Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [46]
Another furtive glance around the crowded bar: “He’s set up a sketch artist for tomorrow.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I talked to the artist. He’s a faygele, you know? Light in the loafers.” He adopted a swishy voice and ran a pinkie over his eyebrow. “An artiste.”
Stripling smiled. “So who’s this sketch artist sketching? You’ve already got the Union Station shooter.”
“He tells me—the artist tells me—Mullin tells him a reporter from Fox News is coming over to give a description of the guy who knew the name of the victim at the station.”
“Really? She knows him?”
Peck shrugged and sat back. “Beats me. I guess she does. You know her?”
“Who?”
“The reporter who’s coming over.”
“I think so. Why is Mullin so interested in this guy?”
“I don’t know. He’s a lush, you know. Can’t always believe him.”
“But you’ll find out. And his name. Right?”
“You want me to?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How come?”
Stripling signaled for a waitress, who took an order for another round and bowls of clam chowder.
“How come?” Peck repeated.
“What?”
“The guy who knew the victim. I’d like to know why I’m finding out about him. Mullin’s interest in him. Like that.”
“It’s not important, Fred. I’d like a copy of the sketch your artist comes up with. Can do?”
“I suppose so.”
“And I want to know everything you guys learn about him.”
Stripling observed Peck as he sipped from his second drink. He knew what the detective was thinking. Now that he, Stripling, had indicated considerable interest in the so-called mystery man and was asking Peck to find out all he could, it took on urgency. Might warrant a bonus. What a whore, Stripling thought. That was his unstated view of everyone he’d managed to turn into informants. But it was a good thing there were plenty of them working in government agencies. Without them, he’d have been out of business a long time ago.
“I think I can wangle a bonus for you on this one, Fred,” he said.
“I wouldn’t argue,” Peck said with a grin.
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”
It was a two-pound lobster for Peck, red snapper for Stripling, salads, and Key lime pie for the detective’s dessert.
“Call me tomorrow, huh?” Stripling said as he placed his American Express card on the check.
“I don’t know if I’ll know anything by then.”
“Call me anyway. By the way, the TV reporter’s name is Rosenberg. Joyce Rosenberg. Pull up what you can on her.”
“Okay.”
“And let me know if you guys come up with any new information, hard information, on the victim, Russo.”
“Okay.”
Before they parted on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, Peck laughed and said, “Boy, Tim, this is really going to keep me busy, getting everything you want. I’ll really appreciate that bonus.”
Stripling slapped Peck on his arm. “Hey, one thing you can never say about me is that I ask you to work cheap.”
“It’ll be cash, huh? Not deposited in the account.”
“Cash it’ll be. No sense cutting Uncle Sam in. You say hello to your wife, Fred. Buy her something nice on me.”
“Will do.”
Stripling watched Peck walk away and turn the corner. He checked his watch; it was still early. An attractive blonde, on the arm of a distinguished-looking older man, came out of the restaurant and passed him. He watched the sway of her hips as the couple went down the street, where the man held open the door of a silver Jag for her. Stripling pulled a small address book from his jacket pocket, found the number he was seeking, and dialed it.
“Hello,” a dreamy female voice said.
“Jane? It’s Tim Stripling.”
“Hello, stranger. Where’ve you been?”
“Busy. Doing God’s work.”
“God’s work?” She giggled.
“Got some time for me?”
“I always have time for you, lover boy. It’s a slow night.”
“Yeah, well, we all have to rest some time. I’ll be by in a half hour.”
“I’ll be waiting. Bring some of God’s money with you.”
“Oh, I will, Jane, I certainly will.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Lobster and red snapper weren’t on the menu that night at the Watergate apartment of Mac and Annabel Smith. But they all ate well. After drinks accompanied by scallops wrapped in bacon, Mac grilled marinated chicken kebabs