Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [45]
Peck’s wife, Helen, although known to MPD wives as being somewhat pretentious—but within acceptable limits—was a pleasant woman, a doctor’s daughter who mixed easily with other spouses. Her relationship with her husband was not as easygoing. She frequently complained to him that his salary as an MPD cop simply wasn’t sufficient to maintain the lifestyle she had once had and felt they deserved. Tired of defending himself to her, Peck decided to make an all-out effort to advance himself within the department and deliberately sought out those who could be of help. Like Stripling, with his mission to recruit moles within governmental agencies, the MPD’s hierarchy was also on the lookout for officers willing to pass along information on wrongdoing within the force. A ranking officer within Internal Affairs identified Peck as a good candidate. Although no money was paid for information, Peck found himself short-listed for promotion and soon joined the detective ranks.
The increased salary was welcome at the Peck household. But as is often the case, the additional income was soon taken for granted and Helen’s complaints resumed. Taking a second job was out of the question for Peck; department regulations prohibited it. So when a friend of his on the Capitol Hill police introduced him to a man named Timothy Stripling, who billed himself as an intelligence officer, Peck willingly listened to what Stripling was offering—a monthly fee for doing nothing more than keeping his eyes and ears open within the MPD and passing along information Stripling might require from time to time.
It didn’t take Peck long to agree. The money was easy and steady. He wouldn’t be passing on state secrets like some traitorous spy. Whatever information he shared with Stripling would be going from one government agency to another—and in the interest of national security, as Stripling assured. Nothing wrong with being paid for being a patriot. A good deal all the way around. Helen now drove a new car, the living room sported new furniture, and Helen’s harping about money had stopped. Life was good, or at least better furnished.
“So, Fred, you’re looking, as they say, buff,” Stripling remarked after they’d been served drinks and a platter of crisply fried calamari.
“Healthy living,” the tall detective said, spearing calamari with a fork.
“How’s Mrs. Peck?”
“Fine, just fine.”
“That’s good to hear. So, my friend, what’s new at the great police department in the sky?”
Peck consumed another piece of calamari. “Still heads in the blue. Nothing much new, Tim. How’s life outside the Company?”
Stripling sat back in the booth and grinned. When he’d announced to Peck and to others in similar situations that he was leaving the CIA as an employee, there was predictable concern. Did this mean the end of the gravy train? But he’d assured them that he would continue working for an intelligence service as a consultant and would still be the source for supplementary money. Their services were needed more than ever, he told them, because of the continuing terrorist threat to the country.
“Enjoying myself,” Stripling said. “There’s something to be said for this consulting life. No daily pressures, more time to smell the roses and improve my putting game.” He came forward. “So, tell me, for example, what’s going on with the Union Station shooting.”
Stripling always found it amusing when, after asking Peck such a question, the detective would take in his surroundings, close the gap between his face and Stripling’s, and lower his voice. Stripling had learned to widen that gap before Peck started speaking. The detective’s breath wasn’t sweet.
“Like you said, Bret Mullin’s handling the case.”
Stripling’s expression