Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [27]
“She give much of a description?”
“No. Kind of tall, heavyset, she said. Says she only saw him for a second. Excited. But not exactly broken up. I’d love to find this guy.”
“Maybe he will come forward.”
“Depends on what his game is. And mob connection, if there is one.”
“The Italian Mafia using black hit men these days?”
“That bothered me, too, except so many of the dago mob are in jail, maybe they have to go outside.” He grunted and stood. “Well, let’s head over to Northeast and spread the sketch around to some of our more prominent citizens, like the boss wants. That’ll kill the morning, and we can grab lunch at that joint we were at last week.”
As they walked to the unmarked car assigned them this day, Mullin said, “You know what I think, Vinny?”
“What?”
“Black, white, mob, no mob, Israel, offing a guy nearly dead anyway—I think this one ain’t going to go away any time soon.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mackensie Smith returned to his office after having just taught a morning class at George Washington. He’d intended to take the summer off from teaching, but had been persuaded by his dean to offer a twice-weekly class on changes in criminal law since the imposition of stringent surveillance and detention policies brought about by the tragic events of September 11, 2001, and the ongoing terrorist threat.
The law school class was held on Tuesday and Thursday mornings at nine o’clock and was attended primarily by attorneys already in criminal practice who wanted an updated look at whatever policies the Justice Department had put into place. Teaching working attorneys—there were a few matriculated students in the course, but they were in the minority—posed a challenge for Smith. These weren’t wide-eyed young men and women aspiring to careers in the law. Rather, they were seasoned attorneys whose questions were more realistic than those of their younger counterparts.
Aside from teaching this one course, Smith was enjoying a leisurely summer with his wife, Annabel Lee-Smith, the former matrimonial lawyer who now owned a Georgetown art gallery specializing in pre-Columbian art and artifacts.
Smith had been a Washington criminal defense attorney, consistently cited in Washingtonian magazine’s annual survey of the city’s best as one of the top five criminal defense lawyers in town. As discouraging as criminal law—or more particularly, criminal clients—could be, he’d loved what he did and zealously threw himself into his practice.
But that all ended one rainy night when a drunken driver on the Beltway hit a car occupied by his wife and son, killing both. This double tragedy had profound consequences, as might be expected. His enthusiasm for practicing criminal law waned, and although his belief in the justice system remained strong, defending the criminally accused lost priority in his life. He resigned his partnership in the law firm and accepted what had been a long-standing invitation to join the prestigious faculty of George Washington University.
Annabel, too, had found fulfillment from her law practice and was considered among the first rank of matrimonial attorneys. But a parallel passion going back to her college days had always been pre-Columbian art. It remained that, a pleasant auxiliary interest until she met the handsome, cultured widower, Mackensie Smith, and fell in love with him and he with her. That’s when their lives changed forever.
Smith, slightly taller than medium, stocky and strong, and with a slowly receding hairline, had always moved in relatively lofty Washington social and political circles. He predictably had become the object of female pursuit once the requisite amount of time had passed following the deaths of his wife and son, and was occasionally seen on the arm of a woman. But he never considered another serious romantic relationship until he met Annabel.
People said she resembled the actress Rita Hayworth, although Smith wasn’t fond of the who-does-she-look-like