Mullin’s head had fallen forward to his chest when a sharp tap on his window snapped him to consciousness. He looked up into the face of a uniformed police officer and rolled down the window, allowing wind-driven rain to splash against his face.

“You sick or something?” the cop asked.

“Sick? Nah.”

“Then move it. This is a no-parking zone.”

Mullin reached into his jacket pocket. The cop touched his holster, but Mullin quickly produced his shield.

“You on assignment?” the cop asked.

“Yeah. Thanks for stopping by.”

The officer had no sooner walked away than Mullin saw Stripling pull up on the opposite side of the street, half a block down from the hotel. Stripling locked the car, ran down the street, and entered the hotel. Mullin looked around the interior of his vehicle. Why was there never an umbrella when you needed one? There were half a dozen back in the apartment. He spotted a beat-up NY Yankees baseball cap on the backseat, twisted with difficulty to grab it, slammed it on his head, and went to Stripling’s car. He looked up and down the street before trying the front passenger door. Locked. He leaned close to the tinted windows and attempted to see inside, but saw only indistinguishable images. Concerned that Stripling and Sasha might leave the hotel and come to the car, he retreated to his own vehicle. He wished he’d picked up a newspaper or magazine, something to kill the time. He hadn’t read a book in years.

He tuned the radio to all-news WTOP, where an announcer intoned that the stormy weather was expected to end by late afternoon, with another heat wave to push its way into the area the next day. Commercials followed. Then the day’s top stories were repeated.

“This is Dave Stewart with an update on the breaking story involving the Mafia’s alleged role in the assassination more than twenty years ago of Chilean dictator Constantine Eliana. A soon-to-be-published book by Washington writer Richard Marienthal claims that the assassination in 1985 was carried out under a contract given a New York Mafia family by the Central Intelligence Agency. The allegation comes from Louis Russo, the Mafia member who claims to have pulled the trigger in that assassination, and who himself was murdered in Union Station only days ago. Russo, who had traveled here to Washington from Israel, where he’d been living under the federal witness protection program, was to have testified at a hearing conducted by Alaska Senator Karl Widmer into the intelligence agency’s possible role in the assassination. It’s further alleged in the book that President Adam Parmele, then head of the CIA, had personally approved of the assassination. Attempts to reach Marienthal through his publisher and other sources have been unsuccessful. There has been no statement from the White House. A statement issued by Senator Widmer’s press secretary says only that such hearings have been planned and that they will go forward despite Russo’s death. Tapes of him recounting the story will be available, according to the statement. Stay tuned for further updates as we receive them.”

Mullin spent the next forty-five minutes mulling over what he’d heard. The official MPD finding-that Russo had been murdered by organized crime in retaliation for his testimony against them-made less sense than ever to the veteran detective. Had it happened somewhere else-Mexico, Israel, New York, or Los Angeles-he might have bought it. If it had been a revenge killing, why would they have waited until Russo had reached the place where he was scheduled to tell all? And why would the mob draw attention to itself at this stage, and after all these years, by rubbing out a dying turncoat? Mobsters weren’t the brightest bulbs in the drawer, but they did have a pretty good sense of self-preservation despite the decimation of the Mafia leadership.

The Parmele administration had the most to lose had Russo lived and gone before the committee. That was obvious. But the contemplation that someone in that administration might have had something to do with Russo’s murder was too difficult to accept, even for the terminally cynical Bret Mullin.

Sasha had mentioned at dinner that Russo had been working with this writer guy Marienthal on a book. Now, thanks to WTOP, Mullin knew what the book was about. Even ruling out the mob, whoever killed Russo might have Marienthal in his crosshairs, too. As far as Mullin knew, Marienthal was the only one who could corroborate what Russo had said. Tapes? Did Marienthal have them? Or had he already turned them over to Senator Widmer for use at his hearings?

Who’d killed the Haitian, Leon LeClaire, Russo’s assassin? Probably the same people who’d hired him as shooter. Eliminating a shooter to ensure his silence was SOP in criminal circles.

These thoughts came and went as Mullin drank cold coffee and nibbled the last doughnut, which was rapidly growing soggy in the humid air. Distracted by his thoughts, he looked across to the hotel to check that Stripling’s car was still parked at the curb. It was. Stripling and Sasha were obviously having breakfast.

Ten minutes later, Stripling came out and stood beneath an overhang, casually taking in the street and the passersby. Eventually he looked up at the gray sky, held a newspaper over his head, and went to his car, got in, and drove away. Mullin started his engine, made an illegal U-turn, and fell in behind.

He didn’t know why he was following Stripling, a.k.a. Charlie Simmons, or whatever other names he used. He just knew he had to. Who was this guy? What connection did he have with Russo and LeClaire and Widmer? He wasn’t who he represented himself to be to Sasha. Why? Was the break-in of her apartment in Tel Aviv connected in some way?

Stripling drove slowly, which made it easy for Mullin to keep pace. He eventually found a parking space on Tenth Street and walked quickly to the corner of Constitution. He entered the Department of Justice Building. He came out minutes later, got in his car, and drove to E Street, between Ninth and Tenth Streets, parked in a garage, came back on to the street and disappeared inside the J. Edgar Hoover Building, home to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

“He’s Bureau?” Mullin asked aloud in the confines of his car. “He’s official, somehow.”

Why would the Bureau be involved? The Russo and LeClaire killings had been handled as local matters, with the MPD investigating. Of course, he reasoned, seeing Stripling enter the FBI building didn’t necessarily mean he was an employee. But he was obviously working for somebody interested in the cases. His computer file didn’t indicate that he held a private investigator’s license.

He’d claimed to Sasha that he was an old friend of Richard Marienthal. Mullin had seen him leaving Marienthal’s apartment building, but he obviously hadn’t been with the writer. No one was home; Mullin’s attempt through the superintendent verified that.

He dialed the number for the Lincoln Suites Hotel on his cell phone and was connected with Sasha Levine’s room.

“Hi. It’s Detective Bret Mullin.”

He couldn’t see her smile at his adding his title. She knew who he was without it. “Hello,” she said.

“How was your breakfast?” he asked.

“It was fine.”

He sensed a reservation in her answer. “You don’t sound too sure,” he said.

She forced a small laugh. “No, no, it was all right. I-”

“What?”

“I don’t believe Charlie Simmons is who he said he was.”

“Is that so? How come?”

“He seemed to want to know so much about Richard and his interviews with Louis. It was nothing specific. I just didn’t believe he was Richard’s good friend as he said he was. The tapes. The tapes of the interviews. That’s all he seemed to care about.”

“What did you tell him?”