Free Murder at Union Station by Margaret Truman Page B

central database. His eyebrows went up as he read, eventually accompanied by a smile and a slow shaking of his head.
    “He’s an old mobster,” he said.
    “Yeah. Catch his background. Italian father, Jewish mother.”
    “Maybe that’s how he ended up in Israel.”
    “No. Read further, buddy.”
    Accurso went to the second page and frowned. When he’d finished reading, he looked up at Mullin and said, “Witness protection program. Mr. Russo ratted out his buddies.”
    “Yup. Gambino family. He testified against some of his spaghetti-bender friends and put ’em away.”
    Accurso, son of an Italian-American family, didn’t take offense at his partner’s derogatory reference to Italians. Mullin routinely used politically incorrect terms for every ethnic and racial group, but Accurso had learned over time that Mullin was not a prejudiced man, at least no more so than other cops he knew. He used ethnic and racial slang with every member of the force; if there was resentment, no one expressed it, at least not to his face.
    “It was a hit, Vinny, plain and simple. It took the family twenty years to get even, but they did.”
    “Looks that way.”
    Accurso read further.
    “He spent his first year in the program in Mexico. That’s a first.”
    “Nah. The Bureau’s got some sort of agreement with the Mexicans to take in snitches like Russo. Gets ’em outta the country. Harder to find ’em that way. You see where Russo complained about being southa the border, said he didn’t like his accommodations. How about that? Maybe it was the spicy food.” Mullin snickered.
    “So he goes to Israel. We have a deal with them, too?”
    A shrug from Mullin. “Why knows? Maybe. You read the last paragraph?”
    Accurso again looked at the report. “They lost interest in Russo,” he said. “Looks like the FBI had other things to worry about.”
    “I love the way they describe it,” Mullin said, taking the paper from Accurso and reading aloud from it: “‘Operational contact with subject made low priority. Subject firmly settled in Tel Aviv with Jewish female companion. Age and deteriorating health render subject unlikely to leave the country.’”
    “They got that wrong,” said Accurso.
    “Big-time. So, Vinny, what was Mr. Louis Russo doing here in D.C.?”
    “Playing tourist?”
    “Look at this list of what he was carrying. Enough pills to stock a pharmacy. A doc’s name over at GW hospital. A medical history. Hell, judging from that, he was damn near dead already when he got it.”
    “They contact this woman he was with in Israel?”
    “Yeah. I don’t know whether they reached her yet. You watch TV news last night?”
    “No, Katie and I watched one of those reality shows.”
    “This place isn’t real enough for you?”
    “Stupid show.”
    “They all are. Sometimes reality is, too. I watched the news. Fox had this gal reporter who was at the station right after the shooting. She says some young guy asked about the victim. When she said she didn’t know, he blurts out the name.”
    “Russo? Louis Russo?”
    “That’s what she says.”
    “We talk to her?”
    “Eldridge did. She put out on the tube last night we want him to come forward. So how come this young guy knows the victim is Russo? Who the hell is he?”
    “She give much of a description?”
    “No. Kind of tall, heavyset, she said. Says she only saw him for a second. Excited. But not exactly broken up. I’d love to find this guy.”
    “Maybe he
will
come forward.”
    “Depends on what his game is. And mob connection, if there is one.”
    “The Italian Mafia using black hit men these days?”
    “That bothered me, too, except so many of the dago mob are in jail, maybe they have to go outside.” He grunted and stood. “Well, let’s head over to Northeast and spread the sketch around to some of our more prominent citizens, like the boss wants. That’ll kill the morning, and we can grab lunch at that joint we were at last week.”
    As they