Applause and whistles interrupted.
“-and I admit it. I married up and got myself more than the most wonderful wife any man has the right to deserve. This great nation of ours has the best first lady in its long history!”
And so it went.
First lady Cathleen Parmele addressed the crowd after her husband. She kept her remarks brief, saying only that it was a privilege and honor to represent the American people in the White House and adding the requisite tagline: “I am looking forward to being at my husband’s side as he leads our nation for another four years. God bless you. God bless America!”
One of Parmele’s aides, who’d been standing close to the president, looked to where Fletcher stood. The political adviser indicated with a nod of the head to get Parmele and the first lady off the stage and to the limo.
A fat raindrop hit Fletcher’s nose, and he absently wiped it away. He was about to leave the area when a Washington Post reporter covering the president’s trip came to Robin Whitson’s side and said something in her ear.
“Let’s go,” Fletcher said.
Robin held up a hand. “In a minute, Chet.”
Fletcher’s frown matched the press secretary’s. What’s going on? his expression asked. We have a schedule to keep.
The press secretary walked with the reporter to a secluded pocket away from others’ hearing.
The first couple passed; Havran and Brown fell in behind them. Fletcher stayed where he was, his attention never leaving the press secretary and the reporter.
“Where’s Chet?” Parmele asked when he reached his limo.
“With Robin,” Havran said.
Robin Whitson finished her furtive conversation with the Post reporter and joined Fletcher.
“What was that about?” he asked as they headed for the waiting cars, heads lowered against a steady rain.
“You tell me, Chet,” she replied.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning-what’s going on with the Widmer hearings?”
“That’s what he wanted to know?”
“Yes.”
“Why doesn’t he ask Widmer?”
“He tried. Widmer’s staff is treating the hearings as top secret. What’s with this book, Chet?”
“Book?”
“About the chief. He even asked me about the man who was killed in Union Station.”
“Not now, Robin.”
“Not now? Look, Chet, I’m supposed to be kept in the loop. I don’t like being blindsided by a reporter.”
“Not now!”
Fletcher climbed into his car where Havran and Brown were already seated.
“Went well,” Brown commented.
Fletcher said nothing.
“A problem?” Havran asked.
“What? No, no problem.”
Later, airborne and halfway back to Washington, Fletcher huddled with the president in his private office at the front of the aircraft. When he emerged and headed down the aisle toward the rear, he came face-to-face with Robin Whitson. Her expression was one large question mark.
“Don’t worry about anything, Robin,” Fletcher whispered. “Everything is taken care of. There is no problem.”
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.”<
br />
“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.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Bret Mullin awoke that same morning with a hangover. He often boasted about never suffering them, no matter how much he’d consumed the night before-no frayed nerves, dry mouth, and pulsating headache. “Something in the Mullin genes,” he liked to say.
But like an inveterate gambler who always claims to be ahead in his wagers, Mullin wasn’t being entirely truthful. As he’d grown older, his ability to handle the juice had diminished, and hangovers, to a greater or lesser degree, were no longer alien.
He considered calling in sick but didn’t. He’d already used up his yearly allotment of sick days, and it was only July. After two glasses of milk to help quell the fire in his stomach and a cup of black coffee to stoke the flames again, he slumped against the tile shower wall and allowed warm water to flow over him, gradually increasing the amount of cold water in the mix until it became uncomfortable. He dried himself and stood before the bathroom mirror. “Jesus,” he muttered at his mirror image. His eyes were red, the flesh around them swollen and puffy. He started to shave but abruptly stopped. His hand was shaking, and he was afraid he’d cut himself. He went to the kitchen and poured what was left in a vodka bottle into a glass, added a splash of orange juice, and downed it. Drinking in the morning was relatively new, and he wasn’t pleased that it had come to this, but it was either take a couple of shots to calm his nerves or go to work shaking.
He finished his bathroom ablutions, dressed in yesterday’s suit but chose a clean shirt and different tie, and looked out the window. Another nasty hot humid day. Magnum rubbed against his legs, and he bent to ruffle the cat’s fur behind its neck. “Hey, baby, you stay here and guard the joint,” he said. “Keep the bad guys out.” He straightened up painfully, left the apartment, and drove to headquarters, where Vinnie Accurso had already arrived.
“Check this out,” Accurso said, handing Mullin a printout of the initial forensic examination of the bullets from the gun found on the body in Kenilworth Gardens. “Perfect match with the ones that took down Russo at Union Station.”
