Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [81]
“Better safe than sorry,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’ll stay awhile,” he said.
“That is very kind of you,” she said. “You are a very sweet man. I am very tired. I would like to spend more time with you, but—”
“No, no,” he said, standing. “You don’t have to explain. I’m sure you’ll be just fine.” He went to the door.
“Thank you for everything,” she said, joining him there. “It was a lovely evening.”
“Glad you liked it,” he said. “Here’s my home phone number.” He handed her his card. “I’m going straight home. You call any time, any hour, you need something. Got that?”
“Yes. I’ve got that.”
“And don’t let anybody in the room.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Just keep things locked up, that’s all.”
She smiled, touched his chest, and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Good night, Detective Mr. Bret Mullin,” she said.
“Good night.”
He did as promised, went straight home. After feeding Magnum, he opened a kitchen cabinet and pulled down a half-filled bottle of vodka, put ice in a glass, and poured vodka over the cubes. But instead of drinking it, he poured it in the sink, went to the living room, switched on the TV, and turned it off again. Just a goddamn habit, he told himself. Like smoking. He wished she didn’t smoke. Who needs another drink? Not me!
He went to bed desperately hanging on to that thought.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Mullin knew that if he’d stayed up and watched television, he wouldn’t have been able to resist the vodka in the kitchen. Had he watched the tube, he would have seen news alerts flashed on every cable news station in town. CNN had the story. So did CNBC and MSNBC. But Fox News had the most to report simply because its on-air reporter, Joyce Rosenberg, knew more than her competitors.
She’d heard from Tim earlier in the evening. Stripling had called from home, sated with Crab Louis and hot fudge.
“I have something wonderful for you,” he’d said, “which means you’ll owe me one.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said.
“Pad and pencil at the ready?”
“Shoot.”
“All right. Here’s what’s gone down, Joyce, and you can take it to the bank. The old gentleman, Louis Russo, came to our fair city to testify at a hearing being chaired by that charming Alaska senator, Karl Widmer.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“As sure as I’d propose to you if you didn’t have Mr. Right already panting for your body.”
“Cute.”
“That I am. Okay. Mr. Russo comes to D.C. to testify at the hearing and gets his brains blown out when he gets off the train. Next, his assailant—a gentle term for his murderer—gets chopped down among the lilies.”
“I already know this.”
“But you don’t know what Mr. Russo was testifying about.”
He could sense her anxious anticipation. He paused for effect before continuing. “Mr. Russo, who seems to have a penchant for spilling his guts to the wrong people, collaborated on a book with a writer from right here in the nation’s capital, a Mr. Richard Marienthal.”
“And this Marienthal is the guy who blurted out Russo’s name to me at the station?”
“One and the same, according to my sources.”
“Which are impeccable.”
“Of course. Ready for the bombshell?”
“Stop playing games, Tim. What is it?”
“According to Mr. Russo’s account in this book by Marienthal, he—I stress he—was the gentleman who assassinated one Constantine Eliana. Ring a bell?”
“Jesus.”
“No, the Romans killed him. Russo killed Constantine Eliana.”
“Some time back. He was going to testify to this at the Widmer hearings?”
“You’re quick and bright.”
“Thank you.”
“Sure you want to marry this medical student? He’ll be off delivering babies every night while you sit home wondering what was ever appealing about the jerk.”
“The jerk’s name is Michael.”
“What’s his number? I’ll straighten him out.”
“He’s bigger than you are. Come on, Tim. I don’t have all summer.”
“Know what Russo claims?”
“Tell me.”
“That his New York family—the crime side of it—got the contract.”
“And Mr. Russo pulled the trigger.”
“This future M.D., with an HMO license to steal, doesn’t deserve you, Joyce.”
“Russo says he pulled