“So he goes to Israel. We have a deal with them, too?”
A shrug from Mullin. “Why knows? Maybe. You read the last paragraph?”
Accurso again looked at the report. “They lost interest in Russo,” he said. “Looks like the FBI had other things to worry about.”
“I love the way they describe it,” Mullin said, taking the paper from Accurso and reading aloud from it: “‘Operational contact with subject made low priority. Subject firmly settled in Tel Aviv with Jewish female companion. Age and deteriorating health render subject unlikely to leave the country.’”
“They got that wrong,” said Accurso.
“Big-time. So, Vinny, what was Mr. Louis Russo doing here in D.C.?”
“Playing tourist?”
“Look at this list of what he was carrying. Enough pills to stock a pharmacy. A doc’s name over at GW hospital. A medical history. Hell, judging from that, he was damn near dead already when he got it.”
“They contact this woman he was with in Israel?”
“Yeah. I don’t know whether they reached her yet. You watch TV news last night?”
“No, Katie and I watched one of those reality shows.”
“This place isn’t real enough for you?”
“Stupid show.”
“They all are. Sometimes reality is, too. I watched the news. Fox had this gal reporter who was at the station right after the shooting. She says some young guy asked about the victim. When she said she didn’t know, he blurts out the name.”
“Russo? Louis Russo?”
“That’s what she says.”
“We talk to her?”
“Eldridge did. She put out on the tube last night we want him to come forward. So how come this young guy knows the victim is Russo? Who the hell is he?”
“She give much of a description?”
“No. Kind of tall, heavyset, she said. Says she only saw him for a second. Excited. But not exactly broken up. I’d love to find this guy.”
“Maybe he will come forward.”
“Depends on what his game is. And mob connection, if there is one.”
“The Italian Mafia using black hit men these days?”
“That bothered me, too, except so many of the dago mob are in jail, maybe they have to go outside.” He grunted and stood. “Well, let’s head over to Northeast and spread the sketch around to some of our more prominent citizens, like the boss wants. That’ll kill the morning, and we can grab lunch at that joint we were at last week.”
As they walked to the unmarked car assigned them this day, Mullin said, “You know what I think, Vinny?”
“What?”
“Black, white, mob, no mob, Israel, offing a guy nearly dead anyway-I think this one ain’t going to go away any time soon.”
FOURTEEN
Mackensie Smith returned to his office after having just taught a morning class at George Washington. He’d intended to take the summer off from teaching, but had been persuaded by his dean to offer a twice-weekly class on changes in criminal law since the imposition of stringent surveillance and detention policies brought about by the tragic events of September 11, 2001, and the ongoing terrorist threat.
The law school class was held on Tuesday and Thursday mornings at nine o’clock and was attended primarily by attorneys already in criminal practice who wanted an updated look at whatever policies the Justice Department had put into place. Teaching working attorneys-there were a few matriculated students in the course, but they were in the minority-posed a challenge for Smith. These weren’t wide-eyed young men and women aspiring to careers in the law. Rather, they were seasoned attorneys whose questions were more realistic than those of their younger counterparts.
Aside from teaching this one course, Smith was enjoying a leisurely summer with his wife, Annabel Lee-Smith, the former matrimonial lawyer who now owned a Georgetown art gallery specializing in pre-Columbian art and artifacts.
Smith had been a Washington criminal defense attorney, consistently cited in Washingtonian magazine’s annual survey of the city’s best as one of the top five criminal defense lawyers in town. As discouraging as criminal law-or more particularly, criminal clients-could be, he’d loved what he did and zealously threw himself into his practice.
But that all ended one rainy night when a drunken driver on the Beltway hit a car occupied by his wife and son, killing both. This double tragedy had profound consequences, as might be expected. His enthusiasm for practicing criminal law waned, and although his belief in the justice system remained strong, defending the criminally accused lost priority in his life. He resigned his partnership in the law firm and accepted what had been a long-standing invitation to join the prestigious faculty of George Washington University.
Annabel, too, had found fulfillment from her law practice and was considered among the first rank of matrimonial attorneys. But a parallel passion going back to her college days had always been pre-Columbian art. It remained that, a pleasant auxiliary interest until she met the handsome, cultured widower, Mackensie Smith, and fell in love with him and he with her. That’s when their lives changed forever.
Smith, slightly taller than medium, stocky and strong, and with a slowly receding hairline, had always moved in relatively lofty Washington social and political circles. He predictably had become the object of female pursuit once the requisite amount of time had passed following the deaths of his wife and son, and was occasionally seen on the arm of a woman. But he never considered another serious romantic relationship until he met Annabel.
People said she resembled the actress Rita Hayworth, although Smith wasn’t fond of the who-does-she-look-like game. Besides, as far as he was concerned, Annabel Lee was more beautiful than any movie actress, past or present. She was almost his height, even could be as tall as he was depending upon the shoes she wore and how she arranged her mane of auburn hair. Peaches and cream was not a cliché when it came to describing her skin. Her eyes were large, oval, and very green.
