Murder at Union Station

THIRTY

He was fortunate. The bullet didn’t do any major structural damage to the knee. Mostly soft tissue trauma.”

The young physician delivering good news to Katie Accurso, Bret Mullin, and a contingent of senior police officers led by the commissioner had just come from performing surgery on Vinnie Accurso’s leg. He wore OR greens and black clogs; a wilted surgical mask hung loosely around his neck.

“That’s wonderful,” Katie said, breaking into tears. “Can I see him now?”

“Give him a couple of hours in recovery,” the doctor said.

An MPD public information officer conferred briefly with the commissioner before going downstairs to brief press camped at D.C. General’s front door. The commissioner and others filed from the room after offering their good wishes to Katie, leaving her alone with Mullin.

“I’m so thankful,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief he’d assured her was clean. “He could have been killed,” she said.

“The perp was a lousy shot,” Mullin said.

“Will you find him?” she asked.

“Our guys are all over the neighborhood,” he said. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He handed her the plastic bag of fruit from Eastern Market. “Vinnie bought this just before he got shot.”

“What is it?”

“Fruit. He said you wanted fruit. That’s all the fruitcake thought about. The fruit.”

She laughed, and he joined her.

“I have to go,” he said. “You need anything, you yell, huh?”

“I will. Thanks, Bret.”

Mullin stopped in a small neighborhood bar a block from the hospital and downed two shots of vodka before returning to the precinct, where the buzz was all about Accurso’s shooting. Mullin answered questions about how it had happened and what he’d seen, but soon tired of repeating the story. He secluded himself in an empty interrogation room and worked on multiple forms to be filled out regarding the shooting of a police officer. He was engrossed in the task when one of Chief Leshin’s lieutenants poked his head in: “Chief wants you in his office, Mullin.”

“Now?”

“No, next week. Yeah, now.”

Leshin was wrapping up a meeting when Mullin arrived. He watched through the glass as those in the room nodded at something the chief said, then came through the door. Leshin waved Mullin in.

“Close it, Bret,” he said, indicating the door.

“What’s up?” Mullin asked, directing his words away from his boss in case the supposedly odorless vodka wasn’t odorless.

“The Union Station case. It’s closed.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I mean really closed, the Russo hit and the LeClaire hit.”

Mullin’s face indicated he didn’t understand.

“This guy you’ve been looking for, the one who knew Louis Russo’s name when he was shot.”

“What about him?”

“Drop it. Quit looking for him. It’s over.”

“You said-”

“What I said was that you could try to run him down, provided it didn’t take too much of your time. With Vinnie out of commission, you don’t have time. Okay?”

“If you say so.”

“I say so. Tough about Vinnie.”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll hook up with a new partner tomorrow.”

“I have a choice?”

“No.”

“Just don’t give me one of the young ones, huh? They get dumber every year.”

Leshin’s silence said it wasn’t a debatable issue, and that the meeting was over.

“How’s the drinking?” the chief asked as Mullin opened the door.

“How is it?” He laughed. “Better than ever.”

“Get out of here, Mullin.”

Leshin sat behind his desk and thought of the call he’d received earlier in the day from someone in the commissioner’s office instructing him not to pursue the identity of the Union Station witness.

“How come?” Leshin had asked, knowing his question wouldn’t be answered. It wasn’t.

“Okay,” he’d said, understanding without being told that someone in D.C. with clout had called off the hunt. Not that it mattered. As far as he was concerned, the official departmental finding-that Louis Russo had been killed in retribution for having testified against his Mafia goombahs a dozen years ago, and that his killer, Leon LeClaire, had been murdered by the same people-was good enough for him. Closed cases were good cases. The more you closed, the better it looked for you personally, and for the department. That’s what it was all about, wasn’t it? Looking good.

