Murder at Union Station

THIRTY-EIGHT

Mullin was at the unoccupied bar, the flowers sitting next to a vodka on the rocks, when Sasha came down from her room pulling a suitcase with wheels. She spotted him and entered the bar. You get better looking every time I see you, he thought.

“Right on the button,” he said, indicating his watch. He wanted to kiss her.

“I try to be.”

“Drink? We have time.”

She seemed unsure.

“If you don’t want, it’s okay.”

“All right. I checked out earlier.”

Her eyes went to the flowers, and Mullin handed them to her, accompanied by an inexperienced grin. “Just a little something to say goodbye. They’re not much.”

“They’re lovely, as lovely as the thought,” she said, sniffing the petals and taking the stool next to him. He lighted her cigarette and said to the bartender without checking with Sasha, “A white Zinfandel for the lady.”

Her mood was somber, which wasn’t lost on him. “Problem?” he asked.

“I didn’t know,” she replied.

“Didn’t know what?”

“Why Louis came to Washington. I haven’t watched the news since coming here. I don’t watch it at home much, either. Always sadness and sorrow on the news. In Israel. Here. But I watched this afternoon. I didn’t know.”

“That what, he came to testify at that Senate committee?”

“Yes.”

“I just found that out, too. From the radio. How come you didn’t know? He didn’t tell you why he was coming here?”

She shook her head and sipped her wine. “All Louis told me was that Richard-”

“Marienthal. The writer.”

“Yes. All he told me was that Richard wanted to introduce him to some politicians who were interested in his story.”

“Did he also tell you that he shot people, especially that Central American dictator?”

She shuddered and reached for the flowers on the bar, brought them to her chest and closed her eyes.

“He didn’t tell you that?”

“My God, no.” She turned, eyes wide open, as though imploring him to understand, to believe her. “Louis told me something about his life with the Mafia, about the killing of enemies, the other crimes in which he was involved, the things that caused him shame. But to kill a man who is a leader of a country?”

Mullin was unsure of what to say. “Maybe he didn’t,” he said.

She said nothing.

“Maybe this writer, Marienthal, made it up. You know, to sell his book. They do that all the time.”

She shook her head. “No, that is not what it says on the news. It says that Louis was to testify at the hearings in your Senate, to say under oath that he killed the man on orders from your president when he was with the CIA.”

“Yeah, I know, but-”

“Louis told me that the book was about his life in New York, his days with his gang. Nothing about assassinations. I should have asked more, but I didn’t.” She touched the top of his hand with her fingertips. “Richard is missing. I heard that, too. Do you think-”

Mullin shrugged and downed his drink, motioned for another. “What do I think, that maybe something happened to him, too?”

Her eyes said she wanted an answer to that question.

Another shrug from the big detective. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I mean, who knows, huh? They say your friend was killed by his former buddies he ratted on.”

“They say? Who are they?”

“The brass. The boys upstairs where I work.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I don’t know what I believe,” he said, starting on his new drink. “I just hear things, like you do. I sensed earlier that they want the tapes of Louis telling his story. There’s a senator here, an old guy from Alaska, who’s in charge of the hearings. There’s always hearings going on around here. Waste of taxpayer money. All political. Widmer-he’s the senator holding the hearings-he hates Parmele. The way I see it, he wants to hold the hearings to sink Parmele’s chance for another four years in the White House. That’s the scuttlebutt I hear.”

She cupped her glass in both hands and stared into it.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “What I said. Yeah, sure, maybe it wasn’t the mob that killed Louis. Maybe it was somebody working for Parmele’s cause, in the White House itself, out to save his political rear end.”

“We don’t think such things happen here,” she said.

He guffawed. “Think again,” he said. “We had the two Kennedy brothers shot dead. Hey, next time you’re over, visit Ford’s Theatre, where Lincoln was hit. Yeah, it happens here, too.”

He didn’t continue with what he was thinking, that Louis Russo wasn’t in the same league as JFK or RFK. Getting rid of an aging, sick mafioso wouldn’t be a big deal to someone with political aspirations or motives. The old guy’s life was meaningless in the larger scheme of things. The same with LeClaire, the Union Station shooter. You want to get away with murder, get rid of anybody who helped you pull it off. Murder 101.

“Richard has the tapes,” she said to herself.

“That’s what the senator wants, they say. The tapes, Russo’s own voice saying what he did. Any idea where he might be?”

“Richard? No. I spoke with his girlfriend today.”

“Did you? What’d she have to say?”

“She said he was away working on another book.”

“No way to reach him?”

“She said there wasn’t.”

“Hmm. Doesn’t sound kosher to me,” he said. She looked puzzled. He laughed at his choice of words.

She didn’t respond.

“Drink your wine,” he said. “Want another?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well,” he said, downing the remainder of his drink, “I guess we should head for the airport, grab some dinner.”

“Maybe I should take a taxi,” she said.

“How come? I said I’d drive you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t drive, the drinks and all.”

He gave forth a reassuring laugh. “A couple a pops don’t affect me. I’m fine.”

She sat rigidly on the bar stool, staring at the back bar’s glittering array of bottles and glassware. “Hey,” he said, touching her shoulder. “If you don’t want to have dinner with me, that’s okay. I mean, I’ll be disappointed but-”

“Who are you?” she asked, turning to face him.

“Huh?”

“Who are you?” she repeated.

“You know who I am.”

“I don’t know who anyone is,” she said. “That man, Charlie Simmons, isn’t who he says he is. You told me that.”

“Right. I checked on him. I got his plate number and ran it. His name’s Stripling. Timothy Stripling. The way I read the info on him, he’s with some government agency. Hard to tell which one.”

“Why would he lie to me?”

“He’s looking for the writer and the tapes. You said he kept asking about them. Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“So maybe he’s working for the senator from Alaska. That makes sense, don’t it?”

She turned her hands palms up in a gesture of confusion. “They break into my apartment,” she said. “The tapes. They were looking for the tapes, copies of them?”

“Could be.” The bar tab was placed in front of him and he slapped cash on it. “I’d like to know where this writer friend of yours is.”

“It sounds as though many people want to know where he is,” she said.

“Maybe we can get a missing person’s search going,” he said. “Of course, if his girlfriend says he’s not missing, just away, that makes it tough, but I’ll see what I can do.” He didn’t add that his boss’s admonition to drop any search for Marienthal would make it even tougher. He stood and hitched his trousers up over his belly. “Well,” he said, “if you want, I’ll get you a cab. I’d still like to drive you and have dinner, but that’s up to you.”

She didn’t reply as she slid off the stool, extended the handle of her suitcase, and looked toward the lobby. Mullin took the flowers from the bar and held them up. “Don’t want these?” he asked.

She lowered her head and let out a sustained, pained sigh. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Please forgive me. Louis always said it was better to distrust friends than to be deceived by them.”

“And you don’t trust me,” he said.

She thought a moment before saying, “I don’t trust myself. Yes, please, drive me to the airport.” She took the flowers from him, smiled, and said, “I think you are a kind man, Detective Mr. Bret Mullin. Thank you for being kind to me.”

“No problem,” he said, unsure of what else to say. “Let’s go. You can smoke in the car if you want.”