Murder at Union Station (29 page)

“No,” Mullin said, “I understood what you said. But let me ask you a question.”

“Make it quick.”

“Why has it been dropped? On whose orders?”

“On
my
orders.”

“Yeah, but who told
you
to drop it?”

Leshin got up from behind the desk, went to the door, and opened it. “I’m pairing you up with Bayliss.”

“Thanks,” Mullin said, his tone indicating he meant anything but. He left Leshin’s office and returned to his desk, where his new partner, a recently promoted detective named Craig Bayliss, waited.

“Looks like you’ve drawn me,” the freckle-faced redhead said, offering a wide smile.

“What’d I do to get so lucky?” Mullin said. To his mind, the younger cop looked like Alfred E. Neuman from the old
Mad
magazine days, right down to the small void between his front teeth. Mullin picked up a folder containing the preliminary report on the shooting of Vinnie Accurso, including the description provided by witnesses. He and Bayliss would join dozens of other detectives that day with one assignment: find the assailant. Cop shot? All hands on deck.

“Want me to drive?” Bayliss asked as they walked to their assigned unmarked car.

“No. I’ll drive. And do me a favor.”

“Sure, Bret.”

“Don’t talk a lot, okay?”

Actually, Mullin’s mood had been good earlier that morning.

After failing to make contact with Rich Marienthal at his apartment building the previous evening, he’d made a fast stop at his apartment to freshen up and to change clothes in anticipation of dinner with Sasha Levine. She was in the hotel lobby when he arrived, the ubiquitous cigarette going from hand to mouth and back again. She greeted him warmly, and entered his car through the door he held open, dropping the partially finished Camel in the gutter.

“I’m really glad you could have dinner with me,” he said, joining the flow of traffic.

“It is good of you to ask me,” she said.

“You in the mood for anything special?” he asked. “Some kind of ethnic food, maybe? Middle Eastern or something like that?”

“I will be happy wherever we go,” she replied, sounding as though she meant it.

He was glad she was open to suggestions. Although he would have taken her to any restaurant that pleased her, he’d never been keen on food from other countries, except occasionally Italian and Mexican now and then. They went to The Prime Rib on K Street, where the bartenders and manager greeted him—and where he knew what would be on his plate.

Once settled in a black leather banquette, Sasha, who wore a black skirt and sweater and a red blazer with gold buttons, took in her surroundings—brass-trimmed black walls and leopard-skin carpeting, the waiters in black tie, and a tuxedoed pianist with flowing white hair playing nostalgic tunes on a glass-topped grand piano.

“I feel like part of the decor,” she said.

Mullin laughed. “Yeah, you wore the right thing,” he said. “You look great.”

“Thank you,” she said. “This must be a very expensive restaurant.”

He waved her concerns away. “No problem,” he said.

“I had upsetting news today,” she said.

“Oh? What happened?”

“A friend in Tel Aviv called. Someone broke into my apartment.”

“I’m sorry. What’d they do, steal stuff?”

“My friend doesn’t think so. Maybe it was things Louis had that they were looking for.”

Mullin nodded. “He had important stuff there, papers, money?”

“I don’t really know. He didn’t discuss his business with me.”

“So when are you taking Mr. Russo back with you to Israel?”

“Tomorrow. I have made the arrangements today with the airline and your police doctor. Tomorrow—” She fell silent and her eyes became moist.

Mullin placed his hand on hers. “Must be tough,” he said.

She shook her head and smiled. “It is life, that’s all. Louis used to say dying was the price you pay for living.”

“Sounds like he was a philosopher or something.”

“He was a much smarter man than many thought. Because he did not have a formal education and did bad things early in his life, people thought he wasn’t intelligent. But he was. I thought such things, too, when I first met him. But I came to know a gentle man who liked to read and who thought deeply about many things.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Sasha. I guess you got to know him pretty good, living with him for so many years.”

A waiter interrupted to take their drink orders.

“A glass of white Zinfandel,” she said.

“I’ll have a glass of wine, too,” said Mullin. “Red. A house red.” He turned back to her. “Sorry you couldn’t get hold of your writer friend, Marienthal,” he said.

“I tried many times. He must be away on a trip.”

“Yeah, probably.”

When the waiter returned with their drinks, they clinked the rims of their glasses.

“Hate to see you leave,” Mullin said.

“Thank you. Maybe one day I will come back.”

“That’d be good. What was this book Mr. Marienthal was writing with your—with Mr. Russo?”

She sighed deeply, picked up her wine in both hands, and sat back in the banquette.

“You don’t have to say if you don’t want to,” he said.

Another sigh, more prolonged this time. “I really don’t know much,” she said, taking a tiny sip. “When Louis decided to do the book with Rich, he told me he didn’t want me to know anything about what would be in it.”

“How come?”

“He said he wanted to protect me.”

“From what?”

She came forward and forced a smile. “It is better we don’t talk about it. What do you recommend at this restaurant?”

