Murder at Union Station

by Margaret Truman

  “If I can.”

  “The guy who told you the name of the victim at the station, you know, the guy you mentioned on your newscast.”

  “What about him?”

  “Who is he?”

  She laughed. “I’d love to know.”

  “So would I. You got a good look at him?”

  “No. Just a passing glance.”

  “But you kind of know what he looks like. Right?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Tell you what. How about giving a description to one of our sketch artists?”

  Her laugh turned to a giggle. “Me? Give a description to a sketch artist?”

  “Yeah. You see, Ms. Rosenberg, I’d like to know who he is, too. I’d like to find him.”

  “Why? Why is he important?”

  “Once I find him, I’ll figure that out. Game?”

  “Sure. Now, am I right about the guy down there in the weeds?”

  “They’re lilies.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What time can you come by headquarters tomorrow?”

  She started to suggest first thing in the morning, but remembered her nine o’clock date with Tim Stripling. “The afternoon,” she said. “Around three?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  The medical examiner’s people carried the covered body of Leon LeClaire on a stretcher up to the parking lot and slid it into the back of their van. Two uniformed officers remained at the scene, now cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape. The WTTG crew videotaped the action while Joyce Rosenberg provided commentary. Mullin and Accurso waited until the police vehicles and the TV truck left the parking lot before getting in their own car and driving off.

  “What was that about with the reporter?” Accurso asked.

  “Her sources are good, Vinny.” He explained his plan to have her meet with an MPD sketch artist the next afternoon.

  “You really think it’ll help find this guy?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. It’s worth a shot.”

  They spent what was left of the day at headquarters filling out their reports.

  “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink,” Mullin said when they were finished.

  “A rain check, Bret,” Accurso said, gathering his things. “Katie and I have plans this evening.”

  “Yeah, sure. See you in the morning.”

  Mullin stayed at headquarters after his partner departed. Aside from arranging for a sketch artist to be available the next afternoon, he accomplished little until leaving at eight, pretending to read files and make notes until it was late enough to face his loneliness. He stopped at Lauriol Plaza, where he downed margaritas on the outdoor terrace and filled up on beef fajitas. He considered swinging by the Market Inn, where an old friend, a jazz pianist, appeared nightly, but thought better of it once he was in the car. He was too tired, aided by the alcohol, to extend the night. He went home, fed Magnum, got out of his clothes-his feet hurt, especially one on which he’d developed a painful hammertoe-and sat in his recliner, fighting to stay awake through the news on TV.

  “… MPD has verified the victim’s identity as Leon LeClaire, Haitian-born and carrying a French passport. His last known residence was New York City. Fox News has also learned that LeClaire matches the description of the man accused of being the shooter in the recent Union Station murder. And exclusive sources tell me that MPD interest in the so-called mystery man-who told this reporter at the scene of the Union Station murder the name of the victim before anyone else knew it-has intensified.”

  The camera pulled back to a wider shot; Mullin and Accurso could be seen in the background.

  “I’m Joyce Rosenberg reporting.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Had Mullin decided to stop in at the Market Inn that evening, he would have crossed paths with a detective colleague, Fred Peck, who sat with Timothy Stripling in one of the bar area’s secluded booths.

  The restaurant, beneath the freeway at 2nd and E Street, not far from the National Air and Space Museum, had been a fixture there for forty-five years, attracting a wide variety of Washingtonians-seafood lovers, jazz lovers, Supreme Court justices, and other law lovers at lunch, and those looking to extend the evening beyond the city’s early-to-bed reputation or their own. The sounds of jazz-tinged show tunes, smoothly played by Mullin’s piano-playing friend, accompanied by a bassist, wafted through the smoky bar. The anti-smoking police hadn’t invaded Washington yet, but no one doubted it wasn’t long before they did.

  Peck, a gaunt man with a prominent hooked nose and sizable bags beneath large brown eyes, and whose slightly curved spine caused him to appear to be always going forward, belonged to a small faction of the Washington MPD known as deep throats. Prior to the success of Woodward and Bernstein’s account of the Watergate affair, the group had been known as the canaries. No matter what they were called, the view of them by others on the force wasn’t benign.

  Peck had been a cop for twenty-four years. In the beginning, he’d been a respected and effective officer, with a bright future-in fact a little too bright, according to colleagues who watched him advance through the ranks faster than normal. That’s when speculation began to surface about why Fred Peck seemed to be favored over others when it came to promotions.

  No one ever developed hard evidence that Peck had become a throat, a conduit of information to MPD hierarchy and Internal Affairs about the activities of colleagues. But suspicion had always been evidence enough in the gossip-driven Washington MPD. Shoulders turned cold, comments were made, and eventually veiled threats began to surface, nothing overt, but pointed enough to send Peck scurrying to handlers up the line in search of cover. He was taken off the street and assigned desk duty in the Missing Persons Unit, his current assignment.

  While this took him out of the loop on the street, it didn’t interfere with his penchant for ingratiating himself with authorities-and profiting from it-inside the MPD and outside as well. That’s how and why Tim Stripling entered the detective’s life.

