“Yeah, I remember him,” the maître d’ said in response to Mullin’s question. “You say he shot somebody inside the station? Boy, he sure didn’t look like someone who just shot somebody.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was-well, he was very casual, didn’t seem in any rush. I asked if he wanted a table and he said he didn’t, but he wasn’t out of breath or anything. I mean, he didn’t run out of here. He just told me he didn’t want a table-I think he said ‘not today’-and left through those doors.” He indicated the restaurant’s main entrance leading to Massachusetts Avenue at the front of the station.
After noting what the maître d’ said and informing him he’d be asked later for a formal statement, Mullin told the two detectives to work the outside to see if anyone remembered seeing the alleged killer, and returned to the crime scene. The medical examiner was finishing up his preliminary examination.
“We ID him?” Mullin asked.
He was handed Russo’s wallet, as well as an Israeli passport. The wallet contained an Israeli driver’s license, a single Visa card, a photo of a woman posing on what appeared to be a beach, and slightly more than a hundred U.S. dollars in cash. Other travel documents included a round-trip airline ticket between Tel Aviv and Newark, with a plane change in Barcelona, Spain, and a one-way Amtrak ticket between New York ’s Penn Station and Washington ’s Union Station.
“Louis Russo?” Mullin said aloud. “That’s Italian. What’s he doing with an Israeli passport?”
Those around him didn’t have an answer.
Mullin handed the wallet and travel documents to an evidence technician and left the station, climbed in his car, and drove to First District headquarters on North Capitol Street N.W., where he sat with fellow detectives who’d been at the murder scene. They began to compare notes, speculate, joke, and put together a preliminary report.
“What do you figure the old guy was doing in D.C.?” someone asked. “Or going to do?”
“Visit family maybe,” someone else answered.
“Next of kin?”
“Back in Israel maybe,” Accurso said.
“You checked Russos in the D.C. directory?” Mullin said.
Accurso nodded. “You figure the shooter knew Russo?” he asked. “It comes off like a mob hit.”
Mullin laughed as he said, “Russo. Italiano. Maybe he’s some geriatric godfather nobody ever heard of. Or from some family the New York cops know well. Get New York on the phone.”
“Or the computer. It doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t make sense,” the youngest of the detectives said.
“What doesn’t?”
“Why some black guy would come up behind an old Italian guy named Russo, who’s here from Israel, and do him in public. The witnesses say the shooter was cool, unflustered, in no rush. A pro. So why pick Union Station? Who is Louis Russo, and why would a certified hit man want to whack him? For what? It doesn’t make sense.”
“You ever see a murder that made sense?” Mullin offered.
“Yeah, sometimes. You know, some people, well, deserve to get killed,” the young detective said. “Sometimes it’s justifiable. Justifiable homicide. That’s how they get off. Like a guy whose wife is screwing around and gets caught, and he pops her or the boyfriend. In Texas, that’s justifiable murder.”
“In Texas, that’s routine.”
Mullin glanced at Accurso, who was putting the finishing touches on their initial report. “See what you can learn by hanging around here, Vinnie?” he said, his voice mirroring his amusement. “Your wife plays around, it’s okay to pop her.”
“I didn’t necessarily mean that,” the young detective said defensively.
“You up for a drink?” Mullin asked Accurso.
“Thanks, no, Bret. Got to get home.”
“Anybody?” Mullin asked others in the room.
Heads were shaken, excuses made.
“Well, I’m packing it in. After a pop or two. See you tomorrow.”
Mullin’s apartment was in a four-story town house on California Street, between Dupont Circle and Adams-Morgan. It was too early to suffer the loneliness of the one-bedroom, perpetually untidy place he’d called home for the six years since Rosie, his wife of nineteen years, and he had called it quits, sold the house in Silver Spring, and gone their separate ways. She’d settled in a high-rise up near the National Cathedral and continued to work as a receptionist for a K Street law firm. They seldom talked unless something troublesome arose about their two kids, a son and daughter, who’d flown the coop and were doing pretty well, the girl in Denver where she worked as a personal trainer, the son a cop in a small West Virginia town. He hadn’t heard from his daughter in over a year; she blamed his drinking for the breakup of the marriage and had viciously condemned him the last time they spoke. His son kept in touch with an occasional phone call and Christmas and birthday card, but Mullin didn’t have any illusions about the depth of that relationship, either.
