the fire in his stomach and a cup of black coffee to stoke the flames again, he slumped against the tile shower wall and allowed warm water to flow over him, gradually increasing the amount of cold water in the mix until it became uncomfortable. He dried himself and stood before the bathroom mirror. “Jesus,” he muttered at his mirror image. His eyes were red, the flesh around them swollen and puffy. He started to shave but abruptly stopped. His hand was shaking, and he was afraid he’d cut himself. He went to the kitchen and poured what was left in a vodka bottle into a glass, added a splash of orange juice, and downed it. Drinking in the morning was relatively new, and he wasn’t pleased that it had come to this, but it was either take a couple of shots to calm his nerves or go to work shaking.

He finished his bathroom ablutions, dressed in yesterday’s suit but chose a clean shirt and different tie, and looked out the window. Another nasty hot humid day. Magnum rubbed against his legs, and he bent to ruffle the cat’s fur behind its neck. “Hey, baby, you stay here and guard the joint,” he said. “Keep the bad guys out.” He straightened up painfully, left the apartment, and drove to headquarters, where Vinnie Accurso had already arrived.

“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.