Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [80]
“That sounds very good.”
Mullin was relieved that as the evening progressed, Sasha became more talkative, sparing him from having to carry the conversation. She spoke of her childhood in Budapest, her family and schooling, and her decision to move to Israel. Mullin was sorely tempted to order another drink, something stronger than wine this time, but successfully fought the urge. He wanted very much to impress this lady from Tel Aviv, to have her like and respect him. Getting drunk wouldn’t accomplish that.
The restaurant’s subdued lighting cast a flattering glow over Sasha, and it crossed Mullin’s mind as they ate and talked that she looked a little like his ex-wife, not so much in their features, but their coloring was certainly similar. Mullin had always been attracted to women with dusky skin and dark hair. Maybe it was the contrast with his blotchy, fair skin that appealed. Sasha’s eyes were large and almost black, her lips sensually full. She had a way of looking directly at him as she spoke, as though seeing beyond his facade into what he was thinking and feeling.
He was also wondering what had attracted her to an old former mobster, a killer and leg-breaker, living in Israel like a hunted animal, never sure whether the next passing car contained those who would avenge his traitorous act. Did it represent some character flaw in her? Or was it a middle-aged woman’s desperation—any man in a storm? He didn’t ask.
“Tell me more about this writer,” he said. “Maybe I’ll get to meet him. He lives here in D.C.?”
“Yes. Would you like his address?”
“No, I—sure. That’d be great. I’ll look him up sometime. You must have talked to him after the murder.”
“He called once. I said I would see him when I came here to claim the body. I suppose that will have to be another time.”
They sat with their own silent musings as the waiter served coffee, no dessert. Carnal thoughts came and went for Mullin, and were troubling. It had been a while since he’d been intimate with a woman, and visions of being naked with Sasha were vivid and stirring. But she was here to take home the body of a man with whom she’d lived for a long time. Don’t make an ass of yourself.
They declined after-dinner drinks on the house, and he drove her back to the hotel.
“This was lovely,” she said as he walked her into the lobby. “I did not expect to be entertained by one of the city’s best policemen.”
“Strictly unofficial,” he said.
“Good night,” she said.
“I’ll walk you upstairs, make sure you’re safe.”
“Oh, that isn’t necessary. I—”
“No, no, I insist,” he said, taking her elbow and moving to the elevators. “There’s a lot of crime, you know, especially against women. I’d feel better knowing you’re okay.”
They rode to her floor. She unlocked the door, opened it, and flipped the light switch. He moved past her and entered the room first, glancing into the bathroom, the light of which had been left on, then moving farther inside. She watched him with admiring amusement. He was checking out the room the way the police did in the movies. Would he pull out his gun and look under the bed?
“All clear?” she asked playfully.
“What?” he said, turning to where she still stood in the empty doorway. He grinned and shrugged. “Too many years a cop,” he said. “Just wanted to make sure you’d be all right.”
“I will be fine,” she said, turning on lamps. “Living in Israel teaches you to not be afraid.”
“I guess it does,” he said, relieved that a sudden strong urge for a drink passed. “I just figured if somebody broke into your apartment back home, they might—”
“Who is they?” she asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. See, Sasha, you’re here in Washington because your—”
“My boyfriend? My lover? Either is fine.”
Boyfriend didn’t seem right to him for a middle-aged woman. “Yeah. Your lover comes here and got killed, so that could mean somebody might come after you, too.”