Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [125]
“How’s the new job?” Mac asked Marienthal.
“Good. I mean, grinding out press releases for the Department of Agriculture doesn’t represent my life’s goal, but it’ll do until I finish the new book I’m working on and it gets published. By the way, it is a novel.”
The call to fill a position in the agriculture department’s public information office had come out of the blue from one of the president’s appointees. Had destroying tapes that might have thwarted the president’s quest for a second term played a role in the job offer? Follow-up articles about Rich’s book mentioned that he’d destroyed the tapes because, as he’d been quoted, “I seriously question whether what Louis Russo claimed in my book actually happened. That’s why the tapes are gone.” He added with a chuckle, “But I still think it makes for a good read.”
Unfortunately, the negative publicity surrounding the book seriously eroded its sales. Of the 30,000 copies in the initial printing, more than half would be returned to Hobbes House for full credit or end up on remainder tables at the sale price of a dollar.
“Whatever happened to your buddy, Mr. Lowe?” Smith asked as the young couple prepared to leave.
“Last I heard, he left Senator Widmer’s staff and was going to work for some Texas congressman.”
“His choice to leave?” Annabel asked, “or was he asked to leave?”
“We don’t know,” Kathryn said. “His girlfriend, Ellen Kelly, broke up with him and left town. I’ve lost touch with her. And with Senator Widmer announcing his retirement after canceling the hearings, there wouldn’t be a job for Geoff anyway.”
“As shrewd as old Senator Widmer is, he put too much faith in Lowe where the tapes were concerned,” Smith said, helping Kathryn on with her coat. “If the subcommittee had subpoenaed the tapes, putting a torch to them like you did would have landed you in some legal hot water.”
“That’s all in your past,” Annabel offered, kissing them on the cheek as they went through the door, a paper plate of Christmas cookies nestled in Marienthal’s arms. “It’s all future for you now.”
There were many holiday parties going on in Washington on that day, including one in full swing at an Irish pub near MPD’s First District headquarters. A large banner strung across the back bar read: HAPPY RETIREMENT, BRET.
Two dozen of Bret’s colleagues and a smattering of their wives and girlfriends had joined the big, beefy detective to celebrate his leaving the force. Many of his buddies had taken full advantage of the free drinks and were on their way to a serious headache the next morning.
Mullin held a glass of ginger ale in his hand as he accepted their congratulations and a stream of wisecracks from fellow cops. Vinnie Accurso stood next to him, his arm around his former partner’s shoulder.
“Where’s Leshin?” Mullin asked. “He didn’t come.”
“He’ll be here, Bret,” Accurso said, punching Mullin on the arm. “You think the chief would miss the chance to celebrate getting rid of you?”
“I wasn’t that bad,” said Mullin, sipping his drink.
“What are you gonna do retired?” someone asked.
“I thought I’d do some traveling,” Mullin replied. “You know, see the world. My daughter wants me to come out to Colorado and spend some time with her.” He pulled a letter from his pocket that he’d received the previous week in which she suggested they spend some time together—now that he no longer drank.
“I also figured I’d go overseas,” he said. “I’ve been reading a lot about the problem in the Middle East. You know, Israelis and Palestinians killing each other. I thought maybe I’d go over and see for myself what’s going on.”
“What are you going to do, Bret, solve their problems all by yourself?”
“Yeah, maybe I will. I’ll go over there and bust heads and get them to start getting along.”
There were hoots and hollers at that, which caused him to laugh and order another ginger ale from the redheaded, freckle-faced barmaid.
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with that lady you squired around town, would it?” Accurso said into Mullin’s ear.
“What? Who? Sasha? Don’t be