Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [40]
“I know I’m right. They make a great shrimp Fra Diavolo here. It’s good with pizza bianca. Wine? Red or white?”
“How can you think of food?” she said, disgust in her voice and on her heavily made-up face.
Melincamp stared at her. The smoke from her cigarette still stung his eyes, and he turned away. He had two urges at that moment. The first was to punch her in the face. But that wouldn’t have been appreciated in a public place. The second was to announce to her that it wouldn’t be long before she was past-tense, that he’d soon have enough money to buy her out. Maybe he’d punch her before laying that news on her, he thought. That contemplation made him feel better. He called for a waiter and ordered shrimp Fra Diavolo and a small pizza bianca.
“Oh, Gawd!” she said.
“And red wine,” he said. “The house wine will be fine.”
• • •
Pizza was also on the menu at the Department of Homeland Security.
Immediately after his announcement, Secretary Murtaugh had left for a meeting at the White House with President Montgomery and members of his National Security staff. Those in the Nebraska Complex who’d crunched the intelligence for their boss took a breather. Pizza was ordered in, prepared by a neighborhood shop that had been cleared to deliver food to the offices. Over pepperoni and mushroom slices and soft drinks, they discussed the information they’d received, upon which they’d based their recommendation that the color be changed on the Lifesaver, known as the threat barometer.
“I hope it’s not another hoax,” one said as he tried to dab away tomato sauce.
“Not this time,” a colleague said. “Our guy in Amman—the Brit, M.T.—says his source is highly credible. We met the source, remember? The Arab kid who’d studied here. He went through the training, spoke really good English
“Yeah, I remember him,” said one of the men at the table. “Name was—ah, Gallop, something like that
“Right. Martone recruited him
Another analyst at the table laughed. “So M.T. says Gallop, or whatever the hell his name is, came up with good info from this Iraqi he turned. Why the hell is it that we put more stock in what British Intelligence says than we do in our own?”
“Because they talk better,” someone said. “They sound more believable, the King’s English and all.” He did a poor imitation of a British accent.
“Yeah, maybe so, but this guy’s been pretty good. He—”
Their banter was interrupted by a message received over a secured line. The analyst who’d expressed confidence in the British contact in Jordan read it, scowled, and angrily tossed it on the table. It landed in the almost empty pizza box, picking up a greasy red stain at its corner, like blood. The others read it, too.
“Damn,” the first reader of the message said. “Looks like Mr. Gallop didn’t cover his tracks good enough. Our British friend will have to get himself another source.” He got up from the table, took the message from the last person to have read it, and started from the room.
“I’d better run this upstairs.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Portelain and Johnson stopped at a fast-food outlet, where the portly Portelain downed a chili dog with relish (in both senses of the word) while his comely female partner sipped a Diet Pepsi and watched him enjoy his snack.
“Best in the whole damn city,” he proclaimed.
“If you say so,” she said. “Come on. Let’s pick up the Warren kid before he decides to cool off back in Canada
“I’ll bet it is cooler up there,” Portelain said, wiping perspiration from his brow as they headed for their car.
“I didn’t mean the weather,” she said, slipping into the passenger seat while he wedged himself behind the wheel. They drove to N Street and parked at a hydrant in front of the four-story gray building.
“This is it?” Johnson asked, her eyes automatically sweeping the scene in search of potential trouble.
“This is where the man lives,” said Portelain. “Where the victim lived, too. And their manager when he’s in town
“The apartment’s that big?”
“No. Tiny little place, but it’s got two bedrooms—closets used as bedrooms