Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [68]
Detective Fred Peck was in a good mood that morning, which reflected the fact that Helen had awoken in sufficiently good spirits to have gotten up with him and prepared breakfast, as rare an occurrence in the Peck household as candor at a presidential press conference. The reason for her springtime mood was a hand-painted mirror imported from France that she’d wanted for the foyer since spotting it weeks ago in a local antique store. Fred had stopped by the shop on his way home the evening before and bought it for her. After many attempts to hang it precisely where she wanted it, he finally succeeded. The glass in it was wavy, but he didn’t mention that flaw to her. She was pleased, which was what counted.
He signed in to the Missing Persons Unit, closed his office door, sat behind his desk, and examined the copy of the police artist’s sketch of the man Fox News reporter Joyce Rosenberg had described. It was interesting—the ability of police artists to create a workable composite of men and women based upon descriptions by witnesses always impressed him. But whether this sketch would be of any use to Tim Stripling was conjecture. All Peck could and would do was deliver it to Stripling, as promised. He slipped the sketch into a large manila envelope, wrote TS on it, placed it in the wide center drawer of his desk, and left the office.
“Hey, Fred,” a detective in the bullpen said when Peck entered.
“Where’s Mullin and Accurso?” Peck asked.
“Out. Mullin came up with the name of the guy who was at Union Station when the old Italian got whacked.”
“He did? How’d he do that?”
The detective shrugged and pointed to a half-consumed box of Dunkin’ Donuts on the desk. “Want one?”
“No, thanks.”
“He got some info off the Internet,” the detective said, helping himself to a jelly doughnut.
Peck went to the central computer room and asked the officer on duty about Mullin, whether he’d downloaded information about a potential witness to the Union Station shooting.
“Yeah, he did. He had the name spelled wrong, but it was close enough.”
“What did you come up with?”
“You want a copy?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
Armed with the same information Mullin had been given, Peck returned to his office, closed the door, and placed a call.
One of the two cell phones Tim Stripling carried rang. He saw that it wasn’t the one provided by the FBI and flipped open the cover on his personal phone. “Hello?”
“Tim. It’s Fred Peck.”
Stripling had just finished breakfast at Patisserie Café Didier, in Georgetown.
“What’s up, Fred?” he asked.
Stripling smiled at Peck’s lowering of his voice. “I have what you want,” said the detective.
“Meaning?”
“The name of the witness at Union Station.”
Stripling pulled a pen from his jacket and positioned it over a white paper napkin. “Shoot.”
“No,” Peck said. “I want to give it to you personally.”
“Why? Just give me the name.”
“I have a picture, too.”
“The sketch?”
“And a photo.”
Stripling glanced around the popular patisserie and also lowered his voice. “Now?” he asked.
“I’m tied up this morning,” Peck said.
Sounds kinky, Stripling thought. “Lunch?”
“Yes. But, Tim.”
“Huh?”
“This will cost you big.”
Greedy bastard, Stripling thought. His wife must be holding out on him in bed unless she gets paid.
“I’ll take care of you,” Stripling said.
“I mean, it’s got to be a lot more.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay.”
“South Austin Grill in Alexandria. Noon?”
Tex-Mex food, Stripling thought, wincing. He disliked southwestern food. All beans and mush. “All right,” he said.
He’d no sooner closed the cover on his cell phone when the other one rang.
“Stripling.”
“We’d like to meet,” the FBI agent said.
“Why?”
“To get an update.”
“I don’t have anything to update you on.”
“That’s disappointing.”
“That may be, but—”
“One o’clock. Usual place.”
“No can do. I’ll have something for you later this afternoon.”
“What time?”
“Four.”
The agent hung up.
He used his personal phone to call Mark Roper at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.
“What a pleasant surprise