“Hi, Tim.”

Stripling turned to see the short, slender, dark-haired Rosenberg crossing the room. He stood, they shook hands, and she led him back through one of the studios to a tiny, cramped room that served as her office. There was no place to sit; even the chair behind her desk was piled high with scripts and cans of videotape.

“So,” she said, hands on her hips, a crooked smile on her lips, “what’s this all about?”

Stripling shrugged and took in some photos of the reporter with political hotshots, the pictures fixed to the wall with pushpins. “You get to rub shoulders with the high and mighty,” he said.

“I get to meet, as they say, interesting people. Okay, Tim, I only have a few minutes. Hate to rush you, but-”

“Think nothing of it, Joyce. As I told you, I’d like to get a fix on the guy who gave out the name of the Union Station shooting victim.”

“So you said. I had an editor run through file footage we shot that day at the station. He’s not in any of it.”

“Okay. So, tell me what you remember about him.”

She leaned back against the edge of the desk, pushed her glasses up onto the top of her head, screwed up her face, and said, “Let’s see. He was pretty tall. I mean, taller than you. Over six feet, that’s for sure. Maybe six-two.”

“White.”

“Yeah, white. Wore a tan jacket if I remember right. Like one of those safari jackets they used to sell at Banana Republic.”

“Hair?”

“Sandy, maybe.”

“Full head?”

“He was young.”

“How young?”

A shrug. “Thirties, maybe.”

“Heavy? Skinny?”

“I’d say on the heavy side. Not fat, but big. A big guy.”

“And all he said to you was the name of the victim?”

She nodded. “That’s it. I have to run.”

“I saw your report last night from Kenilworth Gardens. You said MPD was interested in the same guy.”

Another nod.

“They’ve been talking to you about it?”

She shook her head.

You’re lying to me, he thought. You’re meeting with a sketch artist this afternoon.

She went to the door, pushed aside a pile of books with her foot, and closed it. “Care to fill me in on why you want this mystery man?”

“No. You say you’re engaged.”

“That’s right.”

“Who’s the lucky man? A TV anchor?”

“A medical student from Baltimore.”

“You’ll make a good doctor’s wife. Used to working all hours, middle-of-the-night emergencies, stuff like that.”

“At least he’s not from Washington and he’s not involved with politics. That’s a big plus in his favor.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Thanks for the time. Invite me to the wedding. I’ll bring a present.”

“How did I get so lucky?”

She walked him back to the reception area.

“How about my present now?” she said.

“Huh?”

“Look,” she said, “I may not be Walter Cronkite or Edward R. Murrow, but I smell a story when I-”

“It’s ‘you know a story when you see it,’” he corrected.

“Something like that. If finding this guy is as important as it seems, I’d like the inside track.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Promise?”

“Do my promises carry any weight?”

She smiled. “If you give me what I need, they will.”

“Count on it.”

“I intend to. By the way, there’s a rumor floating around-”

He feigned shock, hand to his heart. “A rumor? Here in Washington?”

She laughed. “How about that? Speaking of rumors, which I think we were, what do you know about Senator Widmer’s hearings on the CIA?”

“Nothing. What’s the rumor?”

“Some sort of bombshell, is what I’m hearing.”

“What do his people say?”

“Not a word. All behind closed doors. Clammed up. You’d think they were about to declare war on somebody.”

“Maybe they are. I’ll ask around.”

Stripling left WTTG’s studios and ducked into a coffee shop, where he ordered coffee and dialed a number on his cell. It was answered by a man in the Capitol Hill office of a Republican senator from Colorado.

“Jimmy? Tim Stripling here.”

There was a pause before Jimmy, a top aide to the senator, responded. “How are you, Tim?”

“Couldn’t be better. Well, maybe I could. Up for lunch?”

“Today?”

“Yeah. We haven’t gotten together in a while.”

“I’m really up to my neck, Tim. Another time?”

This time Stripling paused. When he again spoke, his voice was lower; there was a hint of warning in it. “I really would like to have lunch today, Jimmy.”

He waited. Finally Jimmy said, “Sure. Where?”

“You’re still a member of that lunch club at the Capitol View in the Hyatt, I assume.”

“Yes.”

“One o’clock?”

“Not there.”

“Where?”

“Tony and Joe’s. On the terrace.”

“See you then. Just Tony and Joe, you ’n’ me.”

Bret Mullin awoke that same morning with a hangover. He often boasted about never suffering them, no matter how much he’d consumed the night before-no frayed nerves, dry mouth, and pulsating headache. “Something in the Mullin genes,” he liked to say.

But like an inveterate gambler who always claims to be ahead in his wagers, Mullin wasn’t being entirely truthful. As he’d grown older, his ability to handle the juice had diminished, and hangovers, to a greater or lesser degree, were no longer alien.

He considered calling in sick but didn’t. He’d already used up his yearly allotment of sick days, and it was only July. After two glasses of milk to help quell the fire in his stomach and a cup of black coffee to stoke the flames again, he slumped against the tile shower wall and allowed warm water to flow over him, gradually increasing the amount of cold water in the mix until it became uncomfortable. He dried himself and stood before the bathroom mirror. “Jesus,” he muttered at his mirror image. His eyes were red, the flesh around them swollen and puffy. He started to shave but abruptly stopped. His hand was shaking, and he was afraid he’d cut himself. He went to the kitchen and poured what was left in a vodka bottle into a glass, added a splash of orange juice, and downed it. Drinking in the morning was relatively new, and he wasn’t pleased that it had come to this, but it was either take a couple of shots to calm his nerves or go to work shaking.

He finished his bathroom ablutions, dressed in yesterday’s suit but chose a clean shirt and different tie, and looked out the window. Another nasty hot humid day. Magnum rubbed against his legs, and he bent to ruffle the cat’s fur behind its neck. “Hey, baby, you stay here and guard the joint,” he said. “Keep the bad guys out.” He straightened up painfully, left the apartment, and drove to headquarters, where Vinnie Accurso had already arrived.

“Check this out,” Accurso said, handing Mullin a printout of the initial forensic examination of the bullets from the gun found on the body in Kenilworth Gardens. “Perfect match with the ones that took down Russo at Union Station.”

Mullin grunted and dropped the report on his desk. “No surprise, huh?” he said.

“Another case closed by D.C.’s finest,” said Accurso.

“The hell it is,” Mullin said.

“What?”

“Sure, we’ve got the shooter cold. But why did he shoot the old man? And who shot him?”

A young detective sitting nearby chimed in: “A mob hit, Bret. Just that simple. And the shooter gets shot to keep his mouth shut.”

Mullin said nothing.

“What are you thinking, Bret, that this so-called mystery man who knew Russo’s name before anybody else did might know why it happened?” his partner asked.

“Yeah, of course, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

“What guy are you talking about?” the young detective asked.

“Nothing,” Mullin said.

Mullin’s phone sounded and he picked up the receiver. “Yeah, all right,” he said, hanging up. To Accurso: “We’ve been summoned.”