Read Murder at Union Station for Free Online Page A

cut off by two shots from behind, the first striking him squarely between the shoulder blades, the second tearing a gaping hole in the back of his head. The force of the shots sent him pitching forward, cane and suitcase flying into the air. One of the workers in the hall who was carrying a large tray heaped with dirty dishes struggled with it. He lost control, the dishes smashing into pieces against the hard floor. Other workers looked at the black man, who’d covered the weapon he’d used with his trench coat but made no move to bolt from the scene.
    “What the hell?” a worker yelled.
    “Get him,” another shouted.
    But no one approached Russo’s killer, who slowly went through the swinging doors, turned left into the Main Hall, and turned left again into the East Hall Gallery, where kiosks were open for business—a Radio Shack, a handbag shop, a U.S. Mint outlet, clothing and accessories kiosks, and one devoted to miniature replicas of Washington’s most famous buildings and monuments. All the kiosks were on wheels and could be rolled away when the East Hall was booked for receptions and other social events.
    The man carrying the gun beneath his trench coat moved smoothly and quickly, but without a sense of urgency that might draw attention to him, past the kiosks and to an auxiliary entrance to the popular B. Smith’s restaurant, which led to a small bar area. People at the bar paid him no mind as he passed them and entered the main room.
    “Table, sir?” he was asked by one of the restaurant’s maître d’s.
    “No, thank you. Not today.”
    He left the restaurant through its main entrance and stepped out onto Massachusetts Avenue, in front of Union Station, where taxis waited for and dropped off passengers, and a long line of tourist buses and trolleys stood ready to take visitors on tours of the nation’s capital. A large contingent of uniformed police, augmented by National Guard soldiers, patrolled the area. The Homeland Security Agency had recently elevated the colored alert system from yellow to orange; the city was blanketed by security forces.
    He waited for a break in the traffic, crossed the wide boulevard, stopping for a second to observe a short, pudgy man playing a trumpet to entertain tourists and hopefully to have them drop money into the hat at his feet, circumvented the 1912 Columbus fountain depicting the Old and New Worlds and the adventurous Italian who’d linked the two, and stepped aboard an Old Town Trolley that was about to transport a dozen sweaty, ebullient tourists around the city.
    “Ticket, sir?” he was asked.
    “Didn’t have time to buy one inside,” he said, pulling out his wallet and handing money to the driver.
    “Thank you, sir,” the driver said. “Welcome aboard. Great day for it.”

NINE

    O nce clear of the accident scene, Rich Marienthal drove as fast as he thought he could get away with. Of the many things Kathryn Jalick liked about him, his patience behind the wheel usually ranked high on the list. Not this day. He weaved in and out through traffic approaching the Key Bridge into Georgetown and on M Street until turning down Massachusetts Avenue.
    “What a mess,” he said as they approached Union Station.
    “Must be the terror alert,” she offered, referring to the legion of law enforcement personnel milling about the station. Cars were being prevented from pulling up directly in front, so Rich squeezed into a no-parking zone on First Street, at the side of the station.
    “Wait here,” he told Kathryn as he bolted from the car and dodged traffic until he’d reached an entrance leading into the West Hall. Although uniformed armed guards patrolled that side of the station, too, no one was stopped from entering and exiting. Marienthal fought the urge to run as he made his way through the throngs of people to the gate area, looking for Russo. Failing to see him, he headed for the information desk in the Main Hall.
    “I’m looking for an old Italian