Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [41]
There was a time not long ago that his working within the United States was against official policy, if not against the law. The CIA’s function was limited to foreign shores only. The FBI’s mission was restricted to within the borders of the United States. But that rule went by the wayside as terrorist threats from around the world, among other things, necessitated a blurring of the lines. The FBI began to set up bureaus in other countries, and the CIA practiced its counterespionage role in the States. September 11, 2001, cemented the change in missions. All bets were off after 9/11.
He sipped his coffee and thought of the second job he’d been asked to do, finding the so-called mystery man who was at Union Station either at the time of the shooting or shortly thereafter.
The final mission for the moment was to find out what the real agenda behind the request was.
“Like some dessert with the coffee?” the waitress asked. “Ice cream? Pie? Ice cream and pie?”
“Sure. Some vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce.” Everyone had to have a weakness, and ice cream was his. No apologies.
Now cool and his passion satisfied, he pulled from his small briefcase the cell phone given him by the FBI and a telephone book. He had his own cell but figured the FBI could pick up the charges. He found the number he was looking for and dialed it.
“Peck,” the man’s voice said after the first ring.
“Tim Stripling. How are you?”
“Good. Long time no see.”
“My fault. How are things at MPD?”
“Ah, come on. You want to get me started?”
Stripling laughed. “Wouldn’t want to do that. Up for a drink?”
“Sure. You buying?”
“Of course. You work with a Detective Mullin?”
Stripling detected a low laugh. “You buying him a drink, too?” the detective asked. “Cost you big-time.”
“No.”
“So why mention him?”
“No reason. What time do you get off?”
“Six.”
“Market Inn at six-thirty?”
“You got it.”
“You pick up anything on finding the Union Station shooter this afternoon?”
“There’s talk about it.”
“Fill me in when I see you. I’m interested.”
“How interested?”
“Very. I’ll take care of you.”
“Six-thirty it is.”
His next call was to WTTG-TV’s studios.
“Is Joyce Rosenberg there?”
“Hold on.”
“Hello. It’s Joyce.”
“Hello to you. Tim Stripling here.”
“Tim Stripling. I haven’t heard from you since you fed me that story about the cross-dressing congressman.What’s up?”
“I’m following the Union Station murder. You seem on top of it.”
“Not really. Nothing much new.”
“Tell you what,” Stripling said. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“Is this a pitch? I’m engaged.”
“Lucky guy. They found the shooter in the Union Station murder.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Very dead. Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens, off the Anacostia Freeway, Northeast. Name’s Leon LeClaire, forty-three, from New York. He’s got a French passport.”
“Okay. Thanks!”
He heard her say to someone, “Take this. The Union Station shooter. Down at Kenilworth Gardens. I’ll be with you in a second.”
“Thanks, Tim.”
“Hold on, Joyce. I get to see yours.”
“What do you want?”
“I want the big beefy guy who told you the victim’s name at the station.”
“Don’t know it.”
“Yeah, but you might have some footage, cutting-room-floor stuff, that could help. When can I come over?”
“Tomorrow. Nine.”
“See you then. Thanks.”
“Anything else?” the waitress asked.
“Thanks, no,” he said with a smile. “You make good ice cream.”
He paid his bill and left the table. On his way out, he paused to look at a display of Bo Diddley’s first homemade guitar and the bodice worn by Marilyn Monroe in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Later that night,