He was thinking of his dismal family situation when he entered the private entrance to the Jockey Club, in the Westin Fairfax hotel on Massachusetts Avenue. When it came to choosing bars, Mullin was an equal opportunity drinker. He’d been to most of them in D.C. over the years, although he had his favorites, depending upon his mood at the moment. Most nights, he opted for inexpensive neighborhood places near his apartment. But there were times when he felt expansive-or the reverse, particularly depressed, which triggered expansiveness-times when he preferred settings more genteel than the run-of-the-mill. This was one of those nights.
He was treated nicely at this bastion of Washington society-Jackie Kennedy and Nancy Reagan had been regulars; Mrs. Reagan’s chicken salad was still on the menu-although he sensed that his arrival wasn’t always as welcome as the serving staff made it seem. The arrival of a cop at a fancy spot like the Jockey Club caused a certain unease to set in, even though he wasn’t there to hassle or arrest anyone. There were establishments that liked having cops around. They provided color with their stories of life on the streets, and if a customer threatened to act up, there was muscle to handle the situation.
But in posh places, particularly where political movers and shakers tended to gather, sanctity was threatened, especially for those whose reasons for being there weren’t exactly aboveboard. Like the old silver-haired guy in a corner booth with his arm around a thirty-odd blonde who laughed too loud and long at anything he said. Or the two men in another booth who spoke in whispers. Mullin chalked them up as a lobbyist and pol cutting a deal that would probably cost the average citizen above-average money, hopefully not worse.
He ordered a bourbon on the rocks on his way to a wine-red leather chair in the bar area, where the AC countered the fireplace glowing on this hot summer evening-form over function. When he drank during the day, it was vodka, always vodka, its relatively odorless quality a necessity. But at night, with no one to smell his breath except his cat, Magnum, it was bourbon, Wild Turkey or single barrel.
He knew the bartender, who came to the table.
“Have a good day, Bret?”
“Good day, bad day, just another day,” he said, downing the drink too quickly and holding up the glass for a refill. “How about crab cakes and some slaw?”
“You got it, Bret.”
Other customers came and went as Mullin continued to consume bourbons, nursing them more slowly as time passed, and enjoying the crab cakes for which the Jockey Club was noted. He felt the effects of the drinks and welcomed the feeling. Each drink seemed to shut a door on an unpleasant memory, and he visualized that happening in his brain. Clank! A door shut on the divorce. Clank! His rancorous relationship with his daughter walled off. Clank! The strained relationship with his superiors at MPD locked away.
Sufficiently free of painful thoughts, he paid the tab, left the bar, and got behind the wheel of his six-year-old Taurus. He knew he shouldn’t be driving, but he’d never hesitated to drive after drinking. He could handle it, he reminded himself a
s he pulled from the curb and headed home, where after he fed Magnum, blessed sleep would hopefully come quickly.
But it didn’t. In pajamas and slippers, and with a contented Magnum on his lap and a nightcap in hand, Mullin turned on the TV. He considered himself conservative, although his political philosophy was probably better characterized as anti-politician, no matter what the party affiliation. He turned to WTTG, Channel 5, the Fox News channel in Washington, whose right-wing slant usually suited him. He watched the evening newscast through watery eyes, his fingers kneading the cat’s fur, and fought to stay awake. Finally, acknowledging it was a hopeless battle, he gently pushed the cat to the floor and reached for the remote to turn off the set.
The TV talker’s words stopped him.
“A murder took place today at Union Station, the cold-blooded killing of an elderly visitor to Washington who was shot twice. For more on the story, we go to Joyce Rosenberg, who’s standing by at Union Station. Joyce?”
