“Have a nice chat with your father?” she asked, obviously unaware of what father and son had discussed.

“I’m not sure I’d characterize it that way,” Rich said.

“He worries about you,” she said. “So do I. How is that lovely young lady you’ve been seeing?”

“Kathryn? She’s fine. She said to say hello.”

Kathryn had accompanied Rich on a few of his infrequent visits home, and Mary Marienthal had once traveled to Washington to spend a week touring the city with them.

“Well, please say hello back from me,” she said, pulling up in front of the station.

Rich kissed her on the cheek and opened the door on his side.

“Richard,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Don’t be too harsh with your father. He loves you very much.”

“I know, I know,” he said. “And I love you both. I’d better get inside. The train will be here in a few minutes.”

He went to the platform and looked back to where his mother still sat in the car. She waved and blew him a kiss. He returned her wave as the train came into the station and wiped her from view.

Detectives Bret Mullin and Vinny Accurso spent the morning showing the composite sketch of Louis Russo’s killer to people in the predominantly black community of Logan Circle, in the city’s northeast quadrant. Once a fashionable neighborhood, Logan Circle had deteriorated into an area known more for its drug dealers, pimps, and prostitutes than for its once stately and genteel four-story Victorian mansions and town houses. For a while, prostitution was less of a problem after the police rounded the prostitutes up and took them to Virginia, to the chagrin of residents of that state. But they eventually drifted back. A few working their shifts on the hot streets of Logan Circle this morning watched warily as Mullin and Accurso passed.

“Good morning, ladies,” Mullin said, chuckling.

“You know anybody looks like this?” Accurso asked, showing the prostitutes the composite sketch.

Heads shook.

“You take care,” Mullin said as he and his partner continued down the street. “Don’t get mixed up with any wackos.”

They showed the sketch to doormen and bellhops at the Vista International Hotel on Thomas Circle, the infamous scene of former mayor Marion Barry’s arrest for possession of crack cocaine, and went through Meridian Hill Park, also known as Malcolm X Park. The gardens there, which re-created the splendid formal gardens of seventeenth-century France and Italy, were in stark contrast to the assortment of down-and-out men and women occupying the park’s benches. On one was a hefty, brooding black man wearing a hooded blue sweatshirt despite the oppressive heat and humidity.

“Hey, Lucas,” Mullin said, sitting on one side of him. Accurso took the other end of the bench.

“What’s happening?” Mullin asked, wiping perspiration from his face with a handkerchief.

“Not much,” Lucas said. “What are you guys doin’ here?”

“Looking for him,” Accurso said, holding the composite sketch in front of Lucas, one of a number of informants developed by Mullin.

Lucas swiveled to take in the park. Mullin and Accurso seldom spoke with him in public, preferring clandestine meetings out of the sight of others.

“Who’s he?” Lucas asked.

“Thought you might know,” Mullin said. “He’s the shooter at Union Station yesterday.”

“Oh, yeah. Read about it. Saw it on TV. Never seen him before.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah, man, I’m sure. What I read, he’s too expensive a stud to be from around here. Least that’s what the papers say.”

“Anybody around here talking about the shooting?” Accurso asked.

“Nah. Got other things to rap about, you know what I’m sayin’?”

“Yeah, we know,” Mullin said, getting to his feet and gesturing for his partner to do the same. “You hear anything, give us a call, Lucas.”

“You got something for me?” Lucas asked, again nervously surveying the park.

“We would if you had something for us,” Accurso said as he and Mullin walked away.

“Waste a time,” Mullin grumbled, loosening his tie.

“How come you always wear a tie?” Accurso asked. He wore an open-neck yellow polo shirt and slacks. A tie wasn’t required of detectives unless you were scheduled to attend some official event. Visiting Logan Circle and the northeast quadrant didn’t qualify.

“Take it off,” Accurso said, referring to Mullin’s tie.

“Waste a time,” was all Mullin said as they continued to walk through the neighborhood, which, while rundown, exhibited occasional signs of gentrification. As they passed the splendid Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, the largest Roman Catholic church in the hemisphere, Accurso glanced at Mullin, who surreptitiously blessed himself. He knew Mullin was Catholic, but had never before seen an outward manifestation of his faith.

“You hungry?” Mullin asked.

“Sure.”

They went to 12th Street, which passed for an old-fashioned Main Street, and settled at a table by the front window in Murry & Paul’s, a southern soul food fixture for years.

“What’d you do last night?” Accurso asked after they’d been served large glasses of ice water.

“Nothing. Had dinner, went home, fed the cat, and watched a little TV.”

“Where’d you have dinner?”

“What are you, keeping a diary of where I go, what I do?”

“Just curious.”

“The Jockey Club.”

Accurso shook his open hand as he said, “Ooh, fancy, fancy.”

Mullin ignored him.

“That’s some beautiful church, huh?”

“What is?”

“That Catholic church we passed. You ever been there?”

“No.” Mullin looked at the menu. “Ribs,” he said, “and slaw. You know that guy they say knew the dead guy’s name?”

Accurso looked up from his menu. “Huh?”

“That guy they said told the TV reporter he knew the victim’s name. Who the hell is he?”

Accurso shrugged. “Beats me. Ribs, I guess. And slaw.”

“I figure this guy, whoever he is, knows more than Russo’s name. You know what I mean?”

“Maybe he does. We’ll never find him unless he decides to walk in. You want a Coke?” He knew that his big, beefy partner would like a beer or something stronger.

“Yeah, I guess,” Mullin said, wishing he were alone in a dark bar.

They’d finished lunch and were on coffee when Mullin’s cell phone went off.

“Mullin.”

He listened, then flipped the phone’s cover closed.

“What’s up?” Accurso asked, laying down his half of the bill on the table. Mullin stood and tightened his tie, using his reflection in the window.

“Like I told you, Vinny,” Mullin said, heading for the door, “showing the sketch was a waste of time. They already found the shooter.”

As Mullin and Accurso left Murry & Paul’s, Tim Stripling was arriving at the FBI Building for his second meeting with the two agents with whom he’d met the previous day. They huddled in the same secure room at the rear of the building.

“So, it looks like the hunt is off for Mr. Louis Russo,” Stripling said. He’d removed his suit jacket and sat at the end of a short conference table, flanked by the agents.

“Yeah,” one said. “Somebody found him before you did.”

“If I was being paid as a bounty hunter, I’d be unhappy,” said Stripling. “Maybe the guy who shot him collected a hefty fee.”

When there was no response, he said, “Any word on who did the deed? I read his description in the papers, saw it on TV.”

The agent to Stripling’s left consulted a paper on the table in front of him, and read from it in a monotone.

“Leon LeClaire. Age forty-three. Residence listed as New York City. Born in Haiti, French passport.”

Stripling’s eyebrows lifted. “You’ve nailed him?”

“Somebody did. Literally. They discovered his body down in Kenilworth Gardens. We just got the word.”