“A book? What kind of book?”

Mullin shrugged. “I didn’t get into that with her. But I know who he is, where he lives. I think we ought to bring him in as a material witness.”

Leshin muttered something under his breath and ran a hand over his shaved head. He said to Mullin, “Do I speak in some foreign tongue, Bret? Did you not understand me when I said to drop it? The Russo case is closed. Officially closed.”

“No,” Mullin said, “I understood what you said. But let me ask you a question.”

“Make it quick.”

“Why has it been dropped? On whose orders?”

“On my orders.”

“Yeah, but who told you to drop it?”

Leshin got up from behind the desk, went to the door, and opened it. “I’m pairing you up with Bayliss.”

“Thanks,” Mullin said, his tone indicating he meant anything but. He left Leshin’s office and returned to his desk, where his new partner, a recently promoted detective named Craig Bayliss, waited.

“Looks like you’ve drawn me,” the freckle-faced redhead said, offering a wide smile.

“What’d I do to get so lucky?” Mullin said. To his mind, the younger cop looked like Alfred E. Neuman from the old Mad magazine days, right down to the small void between his front teeth. Mullin picked up a folder containing the preliminary report on the shooting of Vinnie Accurso, including the description provided by witnesses. He and Bayliss would join dozens of other detectives that day with one assignment: find the assailant. Cop shot? All hands on deck.

“Want me to drive?” Bayliss asked as they walked to their assigned unmarked car.

“No. I’ll drive. And do me a favor.”

“Sure, Bret.”

“Don’t talk a lot, okay?”

Actually, Mullin’s mood had been good earlier that morning.

After failing to make contact with Rich Marienthal at his apartment building the previous evening, he’d made a fast stop at his apartment to freshen up and to change clothes in anticipation of dinner with Sasha Levine. She was in the hotel lobby when he arrived, the ubiquitous cigarette going from hand to mouth and back again. She greeted him warmly, and entered his car through the door he held open, dropping the partially finished Camel in the gutter.

“I’m really glad you could have dinner with me,” he said, joining the flow of traffic.

“It is good of you to ask me,” she said.

“You in the mood for anything special?” he asked. “Some kind of ethnic food, maybe? Middle Eastern or something like that?”

“I will be happy wherever we go,” she replied, sounding as though she meant it.

He was glad she was open to suggestions. Although he would have taken her to any restaurant that pleased her, he’d never been keen on food from other countries, except occasionally Italian and Mexican now and then. They went to The Prime Rib on K Street, where the bartenders and manager greeted him-and where he knew what would be on his plate.

Once settled in a black leather banquette, Sasha, who wore a black skirt and sweater and a red blazer with gold buttons, took in her surroundings-brass-trimmed black walls and leopard-skin carpeting, the waiters in black tie, and a tuxedoed pianist with flowing white hair playing nostalgic tunes on a glass-topped grand piano.

“I feel like part of the decor,” she said.

Mullin laughed. “Yeah, you wore the right thing,” he said. “You look great.”

“Thank you,” she said. “This must be a very expensive restaurant.”

He waved her concerns away. “No problem,” he said.

“I had upsetting news today,” she said.

“Oh? What happened?”

“A friend in Tel Aviv called. Someone broke into my apartment.”

“I’m sorry. What’d they do, steal stuff?”

“My friend doesn’t think so. Maybe it was things Louis had that they were looking for.”

Mullin nodded. “He had important stuff there, papers, money?”

“I don’t really know. He didn’t discuss his business with me.”

“So when are you taking Mr. Russo back with you to Israel?”

“Tomorrow. I have made the arrangements today with the airline and your police doctor. Tomorrow-” She fell silent and her eyes became moist.

Mullin placed his hand on hers. “Must be tough,” he said.

She shook her head and smiled. “It is life, that’s all. Louis used to say dying was the price you pay for living.”

“Sounds like he was a philosopher or something.”

“He was a much smarter man than many thought. Because he did not have a formal education and did bad things early in his life, people thought he wasn’t intelligent. But he was. I thought such things, too, when I first met him. But I came to know a gentle man who liked to read and who thought deeply about many things.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Sasha. I guess you got to know him pretty good, living with him for so many years.”

A waiter interrupted to take their drink orders.

“A glass of white Zinfandel,” she said.

“I’ll have a glass of wine, too,” said Mullin. “Red. A house red.” He turned back to her. “Sorry you couldn’t get hold of your writer friend, Marienthal,” he said.

“I tried many times. He must be away on a trip.”

“Yeah, probably.”

When the waiter returned with their drinks, they clinked the rims of their glasses.

“Hate to see you leave,” Mullin said.

“Thank you. Maybe one day I will come back.”

“That’d be good. What was this book Mr. Marienthal was writing with your-with Mr. Russo?”

She sighed deeply, picked up her wine in both hands, and sat back in the banquette.

“You don’t have to say if you don’t want to,” he said.

Another sigh, more prolonged this time. “I really don’t know much,” she said, taking a tiny sip. “When Louis decided to do the book with Rich, he told me he didn’t want me to know anything about what would be in it.”

“How come?”

“He said he wanted to protect me.”

“From what?”

She came forward and forced a smile. “It is better we don’t talk about it. What do you recommend at this restaurant?”

“Well,” he said, pleased to be asked, “I usually have the prime rib. They serve real, fresh horseradish with it, you know? Lots of people have the crab. Crab Imperial, they call it, baked in a shell with other stuff.”

“That sounds very good.”

Mullin was relieved that as the evening progressed, Sasha became more talkative, sparing him from having to carry the conversation. She spoke of her childhood in Budapest, her family and schooling, and her decision to move to Israel. Mullin was sorely tempted to order another drink, something stronger than wine this time, but successfully fought the urge. He wanted very much to impress this lady from Tel Aviv, to have her like and respect him. Getting drunk wouldn’t accomplish that.

The restaurant’s subdued lighting cast a flattering glow over Sasha, and it crossed Mullin’s mind as they ate and talked that she looked a little like his ex-wife, not so much in their features, but their coloring was certainly similar. Mullin had always been attracted to women with dusky skin and dark hair. Maybe it was the contrast with his blotchy, fair skin that appealed. Sasha’s eyes were large and almost black, her lips sensually full. She had a way of looking directly at him as she spoke, as though seeing beyond his facade into what he was thinking and feeling.

He was also wondering what had attracted her to an old former mobster, a killer and leg-breaker, living in Israel like a hunted animal, never sure whether the next passing car contained those who would avenge his traitorous act. Did it represent some character flaw in her? Or was it a middle-aged woman’s desperation-any man in a storm? He didn’t ask.

“Tell me more about this writer,” he said. “Maybe I’ll get to meet him. He lives here in D.C.?”