Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [105]
“Maybe I should take a taxi,” she said.
“How come? I said I’d drive you.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t drive, the drinks and all.”
He gave forth a reassuring laugh. “A couple a pops don’t affect me. I’m fine.”
She sat rigidly on the bar stool, staring at the back bar’s glittering array of bottles and glassware. “Hey,” he said, touching her shoulder. “If you don’t want to have dinner with me, that’s okay. I mean, I’ll be disappointed but—”
“Who are you?” she asked, turning to face him.
“Huh?”
“Who are you?” she repeated.
“You know who I am.”
“I don’t know who anyone is,” she said. “That man, Charlie Simmons, isn’t who he says he is. You told me that.”
“Right. I checked on him. I got his plate number and ran it. His name’s Stripling. Timothy Stripling. The way I read the info on him, he’s with some government agency. Hard to tell which one.”
“Why would he lie to me?”
“He’s looking for the writer and the tapes. You said he kept asking about them. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“So maybe he’s working for the senator from Alaska. That makes sense, don’t it?”
She turned her hands palms up in a gesture of confusion. “They break into my apartment,” she said. “The tapes. They were looking for the tapes, copies of them?”
“Could be.” The bar tab was placed in front of him and he slapped cash on it. “I’d like to know where this writer friend of yours is.”
“It sounds as though many people want to know where he is,” she said.
“Maybe we can get a missing person’s search going,” he said. “Of course, if his girlfriend says he’s not missing, just away, that makes it tough, but I’ll see what I can do.” He didn’t add that his boss’s admonition to drop any search for Marienthal would make it even tougher. He stood and hitched his trousers up over his belly. “Well,” he said, “if you want, I’ll get you a cab. I’d still like to drive you and have dinner, but that’s up to you.”
She didn’t reply as she slid off the stool, extended the handle of her suitcase, and looked toward the lobby. Mullin took the flowers from the bar and held them up. “Don’t want these?” he asked.
She lowered her head and let out a sustained, pained sigh. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Please forgive me. Louis always said it was better to distrust friends than to be deceived by them.”
“And you don’t trust me,” he said.
She thought a moment before saying, “I don’t trust myself. Yes, please, drive me to the airport.” She took the flowers from him, smiled, and said, “I think you are a kind man, Detective Mr. Bret Mullin. Thank you for being kind to me.”
“No problem,” he said, unsure of what else to say. “Let’s go. You can smoke in the car if you want.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The phone was ringing when Mac Smith walked through the door.
“Mac. Frank Marienthal.”
“Hello, Frank. How are you?” Smith said, cradling the cordless phone to his ear as he deposited two bags of groceries on the kitchen counter of his Watergate apartment.
“I’ve been better. I’m in Washington.”
“Oh. Business?”
“Family business. Richard. I’m staying at the Watergate. I’d like to see you.”
“Want to come up to the apartment?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
Mac gave directions to his building in the complex and hung up. Ten minutes later, the New York criminal attorney was seated with Smith on the terrace, glasses and a bottle of sparkling water on the table.
“Sorry to barge in on you on short notice,” the elder Marienthal said. He wore a dark blue pinstripe suit, a white shirt, and a solid maroon tie. Smith had changed into loose-fitting jeans and a pale green short-sleeved polo shirt.
“I’m pleased to see you, Frank. I know why you’re here, of course. Richard’s disappearance has been all over the news. How much play has it gotten in New York?”
“Not as much as here, it being a Washington story. Christ, Mac, to think that Richard got himself into a situation like this is anathema to Mary and me. The potential ramifications are immense. A sitting president may be accused of authorizing the assassination of a foreign leader when he was heading the CIA. The accuser