Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [61]
Mullin felt uncomfortable. It was hot in the room despite the air-conditioning. His collar seemed to have shrunk around his neck. And he wanted a drink, a quiet one in a quiet, cool bar.
“Do you know why he came to Washington?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To meet with Richard.”
“Who’s Richard?”
“Richard Marienthal. It doesn’t matter. Louis was working with him on a book about his life. That was all.”
“This writer. He’s from D.C.?”
Her reply was to take a Kleenex from her purse and blow her nose. “Excuse me,” she said.
“That’s okay. You see, Sasha, even though the guy who shot Louis is dead, and we know for certain that it was him who did it, the case is still open. Who is the guy who shot Louis’s murderer? How come he did—shoot Louis’s murderer? If we know why your, uh—not your husband but your friend—came all the way from Israel to Washington, that might help us get to the bottom of things and wrap it up.”
“I understand, Detective, and I would like to help you. You seem very nice. I appreciate your courtesy. When may I take Louis home for burial?”
“That’s not up to me. The M.E. makes that decision. And my bosses, the D.A. Pretty soon, though. I mean, there’s no reason to keep him anymore.” He ran his finger around his collar. “I suppose you’re unhappy about the delay. I mean, being Jewish and all, you like to bury the dead right away.”
“That’s right,” she said. “But Louis wasn’t Jewish. He was Italian.”
“Yeah, I know. I guess that makes a difference. You, ah—you have a place to stay here in D.C.?”
“A hotel.” She consulted a slip of paper from her purse. “The Lincoln Suites. On L Street.” She smiled and returned the paper to her purse. “You name the streets with letters,” she said. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, well, that’s the way they planned it. Nice place, the Lincoln. That’s what I hear. I never been there. Not too expensive, either. You checked in yet?”
“No. I came directly here from the airport.”
“Tell you what, Miss Levine. I’ll drive you over to the hotel. You get checked in, and I’ll buy you dinner. How’s that sound?”
“I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
He stood and waved his hand. “No problem. It’ll be my pleasure.”
They went to Zola, named after the novelist Emile Zola and next to the International Spy Museum, where Mullin knew the bartender. They sat at the bar. Sasha ordered a white Zinfandel, Mullin bourbon on the rocks. She chain-smoked; he chain-drank.
“Here’s to meeting you,” he said, holding his second glass up to hers but withdrawing it quickly to avoid having her see that his hand shook. “Wish it was under better circumstances.”
He sipped his drink slower than he would have had he been alone, but finished it and ordered a third. Fortified, he relaxed and conversation flowed freely—her life in Hungary and Israel, his take on Washington and its problems. “Damn politicians,” he said. “Could be a nice place if it wasn’t for the politicians. The whole country’s screwed up ’cause of them.”
They eventually gravitated to a black and red velvet booth in one of the restaurant’s small, dark rooms, its walls covered with visuals to carry out the spy theme—shredded CIA documents, Plexiglas cases containing stills and posters from famous espionage movies, photographs of the nation’s most infamous spymasters. It was grilled tuna and a salad for her, corn with bacon chowder and roast chicken for him.
“So,” he said over coffee, “you know anybody here in D.C.?”
“Yes.”
“This writer who was doing a book on Louis’s life?”
She nodded and yawned. “I’m sorry, but I am sleepy. The flight was so long and…”
“Hey, I understand. I’ll get a check.” He waved for their waiter, dressed entirely in black.
He pulled up in front of her hotel. “I really enjoyed tonight,” she said. “Thank you very much. You’re a kind man.”
“Yeah, well, not all cops are bad. It isn’t all like you read these days. I appreciate you not smoking in the car.”
“It is not a problem.