They’d met at an embassy party and began seeing each other regularly. He was surprised that she’d never married; it certainly wasn’t for a lack of suitors. She’d just never met a man she was willing to commit to.
Mac Smith was that man, and he considered himself fortunate that she’d accepted his proposal and become Annabel Lee-Smith. Over the course of their courtship, they’d discussed their dreams and aspirations, and when they decided to alter their professional lives, their support for each other was mutual and total.
They were married in a small chapel at the National Cathedral and set out on their new life as husband and wife, a handsome couple to be sure, and much in demand. But they’d agreed to be judicious in accepting invitations to preserve as much time as possible for their own use and to enjoy their love. When they were not really together, Annabel worked at making her gallery a success and Mac taught his eager students, as well as lending his considerable legal experience to friends in need of informal counsel.
All in all, though life was not without a few bumps, Mr. and Mrs. Mackensie Smith were quite contented, thank you, ensconced in their spacious Watergate apartment with its stunning sunset views of the Potomac River, serving as “parents” to their great blue Dane, Rufus, and looking forward to many happy years together.
Mac spent an hour in his campus office sorting through paperwork and catching up on reading or speed-scanning professional journals. At eleven-thirty, he picked up the phone and dialed a local number.
“Kathryn? It’s Mac Smith.”
“Oh, hi, Mr. Smith,” Kathryn Jalick said, surprise at who was calling evident in her voice.
Smith laughed. “It’s Mac, remember. ‘Mr. Smith’ makes me feel ancient.”
“I know,” she said. “Sorry.”
“Is Rich there?”
“No… Mac. He’s gone to New York.”
“Editorial meeting?”
“I guess so. Yes, he has a session with his editor. Be back later tonight.”
�
�And how have you been?”
“Busy as usual. I have the day off from the library and I’m trying to catch up on housework. The place looks like a tornado hit it. And my mind matches the decor these days.”
“Well,” Smith said, “I just wanted to check in and see how the scribe’s book is coming along.”
“You’re talking to the wrong person, Mac. Rich has been on the go so much lately we never seem to have time to just sit down and catch up with each other.”
“I know how that can be, Kathryn. Looking forward to seeing you two tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“You haven’t forgotten, have you? Dinner at our place. I get to play chef and bartender.”
“Oh, no, I haven’t forgotten. We’re looking forward to it. I have to run, Mac. Thanks for calling. See you tomorrow.”
Smith frowned at the dead phone. He didn’t know Kathryn Jalick well, having met her only a few times when she’d accompanied Rich to the Smiths’ apartment, where Mac went over the publishing contract a New York publisher had tendered for the book Rich was writing. She sounded distracted. But maybe that was her usual telephone style.
He called Annabel at the gallery.
“How goes it?” he asked.
“Okay,” she replied. “You?”
“Good class. I just spoke with Kathryn Jalick.”
“Oh? How is she?”
“Fine. Sounded distracted. I think she and Rich forgot about dinner tomorrow night.”
“Good thing you called. They are coming?”
“Yes. He’s in New York today meeting with his publisher, back tonight. Up for lunch?”
“Sure.”
“Druthers?”
“Whatever restaurant has the best air-conditioning. The unit here at the gallery is on its last legs. It’s been groaning all morning.”
“Does Zagat rate restaurants on their AC?”
She laughed and said, “Wouldn’t be a bad idea here in Washington. Paolo’s? An hour?”
“I’ll be there. If their AC’s down, we’ll eat at home, maybe even linger a while.”
“I sense a proposition.”
“That’s one of many things I love about you, Annabel. You’re very astute. With any luck, birds have nested in Paolo’s air-conditioning and it’s on the fritz. As a matter of fact, let’s assume that. The apartment in an hour?”
“Forty-five minutes, Smith. Don’t be late.”
FIFTEEN
Tim Stripling, ex-CIA, sat at the desk in his home. On the desk were articles about the Russo murder he’d clipped from newspapers, and a yellow legal pad on which he’d written notes from a call he’d made to New York shortly after leaving his meeting with FBI agents. He’d expected the call to be picked up by a recorded electronic voice. Instead, the ringing stopped when a woman said, “Detective Tresh.”
“Hello, Detective. My name is Stripling, Timothy Stripling. Liberty Press. I was told to call you about Louis Russo.”
“Hold on.”
Detective Tresh came back on the line and read from a prepared script: “Louis Russo. Born 1932 New York City. Father, Nicholas, Italian. Mother, Lillian, Jewish. Five siblings. Joined Gambino family 1947, age fifteen. Loan-sharking, numbers collection, prostitution, enforcement, drug trafficking. Six known murders, first in 1953, age twenty-one. Mid-level soldier in family. Four arrests, three indictments. Arrested on drug charges 1990. Turned informant 1991, age fifty-nine. Testified in RICO trial 1991. Witness protection program 1991. Federal Bureau of Investigation handling. Wife, Anna, deceased 1989. No known children. Year in Mexico under bilateral agreement with Mexican government. Relocated Israel 1993. There since. Cohabitation with Sasha Levine, Jewish, current age fifty-five, residence Tel Aviv. Priority level low.”
