He knew the bartender, who came to the table.

“Have a good day, Bret?”

“Good day, bad day, just another day,” he said, downing the drink too quickly and holding up the glass for a refill. “How about crab cakes and some slaw?”

“You got it, Bret.”

Other customers came and went as Mullin continued to consume bourbons, nursing them more slowly as time passed, and enjoying the crab cakes for which the Jockey Club was noted. He felt the effects of the drinks and welcomed the feeling. Each drink seemed to shut a door on an unpleasant memory, and he visualized that happening in his brain. Clank! A door shut on the divorce. Clank! His rancorous relationship with his daughter walled off. Clank! The strained relationship with his superiors at MPD locked away.

Sufficiently free of painful thoughts, he paid the tab, left the bar, and got behind the wheel of his six-year-old Taurus. He knew he shouldn’t be driving, but he’d never hesitated to drive after drinking. He could handle it, he reminded himself as he pulled from the curb and headed home, where after he fed Magnum, blessed sleep would hopefully come quickly.

But it didn’t. In pajamas and slippers, and with a contented Magnum on his lap and a nightcap in hand, Mullin turned on the TV. He considered himself conservative, although his political philosophy was probably better characterized as anti-politician, no matter what the party affiliation. He turned to WTTG, Channel 5, the Fox News channel in Washington, whose right-wing slant usually suited him. He watched the evening newscast through watery eyes, his fingers kneading the cat’s fur, and fought to stay awake. Finally, acknowledging it was a hopeless battle, he gently pushed the cat to the floor and reached for the remote to turn off the set.

The TV talker’s words stopped him.

“A murder took place today at Union Station, the cold-blooded killing of an elderly visitor to Washington who was shot twice. For more on the story, we go to Joyce Rosenberg, who’s standing by at Union Station. Joyce?”

“Yes, Bernie. A murder did take place today inside the station. According to eyewitnesses, the assailant was a well-dressed light-skinned black man who left the scene through B. Smith’s restaurant and disappeared into the crowd outside. The police originally intended to withhold the name of the elderly victim until next of kin had been notified. But while getting ready to report earlier today from in front of the station shortly after the murder had taken place, I had a brief conversation with a bystander, a young man who happened to be there. He asked me if I knew the identity of the victim. When I said I didn’t, he provided a name and quickly walked away. I reported the name to the police, and they’ve confirmed he was right. The deceased’s name is Louis Russo, who’d evidently traveled here from Israel.”

“Any further details, Joyce?”

“Not at the moment, Bernie. Back to you in the studio.”

Mullin was more awake now. Some unnamed young guy knew the name of the victim. How? Why? Was he connected with the shooting? Who is he? Where is he?

It took one more nightcap to snap off the final switch in Mullin’s mind.

I can’t believe it’s happened,” Kathryn Jalick said. “My God, to be shot down like that. It’s so… so barbaric.”

Rich Marienthal didn’t respond. He was glued to the news on TV, going from channel to channel to see whether any new tidbits of information about Russo’s murder were surfacing. A follow-up report on the Fox News channel now referred to the young man, who had known the name of the victim, as the mystery man. According to the reporter, Joyce Rosenberg, the MPD was interested in finding him and was asking him to come forward.

“That’s me,” Marienthal muttered to Kathryn during a commercial. “The mystery man.”

“Why did you tell that reporter his name?” she asked, joining him on the couch.

“I don’t know. I guess I was in shock. I didn’t know for sure it was Louis-I mean, I hadn’t seen his body and nobody told me it was him. But I knew, you know? I knew it was him. Maybe I was just thinking his name and blurted it out.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I tried to reach Geoff but got voice mail on his cell. I can’t believe he hasn’t called me. Hell, he must know by now. He knows everything.”

Kathryn fell silent as the news resumed on the screen. Rich leaned intently ahead, his foot tapping on the rug, fingers rolling on his thigh. She’d seen him anxious before, but nothing like this. She understood, of course. The book he’d been writing for the past year caused him to spend a lot of time in Israel. She’d never met any of the people with whom he dealt, and Rich had never invited her on his trips. Nor could she have gone if he’d asked. His visits there were lengthy, too long for her to be away from her job at the library.

He always returned with copious notes, cassette tapes, and transcriptions from his latest interviews. They never made it home. He’d immediately deposit them in two large safety deposit boxes at the local branch of the Riggs Bank. Later, his research secure, he would take her to dinner and was not reticent about details of his travels, including personal encounters and feelings and impressions-but never anything about the book itself. The subject seemed reserved for Geoff Lowe and their frequent meetings.

“That reporter said the police want you to come forward. Will you?” She asked this with some trepidation. Rich was well aware that she disapproved of what he and Lowe had forged, and tended to snap at her whenever she voiced what she felt-that the book was one thing, the plan he spoke of to promote it another.

“What?” he said.

“Will you go to the police and tell them about Russo?”

“No.” He turned and looked at her quizzically. “Why would I do that?”

She placed a reassuring hand on his leg. “I’m just worried, that’s all,” she said. “He’s been murdered, Rich, gunned down like some rabid dog. You knew him. You’ve spent time with him. Doesn’t that concern you?”

“Kathryn, I-”

“Who shot him, Rich? Why would somebody kill him? Maybe you’re in danger.”

He waved her concerns away and sat back. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “I don’t know who killed him, but nobody’s out to shoot me. So relax, huh? Just relax.”

He was anything but relaxed. He stood, crossed the room, and looked down at the street.

“It sure screws things up,” he said without turning to her.

She came up behind and wrapped her arms around him. Now the impact of the murder on Rich had sunk in. She knew, of course, that Russo’s death had been a shock to the man she loved and that it had shaken him. When he’d returned to the car from Union Station, he’d been frazzled and pale, actually stammering as he told her what had happened inside. She’d sympathized, but simultaneously reasoned that the ramifications wouldn’t be dire. He’d already accomplished all the interviews of Russo he’d intended. The book was completed and at the publisher. Yes, he’d lost someone he’d gotten to know, and the cause of the man’s death was especially harsh, cruel, and unexpected.

But those were rationalizations. The reality was that there was much more to the story than researching and writing a book. There was Geoff Lowe.

“If I’d only been there,” Rich said. “That damned accident on the highway.”

Kathryn diplomatically refrained from again suggesting they should have left Falls Church earlier.

“I could have headed it off if I’d been there.”

“But you weren’t,” she said. “Maybe you would have been shot, too.”

“I’m going to try Geoff again,” Rich said, going to the phone on a small desk in the cluttered living room and starting to dial.

“Rich, why don’t you call Mac Smith?”