Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [43]
“Is it true?” she asked. “You’ve got the Union Station shooter?”
“Could be. Not sure.”
“Down there?” she asked, pointing to the crowd congregated by the Victoria amazonica lilies.
“Yeah, but it’s off-limits.”
“Give me a statement,” she said, indicating to her crew to focus on her and Mullin.
“No statement,” he muttered.
She ignored him and said to the camera, “This is Joyce Rosenberg at the Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens, where police feel they’ve solved yesterday’s Union Station murder. With me is Detective Mullin of the MPD.”
Mullin looked at her, smiled, and shook his head.
She consulted notes: “We understand the suspect’s name is Leon LeClaire, from Haiti and carrying a French passport.”
Mullin’s expression changed from bemusement to surprise. He looked quizzically at Accurso, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged.
“Shut that thing off,” Mullin ordered, indicating the camera and microphone. She gestured for the crew to comply and followed Mullin out of earshot of the others.
“Where the hell did you get that information?” he growled at her.
“A source,” she said.
“What source?”
“Oh, come on, Mullin. You know I can’t tell you that.”
“Yeah, the press and confidential sources and all that. Shield laws.” He leaned close to her face. “Did MPD leak it to you?”
She took a few steps back. “No comment,” she said, smiling. “Look, Mullin, you’ve always been square with me, and I’ve never screwed you. Level with me. I have it right, don’t I? He’s from Haiti, name is LeClaire, carries a French passport?”
Mullin nodded.
“So why would this LeClaire shoot an old Italian guy in the back of the head in Union Station?”
“I don’t know,” Mullin said. “Hey, as long as you’re asking all these questions, Ms. Rosenberg, how about answering one of mine?”
“If I can.”
“The guy who told you the name of the victim at the station, you know, the guy you mentioned on your newscast.”
“What about him?”
“Who is he?”
She laughed. “I’d love to know.”
“So would I. You got a good look at him?”
“No. Just a passing glance.”
“But you kind of know what he looks like. Right?”
“I suppose so.”
“Tell you what. How about giving a description to one of our sketch artists?”
Her laugh turned to a giggle. “Me? Give a description to a sketch artist?”
“Yeah. You see, Ms. Rosenberg, I’d like to know who he is, too. I’d like to find him.”
“Why? Why is he important?”
“Once I find him, I’ll figure that out. Game?”
“Sure. Now, am I right about the guy down there in the weeds?”
“They’re lilies.”
“Whatever.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Thanks.”
“What time can you come by headquarters tomorrow?”
She started to suggest first thing in the morning, but remembered her nine o’clock date with Tim Stripling. “The afternoon,” she said. “Around three?”
“I’ll be there.”
The medical examiner’s people carried the covered body of Leon LeClaire on a stretcher up to the parking lot and slid it into the back of their van. Two uniformed officers remained at the scene, now cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape. The WTTG crew videotaped the action while Joyce Rosenberg provided commentary. Mullin and Accurso waited until the police vehicles and the TV truck left the parking lot before getting in their own car and driving off.
“What was that about with the reporter?” Accurso asked.
“Her sources are good, Vinny.” He explained his plan to have her meet with an MPD sketch artist the next afternoon.
“You really think it’ll help find this guy?”
“Maybe, maybe not. It’s worth a shot.”
They spent what was left of the day at headquarters filling out their reports.
“Come on, I’ll buy you a drink,” Mullin said when they were finished.
“A rain check, Bret,” Accurso said, gathering his things. “Katie and I have plans this evening.”
“Yeah, sure. See you in the morning.”
Mullin stayed at headquarters after his partner departed. Aside from arranging for a sketch artist to be available the next afternoon, he accomplished little until leaving at eight, pretending to read files and make notes until it was late enough to face his loneliness. He stopped at Lauriol Plaza,