Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [55]
Mullin said nothing.
“What are you thinking, Bret, that this so-called mystery man who knew Russo’s name before anybody else did might know why it happened?” his partner asked.
“Yeah, of course, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.”
“What guy are you talking about?” the young detective asked.
“Nothing,” Mullin said.
Mullin’s phone sounded and he picked up the receiver. “Yeah, all right,” he said, hanging up. To Accurso: “We’ve been summoned.”
“God?”
“Yeah.”
They were about to leave for the office of the chief of detectives when Fred Peck came to where they sat. “How’s it going?” he asked.
“Fine, Fred,” Accurso replied.
“You guys caught a break with the station shooter, huh?” Peck said.
Mullin and Accurso looked at him blankly.
“The forensics match on the bullets,” Peck said. “Hey, by the way, I see we’re trying to locate that guy who knew the victim at the station. You working that?”
“What guy?” Mullin asked.
“The one who said his name right after the shooting. Heard on TV that we’re looking for him.”
“We wouldn’t know about that, Fred,” Accurso said. “Excuse us. God wants to give us commendations and a promotion.”
“He does? For what?”
Mullin and Accurso walked away, leaving Peck staring after them. When they were gone, he went to an office on another floor where one of the department’s sketch artists was interviewing a witness to a shooting the night before, showing her cards on which a variety of facial features were displayed. “A chin like this one?” he asked her.
She shook her head.
The artist noticed Peck in the open doorway. “Excuse me,” he told the woman and followed Peck into the hall.
“Sorry to bother you,” Peck said, “but I know you’re doing a sketch this afternoon with that TV reporter.”
“That’s right,” said the artist. “Mullin set it up.”
“I know, I know. I was just talking to Bret and Vinnie about it. I’ll need a copy of what you come up with.”
“Sure. No problem. You working that, too?”
Peck patted the artist on the shoulder. “Thanks. Drop it by my office when you’re done.”
Mullin and Accurso took chairs across the desk from the chief of detectives, Philip Leshin. Leshin was as big as Mullin, but in a different way. While Mullin’s body had gone soft, Leshin had kept in shape. He neither drank nor smoked and was a regular at a gym close to headquarters. His shaved head glistened in light from overhead fixtures; a heavy five o’clock shadow was already evident.
“What’s up, Phil?” Mullin asked.
“You tell me,” Leshin said. He was in shirtsleeves. His tie was wide and colorful, like his suspenders.
“Tell you about what?” Mullin asked. He realized his hands were trembling and kept his fingers laced together on his lap.
“This TV reporter, Rosenberg. Fox News. She says on the air that we’re trying to find the guy from the station shooting.”
“Yeah, she’s right,” Mullin said.
“You know we’ve got the shooter. Bullets match.”
“Right,” Accurso said.
Mullin said, “I think this guy we’re looking for can fill in the blanks, Phil, maybe tell us why the old guy was gunned down.”
“That may be, but how come Fox News knows about it? You been talking to somebody over there?”
“No,” Mullin said, motioning with his hands for emphasis, then quickly linking them again.
“You and Vinnie were in the reporter’s piece last night. In the background.”
“Sure we were,” Accurso said. “We were there at the gardens.”
“We did the interviews with the couple that found the body. Others, too.”
Leshin stared at Mullin, who twisted in his chair.
“That’s it, huh?” Leshin said. “You just happened to be standing there when she did her report.”
Mullin and Accurso nodded in unison.
Leshin leaned back as far as his chair would allow and placed his hands behind his head. A small, satisfied smile crossed his lips. He said, “If that’s true, then why is that TV reporter coming here this afternoon to give a description to a sketch artist?”
Mullin’s shrug was exaggerated. He moved his head left and right, changed position again in his chair, and said, “Because I think that’s the way to go, Phil.”
He didn’t express what he was