Murder at Union Station

TWENTY-FOUR

Tim Stripling saw the departure from Washington of President Parmele and his entourage on CNN that morning. Why TV and cable networks bothered to cover the president winging off on a fund-raising and campaign trip to Indianapolis puzzled him, as coverage of such nonevents always did. Leaving to attend an international peace conference or to address a conference of mayors or governors might have justified TV time. But a campaign trip on Air Force One, financed by the taxpayers? There’d be plenty of those as Parmele’s quest for a second term got into gear. Did the public really want to watch every time the president’s plane lifted off a runway? Maybe it was the need on the part of news organizations to fill the time, or not to be caught short by competitors. The why didn’t matter. As far as Stripling was concerned, the whole thing was dumb.

While Stripling, the former CIA operative, cared little about Parmele’s campaign swings, it didn’t represent a total lack of interest in this president, or in others, for that matter. His years of developing information on Washington bigwigs-those already in power and those poised to achieve it-had given him privileged insight into aspects of their lives. He sometimes thought of himself as the ultimate voyeur, encouraged to snoop on men and women in the public eye and paid handsomely in the process-a supermarket tabloid reporter with a badge and official government cover.

The use to which his superiors at the CIA put the dirt he’d uncovered wasn’t, as noted, for him to know, although it didn’t take much imagination. After all, this was Washington, D.C.

After a breakfast of two soft-boiled eggs, an English muffin, juice, and coffee, he dressed and headed for WTTG-TV’s studios on Wisconsin Avenue N.W. and his nine o’clock appointment. He was kept waiting for half an hour; Joyce Rosenberg was in an editing room doing a voice-over. He watched a TV monitor in the reception area. The president’s departure for Indianapolis was still the lead story; it would play over and over all day. How many times can you watch a plane’s wheels leave the ground?

“Hi, Tim.”

Stripling turned to see the short, slender, dark-haired Rosenberg crossing the room. He stood, they shook hands, and she led him back through one of the studios to a tiny, cramped room that served as her office. There was no place to sit; even the chair behind her desk was piled high with scripts and cans of videotape.

“So,” she said, hands on her hips, a crooked smile on her lips, “what’s this all about?”

Stripling shrugged and took in some photos of the reporter with political hotshots, the pictures fixed to the wall with pushpins. “You get to rub shoulders with the high and mighty,” he said.

“I get to meet, as they say, interesting people. Okay, Tim, I only have a few minutes. Hate to rush you, but-”

“Think nothing of it, Joyce. As I told you, I’d like to get a fix on the guy who gave out the name of the Union Station shooting victim.”

“So you said. I had an editor run through file footage we shot that day at the station. He’s not in any of it.”

“Okay. So, tell me what you remember about him.”

She leaned back against the edge of the desk, pushed her glasses up onto the top of her head, screwed up her face, and said, “Let’s see. He was pretty tall. I mean, taller than you. Over six feet, that’s for sure. Maybe six-two.”

“White.”

“Yeah, white. Wore a tan jacket if I remember right. Like one of those safari jackets they used to sell at Banana Republic.”

“Hair?”

“Sandy, maybe.”

“Full head?”

“He was young.”

“How young?”

A shrug. “Thirties, maybe.”

“Heavy? Skinny?”

“I’d say on the heavy side. Not fat, but big. A big guy.”

“And all he said to you was the name of the victim?”

She nodded. “That’s it. I have to run.”

“I saw your report last night from Kenilworth Gardens. You said MPD was interested in the same guy.”

Another nod.

“They’ve been talking to you about it?”

She shook her head.

You’re lying to me, he thought. You’re meeting with a sketch artist this afternoon.

She went to the door, pushed aside a pile of books with her foot, and closed it. “Care to fill me in on why you want this mystery man?”

“No. You say you’re engaged.”

“That’s right.”

“Who’s the lucky man? A TV anchor?”

“A medical student from Baltimore.”

“You’ll make a good doctor’s wife. Used to working all hours, middle-of-the-night emergencies, stuff like that.”

“At least he’s not from Washington and he’s not involved with politics. That’s a big plus in his favor.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Thanks for the time. Invite me to the wedding. I’ll bring a present.”

“How did I get so lucky?”

She walked him back to the reception area.

“How about my present now?” she said.

“Huh?”

“Look,” she said, “I may not be Walter Cronkite or Edward R. Murrow, but I smell a story when I-”

“It’s ‘you know a story when you see it,’” he corrected.

“Something like that. If finding this guy is as important as it seems, I’d like the inside track.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Promise?”

“Do my promises carry any weight?”

She smiled. “If you give me what I need, they will.”

“Count on it.”

“I intend to. By the way, there’s a rumor floating around-”

He feigned shock, hand to his heart. “A rumor? Here in Washington?”

She laughed. “How about that? Speaking of rumors, which I think we were, what do you know about Senator Widmer’s hearings on the CIA?”

“Nothing. What’s the rumor?”

“Some sort of bombshell, is what I’m hearing.”

“What do his people say?”

“Not a word. All behind closed doors. Clammed up. You’d think they were about to declare war on somebody.”

“Maybe they are. I’ll ask around.”

Stripling left WTTG’s studios and ducked into a coffee shop, where he ordered coffee and dialed a number on his cell. It was answered by a man in the Capitol Hill office of a Republican senator from Colorado.

“Jimmy? Tim Stripling here.”

There was a pause before Jimmy, a top aide to the senator, responded. “How are you, Tim?”

“Couldn’t be better. Well, maybe I could. Up for lunch?”

“Today?”

“Yeah. We haven’t gotten together in a while.”

“I’m really up to my neck, Tim. Another time?”

This time Stripling paused. When he again spoke, his voice was lower; there was a hint of warning in it. “I really would like to have lunch today, Jimmy.”

He waited. Finally Jimmy said, “Sure. Where?”

“You’re still a member of that lunch club at the Capitol View in the Hyatt, I assume.”

“Yes.”

“One o’clock?”

“Not there.”

“Where?”

“Tony and Joe’s. On the terrace.”

“See you then. Just Tony and Joe, you ’n’ me.”