Stripling heard silence.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Negative.”
“Thanks.”
The line went dead.
That conversation took place before Russo was killed at Union Station and before Stripling knew of the murder. Now that the man he was supposed to find was dead, the information he’d received from Detective Tresh was meaningless, albeit interesting. The old mafioso probably had been caught in a drug sting in 1990 and squeezed to cooperate with the feds. Dealing in narcotics after years of forbidding it had brought down more than one mobster. Russo had violated the oath of omertà, of silence, and paid the ultimate price thirteen years later. The Mafia’s memory was long and unforgiving.
That series of thoughts was interrupted by the phone’s ringing.
“Hello?”
“Timothy, my friend. It’s Mark.”
Stripling’s former boss at the CIA, Mark Roper, was fond of referring to people as “my friend” or “old buddy.” Stripling learned long ago that when he was on the receiving end of such platitudes, it was reason to be wary.
“Hello, Mark.”
“Everything well with you?”
“Yes. You?”
Roper sighed. “Quite well, despite our valiant members of Congress considering themselves experts on intelligence. I’ve finally come to the conclusion that the House truly represents America-wife beaters, drunks, lawyers, doctors, flimflam artists, born-agains, atheists, pillars of their communities, and absolute rogues. Enough of that. I hear your meeting with our friends went well.”
“Didn’t amount to much.”
“So I read. The fellow you were interested in is no longer.”
“If you mean he’s dead, you’re right.”
“But that doesn’t mean you’re dead.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning they still want you on the case. Two o’clock, same place.”
“To do what?”
“They’ll explain. Mind a suggestion?”
“I probably will, but go ahead anyway.”
“Be cooperative.”
Stripling laughed. “I have always been the model of cooperation, Mark.”
“A very poor model at times. This is important, Tim.”
“To you?”
“To others more important than me.”
Stripling resisted correcting his grammar.
“I hate to be crass, Mark,” Stripling said, “but you never have told me what I’m being paid.”
“Five hundred a day and expenses. It will show up in your checking account.”
“Make it seven-fifty.”
“Five hundred. Please, Tim, cooperate.”
“Thought I’d try.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
“I’m sure you will.”
Stripling hung up and again read the information he’d received from the detective in New York and the newspaper clips on the Russo murder. Why the continuing focus on this old guy? Stripling’s initial assumption that the murder was a mob hit was now a little shaky. He was to meet with the FBI agents again. Surely, having someone killed who’d been in the witness protection program for thirteen years couldn’t be the reason for the Bureau’s sustaining interest. And why bring him, Timothy Stripling, into it? The Bureau had plenty of ex-agents looking to freelance.
He made himself a salad from leftover chicken, did a half hour of light stretching exercises, took the two handguns from where they were secured in a safe inside a bedroom closet and checked them, almost a daily, obsessive ritual, returned the weapons to the safe, and stepped out into the bright, hot sunlight.
Five hundred a day, he thought as he looked for a taxi to take him to FBI headquarters. It would do, at least for the moment. But money aside, he now had another reason for playing along. He wanted to know who this Louis Russo really was and why he was here, and why both the FBI and CIA wanted the answer, too. One thing was certain in his mind. Their interest reflected that of someone high up the chain, very high.
SIXTEEN
Marienthal’s Delta shuttle flight to New York was delayed by thunderstorms that moved through Reagan National Airport that morning. He arrived at La Guardia almost a full hour la
ter than planned and took a taxi into the city, where he was left off in front of an office building on Park Avenue South. He checked his watch; he still had fifteen minutes before his scheduled meeting and used it to grab a coffee and Danish at a luncheonette next door. Fortified, he entered the lobby, took the first available elevator, and rode to the ninth floor, where the offices of the publishing company, Hobbes, were located.
“I’m Rich Marienthal,” he told the young, moonfaced blonde receptionist. “I have an appointment with Sam Greenleaf.”
“Have a seat,” she said pleasantly. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Marienthal browsed a recent issue of People until Greenleaf appeared. “Hello, Rich,” he said, crossing the reception area and shaking hands. “Come on in.”
Greenleaf, Hobbes House’s managing editor, was a large man in all ways-head, face, body, and hands. Sporting an unkempt reddish beard, he wore brown corduroy slacks, well-worn space shoes that showed the result of supporting excess weight for too long, and a checked shirt undoubtedly bought through a big-and-tall-man catalogue. He led Marienthal to a sizable office as disorganized as his personal appearance, moved files from a chair in front of a desk overflowing with books and papers, and invited Marienthal to sit. Photographs dangled crookedly on the walls. A window in need of washing reluctantly allowed gray light into the room. The powdery remains of crumb cake were scattered on a piece of foil on the desk.
“Good trip?” he asked.
“Delayed. Weather in D.C. But I’m here.”
“Good, good. Coffee?”
“Just had some.”
Greenleaf used the phone on his desk to ask someone to fetch him a cup, sat back, and shook his head. “Couldn’t believe the news when you called me,” he said. “Incredible. Who the hell could ever have forecast such a thing?”
Murder at Union Station Page 7