“Yes, Bernie. A murder did take place today inside the station. According to eyewitnesses, the assailant was a well-dressed light-skinned black man who left the scene through B. Smith’s restaurant and disappeared into the crowd outside. The police originally intended to withhold the name of the elderly victim until next of kin had been notified. But while getting ready to report earlier today from in front of the station shortly after the murder had taken place, I had a brief conversation with a bystander, a young man who happened to be there. He asked me if I knew the identity of the victim. When I said I didn’t, he provided a name and quickly walked away. I reported the name to the police, and they’ve confirmed he was right. The deceased’s name is Louis Russo, who’d evidently traveled here from Israel.”
“Any further details, Joyce?”
“Not at the moment, Bernie. Back to you in the studio.”
Mullin was more awake now. Some unnamed young guy knew the name of the victim. How? Why? Was he connected with the shooting? Who is he? Where is he?
It took one more nightcap to snap off the final switch in Mullin’s mind.
ELEVEN
I can’t believe it’s happened,” Kathryn Jalick said. “My God, to be shot down like that. It’s so… so barbaric.”
Rich Marienthal didn’t respond. He was glued to the news on TV, going from channel to channel to see whether any new tidbits of information about Russo’s murder were surfacing. A follow-up report on the Fox News channel now referred to the young man, who had known the name of the victim, as the mystery man. According to the reporter, Joyce Rosenberg, the MPD was interested in finding him and was asking him to come forward.
“That’s me,” Marienthal muttered to Kathryn during a commercial. “The mystery man.”
“Why did you tell that reporter his name?” she asked, joining him on the couch.
“I don’t know. I guess I was in shock. I didn’t know for sure it was Louis-I mean, I hadn’t seen his body and nobody told me it was him. But I knew, you know? I knew it was him. Maybe I was just thinking his name and blurted it out.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I tried to reach Geoff but got voice mail on his cell. I can’t believe he hasn’t called me. Hell, he must know by now. He knows everything.”
Kathryn fell silent as the news resumed on the screen. Rich leaned intently ahead, his foot tapping on the rug, fingers rolling on his thigh. She’d seen him anxious before, but nothing like this. She understood, of course. The book he’d been writing for the past year caused him to spend a lot of time in Israel. She’d never met any of the people with whom he dealt, and Rich had never invited her on his trips. Nor could she have gone if he’d asked. His visits there were lengthy, too long for her to be away from her job at the library.
He always returned with copious notes, cassette tapes, and transcriptions from his latest interviews. They never made it home. He’d immediately deposit them in two large safety deposit boxes at the local branch of the Riggs Bank. Later, his research secure, he would take her to dinner and was not reticent about details of his travels, including personal encounters and feelings and impressions-but never anything about the book itself. The subject seemed reserved for Geoff Lowe and their frequent meetings.
“That reporter said the police want you to come forward. Will you?” She asked this with some trepidation. Rich was well aware that she disapproved of what he and Lowe had forged, and tended to snap at her whenever she voiced what she felt-that the book was one thing, the plan he spoke of to promote it another.
“What?” he said.
“Will you go to the police and tell them about Russo?”
“No.” He turned and looked at her quizzically. “Why would I do that?”
She placed a reassuring hand on his leg. “I’m just worried, that’s all,” she said. “He’s been murdered, Rich, gunned down like some rabid dog. You knew him. You’ve spent time with him. Doesn’t that concern you?”
“Kathryn, I-”
“Who shot him, Rich? Why would somebody kill him? Maybe you’re in danger.”
He waved her concerns away and sat back. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “I don’t know who killed him, but nobody’s out to shoot me. So relax, huh? Just relax.”
He was anything but relaxed. He stood, crossed the room, and looked down at the street.
“It sure screws things up,” he said without turning to her.