  Stripling’s primary duty while a full-time employee of the Central Intelligence Agency was to develop relationships with individuals in a wide variety of government agencies and departments, much like his overseas colleagues worked to nurture moles inside foreign governments. His budget to accomplish this was off the books; Congress would not have been happy knowing it was supporting an inherently illegal activity.

  The guidelines Stripling used to target potential candidates were the same as those used by overseas agents operating out of embassies-look for individuals with personal problems, particularly those involving money. Through various contacts within law enforcement, augmented by myriad records-credit card usage, credit reports, bank loans, and other personal financial dealings easily accessed-Stripling came up with Peck as one likely candidate.

  Peck’s wife, Helen, although known to MPD wives as being somewhat pretentious-but within acceptable limits-was a pleasant woman, a doctor’s daughter who mixed easily with other spouses. Her relationship with her husband was not as easygoing. She frequently complained to him that his salary as an MPD cop simply wasn’t sufficient to maintain the lifestyle she had once had and felt they deserved. Tired of defending himself to her, Peck decided to make an all-out effort to advance himself within the department and deliberately sought out those who could be of help. Like Stripling, with his mission to recruit moles within governmental agencies, the MPD’s hierarchy was also on the lookout for officers willing to pass along information on wrongdoing within the force. A ranking officer within Internal Affairs identified Peck as a good candidate. Although no money was paid for information, Peck found himself short-listed for promotion and soon joined the detective ranks.

  The increased salary was welcome at the Peck household. But as is often the case, the additional income was soon taken for granted and Helen’s complaints resumed. Taking a second job was out of the question for Peck; department regulati
ons prohibited it. So when a friend of his on the Capitol Hill police introduced him to a man named Timothy Stripling, who billed himself as an intelligence officer, Peck willingly listened to what Stripling was offering-a monthly fee for doing nothing more than keeping his eyes and ears open within the MPD and passing along information Stripling might require from time to time.

  It didn’t take Peck long to agree. The money was easy and steady. He wouldn’t be passing on state secrets like some traitorous spy. Whatever information he shared with Stripling would be going from one government agency to another-and in the interest of national security, as Stripling assured. Nothing wrong with being paid for being a patriot. A good deal all the way around. Helen now drove a new car, the living room sported new furniture, and Helen’s harping about money had stopped. Life was good, or at least better furnished.

  “So, Fred, you’re looking, as they say, buff,” Stripling remarked after they’d been served drinks and a platter of crisply fried calamari.

  “Healthy living,” the tall detective said, spearing calamari with a fork.

  “How’s Mrs. Peck?”

  “Fine, just fine.”

  “That’s good to hear. So, my friend, what’s new at the great police department in the sky?”

  Peck consumed another piece of calamari. “Still heads in the blue. Nothing much new, Tim. How’s life outside the Company?”

  Stripling sat back in the booth and grinned. When he’d announced to Peck and to others in similar situations that he was leaving the CIA as an employee, there was predictable concern. Did this mean the end of the gravy train? But he’d assured them that he would continue working for an intelligence service as a consultant and would still be the source for supplementary money. Their services were needed more than ever, he told them, because of the continuing terrorist threat to the country.

  “Enjoying myself,” Stripling said. “There’s something to be said for this consulting life. No daily pressures, more time to smell the roses and improve my putting game.” He came forward. “So, tell me, for example, what’s going on with the Union Station shooting.”

  Stripling always found it amusing when, after asking Peck such a question, the detective would take in his surroundings, close the gap between his face and Stripling’s, and lower his voice. Stripling had learned to widen that gap before Peck started speaking. The detective’s breath wasn’t sweet.

  “Like you said, Bret Mullin’s handling the case.”

  Stripling’s expression said And?

  Another furtive glance around the crowded bar: “He’s set up a sketch artist for tomorrow.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I talked to the artist. He’s a faygele, you know? Light in the loafers.” He adopted a swishy voice and ran a pinkie over his eyebrow. “An artiste.”

  Stripling smiled. “So who’s this sketch artist sketching? You’ve already got the Union Station shooter.”

  “He tells me-the artist tells me-Mullin tells him a reporter from Fox News is coming over to give a description of the guy who knew the name of the victim at the station.”

  “Really? She knows him?”

  Peck shrugged and sat back. “Beats me. I guess she does. You know her?”

  “Who?”

  “The reporter who’s coming over.”

  “I think so. Why is Mullin so interested in this guy?”

  “I don’t know. He’s a lush, you know. Can’t always believe him.”

  “But you’ll find out. And his name. Right?”

  “You want me to?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How come?”

  Stripling signaled for a waitress, who took an order for another round and bowls of clam chowder.

  “How come?” Peck repeated.

  “What?”

  “The guy who knew the victim. I’d like to know why I’m finding out about him. Mullin’s interest in him. Like that.”

  “It’s not important, Fred. I’d like a copy of the sketch your artist comes up with. Can do?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And I want to know everything you guys learn about him.”

