Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [54]
She smiled. “If you give me what I need, they will.”
“Count on it.”
“I intend to. By the way, there’s a rumor floating around—”
He feigned shock, hand to his heart. “A rumor? Here in Washington?”
She laughed. “How about that? Speaking of rumors, which I think we were, what do you know about Senator Widmer’s hearings on the CIA?”
“Nothing. What’s the rumor?”
“Some sort of bombshell, is what I’m hearing.”
“What do his people say?”
“Not a word. All behind closed doors. Clammed up. You’d think they were about to declare war on somebody.”
“Maybe they are. I’ll ask around.”
Stripling left WTTG’s studios and ducked into a coffee shop, where he ordered coffee and dialed a number on his cell. It was answered by a man in the Capitol Hill office of a Republican senator from Colorado.
“Jimmy? Tim Stripling here.”
There was a pause before Jimmy, a top aide to the senator, responded. “How are you, Tim?”
“Couldn’t be better. Well, maybe I could. Up for lunch?”
“Today?”
“Yeah. We haven’t gotten together in a while.”
“I’m really up to my neck, Tim. Another time?”
This time Stripling paused. When he again spoke, his voice was lower; there was a hint of warning in it. “I really would like to have lunch today, Jimmy.”
He waited. Finally Jimmy said, “Sure. Where?”
“You’re still a member of that lunch club at the Capitol View in the Hyatt, I assume.”
“Yes.”
“One o’clock?”
“Not there.”
“Where?”
“Tony and Joe’s. On the terrace.”
“See you then. Just Tony and Joe, you ’n’ me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Bret Mullin awoke that same morning with a hangover. He often boasted about never suffering them, no matter how much he’d consumed the night before—no frayed nerves, dry mouth, and pulsating headache. “Something in the Mullin genes,” he liked to say.
But like an inveterate gambler who always claims to be ahead in his wagers, Mullin wasn’t being entirely truthful. As he’d grown older, his ability to handle the juice had diminished, and hangovers, to a greater or lesser degree, were no longer alien.
He considered calling in sick but didn’t. He’d already used up his yearly allotment of sick days, and it was only July. After two glasses of milk to help quell the fire in his stomach and a cup of black coffee to stoke the flames again, he slumped against the tile shower wall and allowed warm water to flow over him, gradually increasing the amount of cold water in the mix until it became uncomfortable. He dried himself and stood before the bathroom mirror. “Jesus,” he muttered at his mirror image. His eyes were red, the flesh around them swollen and puffy. He started to shave but abruptly stopped. His hand was shaking, and he was afraid he’d cut himself. He went to the kitchen and poured what was left in a vodka bottle into a glass, added a splash of orange juice, and downed it. Drinking in the morning was relatively new, and he wasn’t pleased that it had come to this, but it was either take a couple of shots to calm his nerves or go to work shaking.
He finished his bathroom ablutions, dressed in yesterday’s suit but chose a clean shirt and different tie, and looked out the window. Another nasty hot humid day. Magnum rubbed against his legs, and he bent to ruffle the cat’s fur behind its neck. “Hey, baby, you stay here and guard the joint,” he said. “Keep the bad guys out.” He straightened up painfully, left the apartment, and drove to headquarters, where Vinnie Accurso had already arrived.
“Check this out,” Accurso said, handing Mullin a printout of the initial forensic examination of the bullets from the gun found on the body in Kenilworth Gardens. “Perfect match with the ones that took down Russo at Union Station.”
Mullin grunted and dropped the report on his desk. “No surprise, huh?” he said.
“Another case closed by D.C.’s finest,” said Accurso.
“The hell it is,” Mullin said.
“What?”
“Sure, we’ve got the shooter cold. But why did he shoot the old man? And who shot him?”
A young detective sitting nearby chimed in: “A mob hit, Bret. Just that simple. And the shooter gets shot to keep his mouth shut.”