She came up behind and wrapped her arms around him. Now the impact of the murder on Rich had sunk in. She knew, of course, that Russo’s death had been a shock to the man she loved and that it had shaken him. When he’d returned to the car from Union Station, he’d been frazzled and pale, actually stammering as he told her what had happened inside. She’d sympathized, but simultaneously reasoned that the ramifications wouldn’t be dire. He’d already accomplished all the interviews of Russo he’d intended. The book was completed and at the publisher. Yes, he’d lost someone he’d gotten to know, and the cause of the man’s death was especially harsh, cruel, and unexpected.
But those were rationalizations. The reality was that there was much more to the story than researching and writing a book. There was Geoff Lowe.
“If I’d only been there,” Rich said. “That damned accident on the highway.”
Kathryn diplomatically refrained from again suggesting they should have left Falls Church earlier.
“I could have headed it off if I’d been there.”
“But you weren’t,” she said. “Maybe you would have been shot, too.”
“I’m going to try Geoff again,” Rich said, going to the phone on a small desk in the cluttered living room and starting to dial.
“Rich, why don’t you call Mac Smith?”
“What can he do?”
“He helped you with your publishing contract. He’s a lawyer, a smart man. Maybe he can give you some-”
“Geoff?” Marienthal said into the phone. “It’s Rich.”
Lowe took the call at Senator Widmer’s desk in his office suite in the Dirksen Senate Office Building, at First and C Streets.
He’d just come from a meeting convened by the crotchety senior senator from Alaska, a white-haired stentorian orator who’d recently celebrated his seventy-sixth birthday. Despite his advanced age, Widmer never failed to impress colleagues and staff with his seemingly boundless energy. A widower for many years, he’d made the Senate his life, his only life. The few friends who had had the privilege of visiting him at his Foggy Bottom home couldn’t help but come away surprised at its spartan furnishings and decor. It wasn’t a matter of money, they knew. Senator Karl Widmer was a wealthy man. But his lifestyle, which included many nights sleeping in his office and an abhorrence of fancy restaurants, parties, and expensive clothing, indicated something quite different. “Cheap” is what many on the Hill said behind his back. “Mean-spirited,” others said among themselves, careful to not trigger the legendary temper in the halls and on the floor of the United States Senate, one that left co
lleagues and staffers quaking.
Despite these less than sanguine personal traits, Widmer was respected and even well liked by many on the Hill. Of course, sharing his steadfast conservative views went a long way to being on his good side. He was a rock-ribbed old-line right-wing Republican who wore his disdain for liberals and their views on his sleeve. The Democratic administration now occupying the White House, led by President Adam Parmele, represented everything the senator stood against. His determination that Parmele not see a second term was pervasive, some said pathologically obsessive.
The meeting from which Geoff Lowe had just emerged lasted longer than had been allotted for in the daily schedule. Widmer’s subcommittee on intelligence had been preparing for weeks to hold a hearing on the current readiness of the Central Intelligence Agency to deal with future terrorist threats. The subcommittee’s Democratic ranking minority member and some of her Democratic colleagues had recently waged a public fight with the chairman over the choice of witnesses to appear. The ironfisted Widmer, whose epitaph would never include credit for being a great conciliator, held fast to his rule that the Republican majority would be the sole arbiter of who would be called to appear before the committee.
“A dictatorial tactic,” the ranking Democrat said on a meet-the-media Sunday morning TV news show. “Chairman Widmer seems to have forgotten that we function in a democracy.”
Widmer, who seldom spoke with reporters, particularly television reporters, issued a written statement through his press secretary: “The Democrats would like to whitewash the inadequacies of the CIA. The truth is, that agency has been weakened by the Democratic administration of President Parmele and his unwillingness to stand up for a strong and effective intelligence effort, even though this nation is faced with continuing and evolving terrorist activities against its citizens. The people my Democratic counterparts on the committee want to parade before us represent nothing other than business as usual, and I will not waste the committee’s time, nor that of the American people, with such a transparent ploy.”
Murder at Union Station Page 5