His thoughts shifted to Bret Mullin. He didn’t look good. All that damn booze. He’d given up on trying to lead Mullin into programs promising the chance of sobriety. With any luck, the big, beefy detective would walk with his pension in a year-after putting in thirty-and be out of his hair.

Mullin was thinking the same thing, that it was just another year to the pension. Accurso’s shooting was hitting home. Mullin was no different than any other cop who knows from the first day on the job that some creep’s bullet might have your name on it. He’d been lucky; he’d never taken a bullet, although one had come too close for comfort a few years back. The memory of that incident prompted him to abruptly leave the precinct, get in his car, and drive in the direction of the apartment he’d called home since the divorce. But going home wasn’t an option. Not yet. He parked at a hydrant in front of a restaurant, went inside, sat at the bar, and ordered a double Grey Goose. He was virtually alone in the damp coolness of the bar area. The barmaid, an older woman with sharp features and red hair piled high on her head, delivered his drink. “How about a glass of tomato juice with that?” Mullin said.

He pulled his cell phone from his jacket, dialed the number of the Lincoln Suites, and asked for Sasha Levine, who was on the phone instantly. The sound of her voice startled him. He was sure she wouldn’t be there.

“Ms. Levine. Bret Mullin here. The detective. Remember?”

“Of course I do.”

“I got tied up today and forgot to call. There was a-my partner got shot and-”

“How terrible.”

“Yeah, it was. But he’ll be okay. It was his leg. He’ll be fine.”

“I am glad to hear that.”

“I was wondering whether you were available for dinner, like we discussed.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Good. Did you catch up with that writer friend of yours, Mr. Marienthal?”

“No. I called, but there was only his machine that answers.”

“How long ago did you call?”

“This afternoon. I tried two or three times.”

“Tell you what. How about you try again? Maybe he’s home by now.”

“All right.”

“If he’s home, bring him to dinner with us. Don’t tell him I’ll be there. My treat.”

“I don’t think-”

“I’m serious. Happy to get you two together.”

“I will try.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up at the hotel, say, in about an hour? Hour and a half?”

“An hour and a half would be better.”

“You got it. See you then.”

The vodka burned his throat and stomach as he downed it in a single swallow.

“Another?” the barmaid asked

“No, thanks, sweetie. Got to run.”

He intended as he got in his car to go home, shower, and change clothes. Instead, he drove to the Eastern Market area and pulled up in front of the address he’d been given for Richard Marienthal. He turned off the ignition and pondered whether to see if Marienthal was home. That could be awkward, however. He’d already arranged with Sasha to invite the guy to dinner. Still, he didn’t want to wait that long. If Bret Mullin had any virtues, patience wasn’t among them.

He was about to leave the car and approach the building when the front door opened. A nondescript middle-aged man wearing a suit and tie stepped through it and stood on the set of six steps leading down to the sidewalk. Is that you, Marienthal? Mullin wondered. Too old, he decided. A better look at the man’s face confirmed it wasn’t the person in the artist’s sketch and computer-generated photograph. He took note of a leather catalogue bag dangling from the man’s hand. Judging from the way he carried it, it didn’t have much in it.

Come on, come on, Mullin silently said. Move! Get going!

The man looked left and right before slowly descending the steps. He went to a car parked at the corner, tossed the bag into the backseat, climbed behind the wheel, and drove off-but not before Mullin scribbled down the make, color, and plate number. He waited a few minutes before going to the building, entering the foyer, and checking the names on the intercom board. He pushed the button for the apartment in the name of R. Marienthal and K. Jalick. Nothing. He tried again. And again. He pushed the button for the super’s apartment.

“What do you want?” a man answered in an East Indian accent.

“You the super for this building?” Mullin shouted to be heard over the sound of a TV in the background.

“No time now. Go away.”

Mullin felt his anger rise. “Hey, I’m the police. I need to talk to you.”

“The police?”

“Yeah, the police. Come on, I don’t have all day.”

The superintendent came through the door separating the foyer from the building interior.

