Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [39]
Lucas swiveled to take in the park. Mullin and Accurso seldom spoke with him in public, preferring clandestine meetings out of the sight of others.
“Who’s he?” Lucas asked.
“Thought you might know,” Mullin said. “He’s the shooter at Union Station yesterday.”
“Oh, yeah. Read about it. Saw it on TV. Never seen him before.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah, man, I’m sure. What I read, he’s too expensive a stud to be from around here. Least that’s what the papers say.”
“Anybody around here talking about the shooting?” Accurso asked.
“Nah. Got other things to rap about, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“Yeah, we know,” Mullin said, getting to his feet and gesturing for his partner to do the same. “You hear anything, give us a call, Lucas.”
“You got something for me?” Lucas asked, again nervously surveying the park.
“We would if you had something for us,” Accurso said as he and Mullin walked away.
“Waste a time,” Mullin grumbled, loosening his tie.
“How come you always wear a tie?” Accurso asked. He wore an open-neck yellow polo shirt and slacks. A tie wasn’t required of detectives unless you were scheduled to attend some official event. Visiting Logan Circle and the northeast quadrant didn’t qualify.
“Take it off,” Accurso said, referring to Mullin’s tie.
“Waste a time,” was all Mullin said as they continued to walk through the neighborhood, which, while rundown, exhibited occasional signs of gentrification. As they passed the splendid Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, the largest Roman Catholic church in the hemisphere, Accurso glanced at Mullin, who surreptitiously blessed himself. He knew Mullin was Catholic, but had never before seen an outward manifestation of his faith.
“You hungry?” Mullin asked.
“Sure.”
They went to 12th Street, which passed for an old-fashioned Main Street, and settled at a table by the front window in Murry & Paul’s, a southern soul food fixture for years.
“What’d you do last night?” Accurso asked after they’d been served large glasses of ice water.
“Nothing. Had dinner, went home, fed the cat, and watched a little TV.”
“Where’d you have dinner?”
“What are you, keeping a diary of where I go, what I do?”
“Just curious.”
“The Jockey Club.”
Accurso shook his open hand as he said, “Ooh, fancy, fancy.”
Mullin ignored him.
“That’s some beautiful church, huh?”
“What is?”
“That Catholic church we passed. You ever been there?”
“No.” Mullin looked at the menu. “Ribs,” he said, “and slaw. You know that guy they say knew the dead guy’s name?”
Accurso looked up from his menu. “Huh?”
“That guy they said told the TV reporter he knew the victim’s name. Who the hell is he?”
Accurso shrugged. “Beats me. Ribs, I guess. And slaw.”
“I figure this guy, whoever he is, knows more than Russo’s name. You know what I mean?”
“Maybe he does. We’ll never find him unless he decides to walk in. You want a Coke?” He knew that his big, beefy partner would like a beer or something stronger.
“Yeah, I guess,” Mullin said, wishing he were alone in a dark bar.
They’d finished lunch and were on coffee when Mullin’s cell phone went off.
“Mullin.”
He listened, then flipped the phone’s cover closed.
“What’s up?” Accurso asked, laying down his half of the bill on the table. Mullin stood and tightened his tie, using his reflection in the window.
“Like I told you, Vinny,” Mullin said, heading for the door, “showing the sketch was a waste of time. They already found the shooter.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
As Mullin and Accurso left Murry & Paul’s, Tim Stripling was arriving at the FBI Building for his second meeting with the two agents with whom he’d met the previous day. They huddled in the same secure room at the rear of the building.
“So, it looks like the hunt is off for Mr. Louis Russo,” Stripling said. He’d removed his suit jacket and sat at the end of a short conference table, flanked by the agents.
“Yeah,” one said. “Somebody found him before you did.”
“If I was being paid as a bounty hunter,