Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [78]
“That, too. What’s the status of the book?”
“Funny you should ask. I have the first copies off the press on my desk. They arrived this morning. They look great. I’m having a courier deliver a dozen to you at the senator’s office.”
“When will you start promoting?” Lowe asked.
“Immediately. But I don’t think we’ll have to do much.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re already getting calls from media. Fox News seems to know the whole story—or at least the guts of it. Our publicity people got a call this morning from a Fox reporter in Washington. Looks like your dam has developed some leaks—big ones.”
“That’s okay. If you hear from Marienthal, please call me any time, day or night. Frankly, I’m pretty damned upset with Rich. I sent him and his book to you in the first place, and he pulls this crap on me. Here’s my cell number.”
“Good luck with your hearings, Geoff. Looks like we might have a best seller on our hands, and you’ve got an issue to run with.”
Lowe considered trying to reach Marienthal’s father in New York, but thought better of it. He checked his watch. No sense in postponing Widmer any longer. He’d have to fudge it with his boss, keep him thinking everything was going smoothly. Widmer had demanded that Lowe get the tapes and notes from Marienthal—which had triggered Lowe’s not very subtle suggestion to Marienthal that he turn them over in advance of the hearings.
His stomach knotted as he drove back to Capitol Hill.
“How’s Vinny?” Bret Mullin was asked as he entered the detectives’ bullpen.
“Okay. He’ll be okay. Gimpy for a while. Any luck in finding the shooter?”
“No, but we’ve got a description from witnesses. An APB went out this morning.”
“Good.”
After phone messages—none worth answering, he decided—Mullin went to Phil Leshin’s office, where his superior was being briefed on serious crimes that had been committed overnight. Mullin waited outside until the briefing officers left.
“What’s up?” Leshin asked.
“I’ve got the name of the guy from Union Station.”
“What guy?”
“The one who knew Louis Russo’s name.”
“Bret, I told you to drop it.”
“I did drop it, Phil,” Mullin said, taking a chair across the desk. “It was dumped in my lap.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. The woman who came from Tel Aviv to claim the body—Sasha Levine—she told me who it was. His name’s Richard Marienthal. He’s a writer who was working on a book with Russo.”
“A book? What kind of book?”
Mullin shrugged. “I didn’t get into that with her. But I know who he is, where he lives. I think we ought to bring him in as a material witness.”
Leshin muttered something under his breath and ran a hand over his shaved head. He said to Mullin, “Do I speak in some foreign tongue, Bret? Did you not understand me when I said to drop it? The Russo case is closed. Officially closed.”
“No,” Mullin said, “I understood what you said. But let me ask you a question.”
“Make it quick.”
“Why has it been dropped? On whose orders?”
“On my orders.”
“Yeah, but who told you to drop it?”
Leshin got up from behind the desk, went to the door, and opened it. “I’m pairing you up with Bayliss.”
“Thanks,” Mullin said, his tone indicating he meant anything but. He left Leshin’s office and returned to his desk, where his new partner, a recently promoted detective named Craig Bayliss, waited.
“Looks like you’ve drawn me,” the freckle-faced redhead said, offering a wide smile.
“What’d I do to get so lucky?” Mullin said. To his mind, the younger cop looked like Alfred E. Neuman from the old Mad magazine days, right down to the small void between his front teeth. Mullin picked up a folder containing the preliminary report on the shooting of Vinnie Accurso, including the description provided by witnesses. He and Bayliss would join dozens of other detectives that day with one assignment: find the assailant. Cop shot? All hands on deck.
“Want me to drive?” Bayliss asked as they walked to their assigned unmarked car.
“No. I’ll drive. And do me a favor.”
“Sure, Bret.”
“Don’t talk a lot, okay?”
Actually, Mullin’s mood had been good earlier that morning.