Mullin flashed his badge. “I’m looking for these people, Marienthal and-” He looked at the intercom board again. “And K. Jalick.”

“I don’t know nothing about them,” the super said, making a move to retreat back inside.

“Hey, buddy, hold on a minute. They live here. Right?”

“Yes. I have to go. I am busy.”

The super’s overt nervousness caused Mullin’s antennae to go up. Sure, people got uptight when confronted by a cop, especially foreigners. But this guy looked like he was about to race from the foyer. What’ve you got going inside, baby? Mullin wondered. Illegal alien? A few bags of crack? Running some broads?

“Calm down,” Mullin said. “I just want to know where these two people are. Marienthal and this K. Jalick.”

“I don’t know,” the super said in his singsong voice. “At work. They work.”

“He’s a writer. Right? He works at home. Right?”

“She works someplace else. The library. She is a nice lady.”

So Marienthal is a heterosexual, Mullin thought.

“What library?”

“I don’t know. I swear I don’t know.”

“You seen them today?”

“No. I have not seen them.”

“All right,” Mullin said. “Maybe I’ll be back. That okay with you?”

“Yes. Yes. Okay with me.”

“Good.”

He sat in his car another five minutes before deciding to head home in preparation for dinner with Sasha Levine. Had he stayed another five minutes, he would have seen Kathryn Jalick walk up the street and enter the building. And if he’d been there five minutes after that, he would have seen her exit the building, a frantic look on her face, a cell phone to her ear.

Her first thought upon entering the ransacked apartment had been to call the police. But she stopped herself and decided instead to leave the apartment and go outside, where she called Rich at the River Inn.

“Somebody trashed it?” he said.

“No. I mean, nobody damaged anything. But whoever it was went through everything, the dresser drawers, the desk, pulled stuff out of the closet.”

“They take anything?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know. I saw my jewelry still on the dresser. The TV’s there, the radios.”

“How’d they get in?”

“The door seems okay. My key worked. I checked the windows. They’re locked.”

Rich fell silent.

“I don’t want to stay here tonight,” Kathryn said.

“Yeah, I understand. You want to come here?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Go back upstairs, pack some clothes and a toothbrush, and head over. I’ll be here.”

“One for dinner?” a hostess asked when Tim Stripling entered McCormick & Schmick’s on K Street N.W.

“I’ll sit in here,” he said, walking along the 65-foot bar already crowded with after-work revelers, and found a small table in that portion of the restaurant. It was still happy hour; for $1.95 he could have ordered a giant hamburger to go with the dry Rob Roy a waitress brought him. But he wasn’t in the mood for a burger. He ordered a Crab Louis salad-“Extra Russian dressing on the side,” he said-sat back, and took in the noisy scene. Conversations drifted his way along with smoke from the bar. A young man trying to impress a leggy brunette told her how important he was to his employer, the Department of Agriculture. Another man, older and sitting erect on his stool to hold in his developing paunch, told dirty jokes to two women whose laughter was more polite than authentic. The world’s oldest game was on, Stripling thought, breaking off a piece of bread. An expensive game, all those drinks, and dinner, and maybe tickets to the Kennedy Center or Blues Alley, all in the pursuit of a warm body for the night.

His “game” was also expensive, he mused as he ordered a second drink. It was good Roper had agreed to the raise. Peck had hit him up for seven hundred at lunch, and the superintendent at Marienthal’s apartment building haggled until agreeing to accept two hundred to let Stripling into the apartment. A waste of money; there was nothing of interest in the apartment. You couldn’t hit a home run every time out. Ask the men at the bar who would empty their pockets and go home alone to lick their wounded egos.

“Dessert?”

“What’s on the ice cream menu tonight?”

“Chocolate, vanilla, strawberry.”

“Whip me up a hot fudge sundae with vanilla ice cream. Add an extra scoop, huh. My sweet tooth is aching tonight. Oh, and a couple of extra cherries, too.”