“Well,” he said, pleased to be asked, “I usually have the prime rib. They serve real, fresh horseradish with it, you know? Lots of people have the crab. Crab Imperial, they call it, baked in a shell with other stuff.”

“That sounds very good.”

Mullin was relieved that as the evening progressed, Sasha became more talkative, sparing him from having to carry the conversation. She spoke of her childhood in Budapest, her family and schooling, and her decision to move to Israel. Mullin was sorely tempted to order another drink, something stronger than wine this time, but successfully fought the urge. He wanted very much to impress this lady from Tel Aviv, to have her like and respect him. Getting drunk wouldn’t accomplish that.

The restaurant’s subdued lighting cast a flattering glow over Sasha, and it crossed Mullin’s mind as they ate and talked that she looked a little like his ex-wife, not so much in their features, but their coloring was certainly similar. Mullin had always been attracted to women with dusky skin and dark hair. Maybe it was the contrast with his blotchy, fair skin that appealed. Sasha’s eyes were large and almost black, her lips sensually full. She had a way of looking directly at him as she spoke, as though seeing beyond his facade into what he was thinking and feeling.

He was also wondering what had attracted her to an old former mobster, a killer and leg-breaker, living in Israel like a hunted animal, never sure whether the next passing car contained those who would avenge his traitorous act. Did it represent some character flaw in her? Or was it a middle-aged woman’s desperation—any man in a storm? He didn’t ask.

“Tell me more about this writer,” he said. “Maybe I’ll get to meet him. He lives here in D.C.?”

“Yes. Would you like his address?”

“No, I—sure. That’d be great. I’ll look him up sometime. You must have talked to him after the murder.”

“He called once. I said I would see him when I came here to claim the body. I suppose that will have to be another time.”

They sat with their own silent musings as the waiter served coffee, no dessert. Carnal thoughts came and went for Mullin, and were troubling. It had been a while since he’d been intimate with a woman, and visions of being naked with Sasha were vivid and stirring. But she was here to take home the body of a man with whom she’d lived for a long time.
Don’t make an ass of yourself.

They declined after-dinner drinks on the house, and he drove her back to the hotel.

“This was lovely,” she said as he walked her into the lobby. “I did not expect to be entertained by one of the city’s best policemen.”

“Strictly unofficial,” he said.

“Good night,” she said.

“I’ll walk you upstairs, make sure you’re safe.”

“Oh, that isn’t necessary. I—”

“No, no, I insist,” he said, taking her elbow and moving to the elevators. “There’s a lot of crime, you know, especially against women. I’d feel better knowing you’re okay.”

They rode to her floor. She unlocked the door, opened it, and flipped the light switch. He moved past her and entered the room first, glancing into the bathroom, the light of which had been left on, then moving farther inside. She watched him with admiring amusement. He was checking out the room the way the police did in the movies. Would he pull out his gun and look under the bed?

“All clear?” she asked playfully.

“What?” he said, turning to where she still stood in the empty doorway. He grinned and shrugged. “Too many years a cop,” he said. “Just wanted to make sure you’d be all right.”

“I will be fine,” she said, turning on lamps. “Living in Israel teaches you to not be afraid.”

“I guess it does,” he said, relieved that a sudden strong urge for a drink passed. “I just figured if somebody broke into your apartment back home, they might—”

“Who is
the
y
?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. See, Sasha, you’re here in Washington because your—”

“My boyfriend? My lover? Either is fine.”

Boyfriend
didn’t seem right to him for a middle-aged woman. “Yeah. Your lover comes here and got killed, so that could mean somebody might come after you, too.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Better safe than sorry,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’ll stay awhile,” he said.

“That is very kind of you,” she said. “You are a very sweet man. I am very tired. I would like to spend more time with you, but—”

“No, no,” he said, standing. “You don’t have to explain. I’m sure you’ll be just fine.” He went to the door.

“Thank you for everything,” she said, joining him there. “It was a lovely evening.”

“Glad you liked it,” he said. “Here’s my home phone number.” He handed her his card. “I’m going straight home. You call any time, any hour, you need something. Got that?”

“Yes. I’ve got that.”

“And don’t let anybody in the room.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Just keep things locked up, that’s all.”

She smiled, touched his chest, and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Good night, Detective Mr. Bret Mullin,” she said.

“Good night.”

He did as promised, went straight home. After feeding Magnum, he opened a kitchen cabinet and pulled down a half-filled bottle of vodka, put ice in a glass, and poured vodka over the cubes. But instead of drinking it, he poured it in the sink, went to the living room, switched on the TV, and turned it off again.
Just a goddamn habit,
he told himself.
Like smoking
. He wished she didn’t smoke.
Who needs another drink? Not me!

He went to bed desperately hanging on to that thought.

THIRTY-THREE

M
ullin knew that if he’d stayed up and watched television, he wouldn’t have been able to resist the vodka in the kitchen. Had he watched the tube, he would have seen news alerts flashed on every cable news station in town. CNN had the story. So did CNBC and MSNBC. But Fox News had the most to report simply because its on-air reporter, Joyce Rosenberg, knew more than her competitors.