“Healthy living,” the tall detective said, spearing calamari with a fork.

“How’s Mrs. Peck?”

“Fine, just fine.”

“That’s good to hear. So, my friend, what’s new at the great police department in the sky?”

Peck consumed another piece of calamari. “Still heads in the blue. Nothing much new, Tim. How’s life outside the Company?”

Stripling sat back in the booth and grinned. When he’d announced to Peck and to others in similar situations that he was leaving the CIA as an employee, there was predictable concern. Did this mean the end of the gravy train? But he’d assured them that he would continue working for an intelligence service as a consultant and would still be the source for supplementary money. Their services were needed more than ever, he told them, because of the continuing terrorist threat to the country.

“Enjoying myself,” Stripling said. “There’s something to be said for this consulting life. No daily pressures, more time to smell the roses and improve my putting game.” He came forward. “So, tell me, for example, what’s going on with the Union Station shooting.”

Stripling always found it amusing when, after asking Peck such a question, the detective would take in his surroundings, close the gap between his face and Stripling’s, and lower his voice. Stripling had learned to widen that gap before Peck started speaking. The detective’s breath wasn’t sweet.

“Like you said, Bret Mullin’s handling the case.”

Stripling’s expression said And?

Another furtive glance around the crowded bar: “He’s set up a sketch artist for tomorrow.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I talked to the artist. He’s a faygele, you know? Light in the loafers.” He adopted a swishy voice and ran a pinkie over his eyebrow. “An artiste.”

Stripling smiled. “So who’s this sketch artist sketching? You’ve already got the Union Station shooter.”

“He tells me-the artist tells me-Mullin tells him a reporter from Fox News is coming over to give a description of the guy who knew the name of the victim at the station.”

“Really? She knows him?”

Peck shrugged and sat back. “Beats me. I guess she does. You know her?”

“Who?”

“The reporter who’s coming over.”

“I think so. Why is Mullin so interested in this guy?”

“I don’t know. He’s a lush, you know. Can’t always believe him.”

“But you’ll find out. And his name. Right?”

“You want me to?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How come?”

Stripling signaled for a waitress, who took an order for another round and bowls of clam chowder.

“How come?” Peck repeated.

“What?”

“The guy who knew the victim. I’d like to know why I’m finding out about him. Mullin’s interest in him. Like that.”

“It’s not important, Fred. I’d like a copy of the sketch your artist comes up with. Can do?”

“I suppose so.”

“And I want to know everything you guys learn about him.”

Stripling observed Peck as he sipped from his second drink. He knew what the detective was thinking. Now that he, Stripling, had indicated considerable interest in the so-called mystery man and was asking Peck to find out all he could, it took on urgency. Might warrant a bonus. What a whore, Stripling thought. That was his unstated view of everyone he’d managed to turn into informants. But it was a good thing there were plenty of them working in government agencies. Without them, he’d have been out of business a long time ago.

“I think I can wangle a bonus for you on this one, Fred,” he said.

“I wouldn’t argue,” Peck said with a grin.

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

It was a two-pound lobster for Peck, red snapper for Stripling, salads, and Key lime pie for the detective’s dessert.

“Call me tomorrow, huh?” Stripling said as he placed his American Express card on the check.

“I don’t know if I’ll know anything by then.”

“Call me anyway. By the way, the TV reporter’s name is Rosenberg. Joyce Rosenberg. Pull up what you can on her.”

“Okay.”

“And let me know if you guys come up with any new information, hard information, on the victim, Russo.”

“Okay.”

Before they parted on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, Peck laughed and said, “Boy, Tim, this is really going to keep me busy, getting everything you want. I’ll really appreciate that bonus.”

Stripling slapped Peck on his arm. “Hey, one thing you can never say about me is that I ask you to work cheap.”

“It’ll be cash, huh? Not deposited in the account.”

“Cash it’ll be. No sense cutting Uncle Sam in. You say hello to your wife, Fred. Buy her something nice on me.”

“Will do.”

Stripling watched Peck walk away and turn the corner. He checked his watch; it was still early. An attractive blonde, on the arm of a distinguished-looking older man, came out of the restaurant and passed him. He watched the sway of her hips as the couple went down the street, where the man held open the door of a silver Jag for her. Stripling pulled a small address book from his jacket pocket, found the number he was seeking, and dialed it.

“Hello,” a dreamy female voice said.

“Jane? It’s Tim Stripling.”

“Hello, stranger. Where’ve you been?”

“Busy. Doing God’s work.”

“God’s work?” She giggled.

“Got some time for me?”

“I always have time for you, lover boy. It’s a slow night.”

“Yeah, well, we all have to rest some time. I’ll be by in a half hour.”

“I’ll be waiting. Bring some of God’s money with you.”

“Oh, I will, Jane, I certainly will.”

Lobster and red snapper weren’t on the menu that night at the Watergate apartment of Mac and Annabel Smith. But they all ate well. After drinks accompanied by scallops wrapped in bacon, Mac grilled marinated chicken kebabs and vegetables on a hibachi on the terrace, whipped up his signature Caesar salad, and heated bread fresh from the Watergate bakery downstairs.

“Delicious,” Kathryn Jalick declared after her first taste of chicken. “What’s the secret to the marinade?”

“If I told you that, Kathryn, it wouldn’t be a secret any longer,” Smith said pleasantly.

“Spoken like a real chef,” Marienthal said.

“Mac’s a wonderful cook, but only when the spirit strikes him,” Annabel said. “I think he secretly always wanted to own a restaurant, but knows what an insane business that can be. I prefer a college professor for a husband.” She touched his arm.

“Actually,” Smith said, “I’ve been threatening for years to give up teaching, study cooking in Provence, and get a job in some restaurant kitchen. One of many unrequited fantasies.”

“Care to share them with us?” Kathryn asked.

“Not in mixed company,” Mac said, laughing. He turned to Marienthal. “So, Rich, we’re anxious to hear the latest with your book, and your read on the murder at Union Station. The victim, Russo, served as your inspiration, as I understand it.”

Marienthal appeared uncomfortable fielding the question. He sipped from a Belgian-style beer brewed in a Baltimore microbrewery that Smith, knowing Marienthal was a beer drinker, had bought especially for the evening. Rich looked at Kathryn, who avoided his eyes and focused on her plate.

Realizing an answer was expected, he said, “Well, things are going okay with the book. It’s at the printer and should be out soon.”

“What about Mr. Russo?” Annabel asked. “Had he come to Washington to meet with you?”

“Ah, yeah, he did.”

“You must have been in absolute shock,” said Annabel, “when you heard the news.”

“How did you hear?” Mac asked.

“I got a call.”

“I thought you might have been that mystery man they mentioned on TV,” Mac said with a chuckle. “The one who supposedly blurted out Russo’s name to the TV reporter.”

“I’d still like your marinade recipe,” Kathryn said.