Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [40]
When there was no response, he said, “Any word on who did the deed? I read his description in the papers, saw it on TV.”
The agent to Stripling’s left consulted a paper on the table in front of him, and read from it in a monotone.
“Leon LeClaire. Age forty-three. Residence listed as New York City. Born in Haiti, French passport.”
Stripling’s eyebrows lifted. “You’ve nailed him?”
“Somebody did. Literally. They discovered his body down in Kenilworth Gardens. We just got the word.”
“A positive ID?”
“That’s what we hear. We thought you’d get some info for us.”
Stripling chuckled. “Why me?” he asked. “You’re the fabled Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
His comment was confrontational, but he didn’t care. Stripling had always been distrustful of the FBI, having spent a good part of his professional life in the culture of the CIA, where the view of the Bureau was inherently less than positive. Now, as an independent operator, he was free to express what he felt without fear of retribution. But Mark Roper’s words came back to him: “Be cooperative.”
The agents ignored his remark. One said, “The case is being handled at MPD by a detective named Mullin. Bret Mullin. They should be at the scene now. Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens, off the Anacostia Freeway, Northeast.”
“I’ve been there,” Stripling said. “Nice place. An ex-girlfriend was a plant freak, loved the water lilies at Kenilworth.”
“That’s nice to hear,” an agent said.
The dig wasn’t lost on Stripling. “So,” he said, “just what is it you want me to find out?”
“Information about how the investigation is going.”
“The MPD investigation?”
“That’s right.”
Stripling shook his head and flashed a smile. “I know I’m going to get the same answer I got last time, but I’m asking anyway. Why have me keep tabs on what MPD is doing? Hell, you guys work with them all the time.”
“They’re not always—well, as cooperative as we’d like them to be.”
“Okay,” Stripling said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good. And while you’re at it, see what you can find out about this so-called mystery man who blurted out Russo’s name to a TV reporter.”
“I saw that on TV,” Stripling said.
“We’d like to know who he is.”
“That won’t be easy.”
“Which is why they want you to do it.”
They. There was no sense asking who they were, so Stripling didn’t bother. “Anything else?” Stripling asked.
“No. We’ll keep in touch on the cell phone we gave you.”
“Okay,” Stripling said, standing and slipping on his jacket. He went to the door, turned, and asked, “What do I do if I find this mystery man? Who do I tell?”
“Let your control at the Company know you have something you want to tell us. We’ll call and set up a meeting.”
Stripling looked at him. A retired CIA agent with a control? The FBI guy was just rubbing it in. He held the man’s eyes for a long moment, then left the room and the building and walked to a Hard Rock Café at Tenth and E Streets, relatively quiet at mid-afternoon. He took a table and ordered an iced coffee from the waitress, removed his jacket to allow the AC to reach him, and thought back to the meeting.
It was never easy discerning the true meaning behind what anyone in government said or did. When the agenda said peace, it very often meant war. There were more hidden agendas in official Washington than there were bureaucrats; the challenge was to get beyond the words to figure out what was really going on.
Keep tabs on MPD’s investigation of the Russo murder and the subsequent killing of Russo’s assassin? That wouldn’t be difficult. He’d cultivated contacts within the MPD during his stint at the CIA and could call upon them. Of course, no longer being officially connected might make this a little more difficult, but he doubted it. There were always people in every organization who got a vicarious kick out of hobnobbing with spooks, even with men like Stripling, who’d spent most of his career identifying and nurturing moles within America’s institutions, as opposed to the more swashbuckling overseas