Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [98]
Mullin spent the next forty-five minutes mulling over what he’d heard. The official MPD finding—that Russo had been murdered by organized crime in retaliation for his testimony against them—made less sense than ever to the veteran detective. Had it happened somewhere else—Mexico, Israel, New York, or Los Angeles—he might have bought it. If it had been a revenge killing, why would they have waited until Russo had reached the place where he was scheduled to tell all? And why would the mob draw attention to itself at this stage, and after all these years, by rubbing out a dying turncoat? Mobsters weren’t the brightest bulbs in the drawer, but they did have a pretty good sense of self-preservation despite the decimation of the Mafia leadership.
The Parmele administration had the most to lose had Russo lived and gone before the committee. That was obvious. But the contemplation that someone in that administration might have had something to do with Russo’s murder was too difficult to accept, even for the terminally cynical Bret Mullin.
Sasha had mentioned at dinner that Russo had been working with this writer guy Marienthal on a book. Now, thanks to WTOP, Mullin knew what the book was about. Even ruling out the mob, whoever killed Russo might have Marienthal in his crosshairs, too. As far as Mullin knew, Marienthal was the only one who could corroborate what Russo had said. Tapes? Did Marienthal have them? Or had he already turned them over to Senator Widmer for use at his hearings?
Who’d killed the Haitian, Leon LeClaire, Russo’s assassin? Probably the same people who’d hired him as shooter. Eliminating a shooter to ensure his silence was SOP in criminal circles.
These thoughts came and went as Mullin drank cold coffee and nibbled the last doughnut, which was rapidly growing soggy in the humid air. Distracted by his thoughts, he looked across to the hotel to check that Stripling’s car was still parked at the curb. It was. Stripling and Sasha were obviously having breakfast.
Ten minutes later, Stripling came out and stood beneath an overhang, casually taking in the street and the passersby. Eventually he looked up at the gray sky, held a newspaper over his head, and went to his car, got in, and drove away. Mullin started his engine, made an illegal U-turn, and fell in behind.
He didn’t know why he was following Stripling, a.k.a. Charlie Simmons, or whatever other names he used. He just knew he had to. Who was this guy? What connection did he have with Russo and LeClaire and Widmer? He wasn’t who he represented himself to be to Sasha. Why? Was the break-in of her apartment in Tel Aviv connected in some way?
Stripling drove slowly, which made it easy for Mullin to keep pace. He eventually found a parking space on Tenth Street and walked quickly to the corner of Constitution. He entered the Department of Justice Building. He came out minutes later, got in his car, and drove to E Street, between Ninth and Tenth Streets, parked in a garage, came back on to the street and disappeared inside the J. Edgar Hoover Building, home to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
“He’s Bureau?” Mullin asked aloud in the confines of his car. “He’s official, somehow.”
Why would the Bureau be involved? The Russo and LeClaire killings had been handled as local matters, with the MPD investigating. Of course, he reasoned, seeing Stripling enter the FBI building didn’t necessarily mean he was an employee. But he was