“Yeah, sure. I can understand that. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re, ah-you’re Jewish, right? An Israeli, I mean.”

She smiled. You’re a good-looking woman, Mullin thought. The old mafioso had good taste. Large breasts pressed against the fabric of a purple silk blouse; her crossed legs were shapely beneath a short tan skirt.

“I’m Hungarian,” she said. “My parents were Jewish.”

He nodded. “I see,” he said. “Well, so you’re here to claim Mr. Russo’s remains.”

“Yes. We were not married, you know.”

“Yeah, that’s right. I know that. But no other family member has stepped forth to claim him. I guess that means you.”

“Is it all right if I ask you something, Detective?”

“The name’s Bret. Sure. Go ahead.”

“I am told you found the man who shot Louis.”

“That’s right. I mean, we didn’t exactly find him. Alive, that is. Somebody shot him.”

She shook her head. “Everybody shooting everybody. It’s like in Israel. Bombs, always bombs. People killing people.”

“Yeah. I know. Too much a that. I don’t want to offend or anything, Ms. Levine-I mean, considering your loss and all-but there’s some questions I’d like to ask you.”

“About Louis.”

“Yeah. About Louis. I don’t know how much you know about him, but-”

“That he was a criminal in the United States before he came to Israel under your witness program? I know that.”

Mullin started to say something, but she continued.

“I know that he killed people for the Mafia. I know that he did many bad things here. I wish he hadn’t, but that was all before I met him. I knew a good man, not a murderer.”

Mullin felt uncomfortable. It was hot in the room despite the air-conditioning. His collar seemed to have shrunk around his neck. And he wanted a drink, a quiet one in a quiet, cool bar.

“Do you know why he came to Washington?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To meet with Richard.”

“Who’s Richard?”

“Richard Marienthal. It doesn’t matter. Louis was working with him on a book about his life. That was all.”

“This writer. He’s from D.C.?”

Her reply was to take a Kleenex from her purse and blow her nose. “Excuse me,” she said.

“That’s okay. You see, Sasha, even though the guy who shot Louis is dead, and we know for certain that it was him who did it, the case is still open. Who is the guy who shot Louis’s murderer? How come he did-shoot Louis’s murderer? If we know why your, uh-not your husband but your friend-came all the way from Israel to Washington, that might help us get to the bottom of things and wrap it up.”

“I understand, Detective, and I would like to help you. You seem very nice. I appreciate your courtesy. When may I take Louis home for burial?”

“That’s not up to me. The M.E. makes that decision. And my bosses, the D.A. Pretty soon, though. I mean, there’s no reason to keep him anymore.” He ran his finger around his collar. “I suppose you’re unhappy about the delay. I mean, being Jewish and all, you like to bury the dead right away.”

“That’s right,” she said. “But Louis wasn’t Jewish. He was Italian.”

“Yeah, I know. I guess that makes a difference. You, ah-you have a place to stay here in D.C.?”

“A hotel.” She consulted a slip of paper from her purse. “The Lincoln Suites. On L Street.” She smiled and returned the paper to her purse. “You name the streets with letters,” she said. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the way they planned it. Nice place, the Lincoln. That’s what I hear. I never been there. Not too expensive, either. You checked in yet?”

“No. I came directly here from the airport.”

“Tell you what, Miss Levine. I’ll drive you over to the hotel. You get checked in, and I’ll buy you dinner. How’s that sound?”

“I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

He stood and waved his hand. “No problem. It’ll be my pleasure.”

They went to Zola, named after the novelist Emile Zola and next to the International Spy Museum, where Mullin knew the bartender. They sat at the bar. Sasha ordered a white Zinfandel, Mullin bourbon on the rocks. She chain-smoked; he chain-drank.

“Here’s to meeting you,” he said, holding his second glass up to hers but withdrawing it quickly to avoid having her see that his hand shook. “Wish it was under better circumstances.”

He sipped his drink slower than he would have had he been alone, but finished it and ordered a third. Fortified, he relaxed and conversation flowed freely-her life in Hungary and Israel, his take on Washington and its problems. “Damn politicians,” he said. “Could be a nice place if it wasn’t for the politicians. The whole country’s screwed up ’cause of them.”

They eventually gravitated to a black and red velvet booth in one of the restaurant’s small, dark rooms, its walls covered with visuals to carry out the spy theme-shredded CIA documents, Plexiglas cases containing stills and posters from famous espionage movies, photographs of the nation’s most infamous spymasters. It was grilled tuna and a salad for her, corn with bacon chowder and roast chicken for him.

“So,” he said over coffee, “you know anybody here in D.C.?”

“Yes.”

“This writer who was doing a book on Louis’s life?”

She nodded and yawned. “I’m sorry, but I am sleepy. The flight was so long and…”

“Hey, I understand. I’ll get a check.” He waved for their waiter, dressed entirely in black.

He pulled up in front of her hotel. “I really enjoyed tonight,” she said. “Thank you very much. You’re a kind man.”

“Yeah, well, not all cops are bad. It isn’t all like you read these days. I appreciate you not smoking in the car.”

“It is not a problem.”

“You have plans for tomorrow?”

“No. I have to call Richard and-”

“This writer?”

“Yes.”

“What’s he like, this writer?”

“He’s very nice.”

“An old guy?”

“Pardon?”

“Just wondered whether he’s an old guy. Maybe I know him. Maybe I read stuff he wrote. I read a lot.”

“No,” she laughed. “He’s quite young. I really must go inside. I don’t want to fall asleep on you here in the car.”

“Sure, I understand.”

“Good night, Detective.”

“It’s Bret, huh? Look, I’ll call you tomorrow? Maybe if you’re not doing anything tomorrow night, we could have dinner again.”

“I-perhaps. Thank you again, Bret.”

He watched her enter the hotel, sat for a minute, then went to a bar near his apartment and had a few more drinks before calling it a night. His last act before going to bed-and after feeding Magnum and downing one final drink-was to write down the name she’d mentioned, misspelling it Richard Mariontholl. He’d check this guy out in the morning.

And he’d be sure to call her about dinner.

That same evening, Mac and Annabel Smith returned to a phone ringing in their Watergate apartment after having enjoyed dinner out. Annabel picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Annabel? It’s Frank Marienthal in New York.”

“Hello, Frank. Your timing is good. We just walked in.”

“Glad I still have good timing,” he said pleasantly. “I seem to be losing other things.”

“Join the club,” said Annabel. “You’re looking for Mac, I assume.”

“If he’s available.”

She held her palm over the mouthpiece.

“I’ll take it in my office,” Mac said, heading there. “I’ve been meaning to call you, Frank,” he said after settling in his chair and picking up the phone. “How are you?”

“Quite well, Mac, although Mary has been having problems. But that’s not why I called. I wanted to talk to you about Richard.”

“We had Richard and his lady friend, Kathryn, to dinner recently.”

“I know. He was here that afternoon and told me he’d be seeing you. Did he discuss his book with you?”

“Barely. I asked him a lot of questions, but he seemed reluctant to get into it.” Smith laughed. “I told Annabel I didn’t know many writers who didn’t want to talk about their books.”