Mullin grunted and dropped the report on his desk. “No surprise, huh?” he said.
“Another case closed by D.C.’s finest,” said Accurso.
“The hell it is,” Mullin said.
“What?”
“Sure, we’ve got the shooter cold. But why did he shoot the old man? And who shot him?”
A young detective sitting nearby chimed in: “A mob hit, Bret. Just that simple. And the shooter gets shot to keep his mouth shut.”
Mullin said nothing.
“What are you thinking, Bret, that this so-called mystery man who knew Russo’s name before anybody else did might know why it happened?” his partner asked.
“Yeah, of course, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.”
“What guy are you talking about?” the young detective asked.
“Nothing,” Mullin said.
Mullin’s phone sounded and he picked up the receiver. “Yeah, all right,” he said, hanging up. To Accurso: “We’ve been summoned.”
“God?”
“Yeah.”
They were about to leave for the office of the chief of detectives when Fred Peck came to where they sat. “How’s it going?” he asked.
“Fine, Fred,” Accurso replied.
“You guys caught a break with the station shooter, huh?” Peck said.
Mullin and Accurso looked at him blankly.
“The forensics match on the bullets,” Peck said. “Hey, by the way, I see we’re trying to locate that guy who knew the victim at the station. You working that?”
“What guy?” Mullin asked.
“The one who said his name right after the shooting. Heard on TV that we’re looking for him.”
“We wouldn’t know about that, Fred,” Accurso said. “Excuse us. God wants to give us commendations and a promotion.”
“He does? For what?”
Mullin and Accurso walked away, leaving Peck staring after them. When they were gone, he went to an office on another floor where one of the department’s sketch artists was interviewing a witness to a shooting the night before, showing her cards on which a variety of facial features were displayed. “A chin like this one?” he asked her.
She shook her head.
The artist noticed Peck in the open doorway. “Excuse me,” he told the woman and followed Peck into the hall.
“Sorry to bother you,” Peck said, “but I know you’re doing a sketch this afternoon with that TV reporter.”
“That’s right,” said the artist. “Mullin set it up.”
“I know, I know. I was just talking to Bret and Vinnie about it. I’ll need a copy of what you come up with.”
“Sure. No problem. You working that, too?”
Peck patted the artist on the shoulder. “Thanks. Drop it by my office when you’re done.”
Mullin and Accurso took chairs across the desk from the chief of detectives, Philip Leshin. Leshin was as big as Mullin, but in a different way. While Mullin’s body had gone soft, Leshin had kept in shape. He neither drank nor smoked and was a regular at a gym close to headquarters. His shaved head glistened in light from overhead fixtures; a heavy five o’clock shadow was already evident.
“What’s up, Phil?” Mullin asked.
“You tell me,” Leshin said. He was in shirtsleeves. His tie was wide and colorful, like his suspenders.
“Tell you about what?” Mullin asked. He realized his hands were trembling and kept his fingers laced together on his lap.
“This TV reporter, Rosenberg. Fox News. She says on the air that we’re trying to find the guy from the station shooting.”
“Yeah, she’s right,” Mullin said.
“You know we’ve got the shooter. Bullets match.”
“Right,” Accurso said.
Mullin said, “I think this guy we’re looking for can fill in the blanks, Phil, maybe tell us why the old guy was gunned down.”
“That may be, but how come Fox News knows about it? You been talking to somebody over there?”
“No,” Mullin said, motioning with his hands for emphasis, then quickly linking them again.
“You and Vinnie were in the reporter’s piece last night. In the background.”
“Sure we were,” Accurso said. “We were there at the gardens.”
“We did the interviews with the couple that found the body. Others, too.”
Leshin stared at Mullin, who twisted in his chair.
“That’s it, huh?” Leshin said. “You just happened to be standing there when she did her report.”
Mullin and Accurso nodded in unison.
Leshin leaned back as far as his chair would allow and placed his hands behind his head. A small, satisfied smile crossed his lips. He said, “If that’s true, then why is that TV reporter coming here this afternoon to give a description to a sketch artist?”
Mullin’s shrug was exaggerated. He moved his head left and right, changed position again in his chair, and said, “Because I think that’s the way to go, Phil.”
He didn’t express what he was really thinking: Who told you about it?
“You don’t agree?” Accurso asked their boss.
“It’s okay with me as long as it doesn’t eat up much of your time. What’s not okay with me is talking to the media-about anything! That’s what we have Public Affairs for.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Mullin said, wiping beads of perspiration from his upper lip.
Murder at Union Station Page 13
