Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [19]
He was treated nicely at this bastion of Washington society—Jackie Kennedy and Nancy Reagan had been regulars; Mrs. Reagan’s chicken salad was still on the menu—although he sensed that his arrival wasn’t always as welcome as the serving staff made it seem. The arrival of a cop at a fancy spot like the Jockey Club caused a certain unease to set in, even though he wasn’t there to hassle or arrest anyone. There were establishments that liked having cops around. They provided color with their stories of life on the streets, and if a customer threatened to act up, there was muscle to handle the situation.
But in posh places, particularly where political movers and shakers tended to gather, sanctity was threatened, especially for those whose reasons for being there weren’t exactly aboveboard. Like the old silver-haired guy in a corner booth with his arm around a thirty-odd blonde who laughed too loud and long at anything he said. Or the two men in another booth who spoke in whispers. Mullin chalked them up as a lobbyist and pol cutting a deal that would probably cost the average citizen above-average money, hopefully not worse.
He ordered a bourbon on the rocks on his way to a wine-red leather chair in the bar area, where the AC countered the fireplace glowing on this hot summer evening—form over function. When he drank during the day, it was vodka, always vodka, its relatively odorless quality a necessity. But at night, with no one to smell his breath except his cat, Magnum, it was bourbon, Wild Turkey or single barrel.
He knew the bartender, who came to the table.
“Have a good day, Bret?”
“Good day, bad day, just another day,” he said, downing the drink too quickly and holding up the glass for a refill. “How about crab cakes and some slaw?”
“You got it, Bret.”
Other customers came and went as Mullin continued to consume bourbons, nursing them more slowly as time passed, and enjoying the crab cakes for which the Jockey Club was noted. He felt the effects of the drinks and welcomed the feeling. Each drink seemed to shut a door on an unpleasant memory, and he visualized that happening in his brain. Clank! A door shut on the divorce. Clank! His rancorous relationship with his daughter walled off. Clank! The strained relationship with his superiors at MPD locked away.
Sufficiently free of painful thoughts, he paid the tab, left the bar, and got behind the wheel of his six-year-old Taurus. He knew he shouldn’t be driving, but he’d never hesitated to drive after drinking. He could handle it, he reminded himself as he pulled from the curb and headed home, where after he fed Magnum, blessed sleep would hopefully come quickly.
But it didn’t. In pajamas and slippers, and with a contented Magnum on his lap and a nightcap in hand, Mullin turned on the TV. He considered himself conservative, although his political philosophy was probably better characterized as anti-politician, no matter what the party affiliation. He turned to WTTG, Channel 5, the Fox News channel in Washington, whose right-wing slant usually suited him. He watched the evening newscast through watery eyes, his fingers kneading the cat’s fur, and fought to stay awake. Finally, acknowledging it was a hopeless battle, he gently pushed the cat to the floor and reached for the remote to turn off the set.
The TV talker’s words stopped him.
“A murder took place today at Union Station, the cold-blooded killing of an elderly visitor to Washington who was shot twice. For more on the story, we go to Joyce Rosenberg, who’s standing by at Union Station. Joyce?”
“Yes, Bernie. A murder did take place today inside the station. According to eyewitnesses, the assailant was a well-dressed light-skinned black