  Stripling observed Peck as he sipped from his second drink. He knew what the detective was thinking. Now that he, Stripling, had indicated considerable interest in the so-called mystery man and was asking Peck to find out all he could, it took on urgency. Might warrant a bonus. What a whore, Stripling thought. That was his unstated view of everyone he’d managed to turn into informants. But it was a good thing there were plenty of them working in government agencies. Without them, he’d have been out of business a long time ago.

  “I think I can wangle a bonus for you on this one, Fred,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t argue,” Peck said with a grin.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

  It was a two-pound lobster for Peck, red snapper for Stripling, salads, and Key lime pie for the detective’s dessert.

  “Call me tomorrow, huh?” Stripling said as he placed his American Express card on the check.

  “I don’t know if I’ll know anything by then.”

  “Call me anyway. By the way, the TV reporter’s name is Rosenberg. Joyce Rosenberg. Pull up what you can on her.”

  “Okay.”

  “And let me know if you guys come up with any new information, hard information, on the victim, Russo.”

  “Okay.”

  Before they parted on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, Peck laughed and said, “Boy, Tim, this is really going to keep me busy, getting everything you want. I’ll really appreciate that bonus.”

  Stripling slapped Peck on his arm. “Hey, one thing you can never say about me is that I ask you to work cheap.”

  “It’ll be cash, huh? Not deposited in the account.”

  “Cash it’ll be. No sense cutting Uncle Sam in. You say hello to your wife, Fred. Buy her something nice on me.”

  “Will do.”

  Stripling watched Peck walk away and turn the corner. He checked his watch; it was still early. An attractive blonde, on the arm of a distinguished-looking older man, came out of the restaurant and passed him. He watched the sway of her hips as the couple went down the street, where the man held open the door of a silver Jag for her. Stripling pulled a small address book from his jacket pocket, found the number he was seeking, and dialed it.

  “Hello,” a dreamy female voice said.

  “Jane? It’s Tim Stripling.”

  “Hello, stranger. Where’ve you been?”

  “Busy. Doing God’s work.”

  “God’s work?” She giggled.

  “Got some time for me?”

  “I always have time for you, lover boy. It’s a slow night.”

  “Yeah, well, we all have to rest some time. I’ll be by in a half hour.”

  “I’ll be waiting. Bring some of God’s money with you.”

  “Oh, I will, Jane, I certainly will.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Lobster and red snapper weren’t on the menu that night at the Watergate apartment of Mac and Annabel Smith. But they all ate well. After drinks accompanied by scallops wrapped in bacon, Mac grilled marinated chicken kebabs and vegetables on a hibachi on the terrace, whipped up his signature Caesar salad, and heated bread fresh from the Watergate bakery downstairs.

  “Delicious,” Kathryn Jalick declared after her first taste of chicken. “What’s the secret to the marinade?”

  “If I told you that, Kathryn, it wouldn’t be a secret any longer,” Smith said pleasantly.

  “Spoken like a real chef,” Marienthal said.

  “Mac’s a wonderful cook, but only when the spirit strikes him,” Annabel said. “I think he secretly always wanted to own a restaurant, but knows what an insane business that can be. I prefer a college professor for a husband.” She touched his arm.

  “Actually,” Smith said, “I’ve been threatening for years to give up teaching, study cooking in Provence, and get a job in some restaurant kitchen. One of many unrequited
fantasies.”

  “Care to share them with us?” Kathryn asked.

  “Not in mixed company,” Mac said, laughing. He turned to Marienthal. “So, Rich, we’re anxious to hear the latest with your book, and your read on the murder at Union Station. The victim, Russo, served as your inspiration, as I understand it.”

  Marienthal appeared uncomfortable fielding the question. He sipped from a Belgian-style beer brewed in a Baltimore microbrewery that Smith, knowing Marienthal was a beer drinker, had bought especially for the evening. Rich looked at Kathryn, who avoided his eyes and focused on her plate.

  Realizing an answer was expected, he said, “Well, things are going okay with the book. It’s at the printer and should be out soon.”

  “What about Mr. Russo?” Annabel asked. “Had he come to Washington to meet with you?”

  “Ah, yeah, he did.”

  “You must have been in absolute shock,” said Annabel, “when you heard the news.”

  “How did you hear?” Mac asked.

  “I got a call.”

  “I thought you might have been that mystery man they mentioned on TV,” Mac said with a chuckle. “The one who supposedly blurted out Russo’s name to the TV reporter.”

  “I’d still like your marinade recipe,” Kathryn said.

  “Sure, I’ll write it out after dinner,” Mac said. To Marienthal: “Did you get to see your folks when you were up in New York?”

  “Yes, I did. Dad said to say hello.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Pretty good, I guess. He’s slowing down. Doesn’t practice much anymore.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Mac said. “Criminal law can take a lot out of you. It can be, well, almost criminal.”

  “You should know,” Kathryn said.

  “Yes, I suppose I should. I’m sure he had some comments about the murder. After all, your dad represented Russo in the plea proceedings and put you in touch with him.”

  “That’s right,” said Marienthal. “He wasn’t crazy about the idea at first, but I guess he realized how much I needed a book like this under my belt.”