Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [56]
“You don’t agree?” Accurso asked their boss.
“It’s okay with me as long as it doesn’t eat up much of your time. What’s not okay with me is talking to the media—about anything! That’s what we have Public Affairs for.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Mullin said, wiping beads of perspiration from his upper lip.
“You let this reporter give her description, that’s it. No comments to her. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Got it.”
“Good. By the way, the woman Mr. Russo was living with in Israel is flying here today.” He glanced at a paper on his desk. “Sasha Levine.”
“She claiming the body?”
“Once the M.E. releases it. Shouldn’t need it anymore now that we’ve got the shooter.”
“I’d like to talk to her,” said Mullin.
“Go ahead. She’s due here at five. But, Bret—”
“What?”
“Don’t make this a big deal. Yeah, it would be nice to know why Russo got it, but it’s not priority.”
Mullin and Accurso stood to leave, but Leshin asked Mullin to stay. The big detective looked at Accurso and raised his eyebrows.
“See you downstairs,” Accurso said.
“Close the door, Bret,” Leshin said after Accurso was gone.
Mullin did as requested and faced his boss.
“How’s the drinking, Bret?” Leshin asked flatly.
“The drinking? What about it?”
“I hear you’ve been hitting the bottle pretty good lately.”
Mullin guffawed.
“True?”
“No, of course not. Who’d say something like that?”
“Sit down, Bret.”
When Mullin was seated, Leshin stood over him. “You don’t look good, Bret.”
“Whatta you mean?”
“You look like hell. Your hands are shaking. I saw it.”
“No, I’m—”
“Bret, listen to me. You’re a good cop, have been for a long time. But I don’t like being squeezed. I get a call from up top about somebody saying they saw you drinking on the job or drunk someplace, and bingo, I’m on the hot seat to do something about it. Understand?”
“Sure, Phil, and I wouldn’t do anything to make it tough on you. But I’m telling you, I’ve got the drinking under control. Last night, I had a couple of margaritas with dinner. That’s it. You have a drink before dinner?”
“I don’t drink.”
“Yeah, I know, but what I’m asking is whether having a drink or two before dinner is such a big deal. It’s like—it’s like, you know, civilized.”
Leshin laughed lightly and returned to his chair. “‘Civilized,’” he said absently, shaking his head.
“I’m fine, Phil,” Mullin said, pushing himself up from the chair. “Believe me, I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about a thing with me.”
Leshin covered his eyes with one hand and waved Mullin from the office with the other.
I wish I didn’t have to worry about you was what Leshin was thinking.
I should have had a second vodka this morning was Mullin’s thought as he left the office. Stops the shaking.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Tony and Joe’s fish restaurant was in Washington Harbour, on the Potomac at 31st Street, in Georgetown. Formerly the site of a cement factory, it had been developed into a riverfront park in 1986 by Arthur Cotton Moore, who’d created the mixed-use development of shops, restaurants, offices, and apartments. Architectural critics termed the complex hideous; Washingtonians and tourists ignored any architectural shortcomings and enjoyed the open feeling, the boardwalk promenade, the computer-controlled central fountain, and whimsical sculptures scattered throughout the area.
Stripling arrived early and took an outdoor table with an umbrella, on the river side of the terrace. He’d just been served an iced tea when Jimmy Gale, wearing an open-necked white shirt and carrying a blue denim sport jacket over his arm, skirted other tables and took a chair across from the former CIA operative.
“Maybe we should eat inside,” Gale said. His face was blotchy; a film of perspiration testified to the heat.
Stripling smiled and took in the terrace with open hands. “It’s lovely out here, Jimmy. Liable to catch a cold in the AC.”
Gale, who was in his mid-forties, pulled a damp handkerchief from a pants pocket and dabbed at his face. “I don’t have much time,” he said. “We’re busy. Very busy.”
Stripling waved a