Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [71]
He pulled his cell phone from his jacket, dialed the number of the Lincoln Suites, and asked for Sasha Levine, who was on the phone instantly. The sound of her voice startled him. He was sure she wouldn’t be there.
“Ms. Levine. Bret Mullin here. The detective. Remember?”
“Of course I do.”
“I got tied up today and forgot to call. There was a—my partner got shot and—”
“How terrible.”
“Yeah, it was. But he’ll be okay. It was his leg. He’ll be fine.”
“I am glad to hear that.”
“I was wondering whether you were available for dinner, like we discussed.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Good. Did you catch up with that writer friend of yours, Mr. Marienthal?”
“No. I called, but there was only his machine that answers.”
“How long ago did you call?”
“This afternoon. I tried two or three times.”
“Tell you what. How about you try again? Maybe he’s home by now.”
“All right.”
“If he’s home, bring him to dinner with us. Don’t tell him I’ll be there. My treat.”
“I don’t think—”
“I’m serious. Happy to get you two together.”
“I will try.”
“Good. I’ll pick you up at the hotel, say, in about an hour? Hour and a half?”
“An hour and a half would be better.”
“You got it. See you then.”
The vodka burned his throat and stomach as he downed it in a single swallow.
“Another?” the barmaid asked
“No, thanks, sweetie. Got to run.”
He intended as he got in his car to go home, shower, and change clothes. Instead, he drove to the Eastern Market area and pulled up in front of the address he’d been given for Richard Marienthal. He turned off the ignition and pondered whether to see if Marienthal was home. That could be awkward, however. He’d already arranged with Sasha to invite the guy to dinner. Still, he didn’t want to wait that long. If Bret Mullin had any virtues, patience wasn’t among them.
He was about to leave the car and approach the building when the front door opened. A nondescript middle-aged man wearing a suit and tie stepped through it and stood on the set of six steps leading down to the sidewalk. Is that you, Marienthal? Mullin wondered. Too old, he decided. A better look at the man’s face confirmed it wasn’t the person in the artist’s sketch and computer-generated photograph. He took note of a leather catalogue bag dangling from the man’s hand. Judging from the way he carried it, it didn’t have much in it.
Come on, come on, Mullin silently said. Move! Get going!
The man looked left and right before slowly descending the steps. He went to a car parked at the corner, tossed the bag into the backseat, climbed behind the wheel, and drove off—but not before Mullin scribbled down the make, color, and plate number. He waited a few minutes before going to the building, entering the foyer, and checking the names on the intercom board. He pushed the button for the apartment in the name of R. Marienthal and K. Jalick. Nothing. He tried again. And again. He pushed the button for the super’s apartment.
“What do you want?” a man answered in an East Indian accent.
“You the super for this building?” Mullin shouted to be heard over the sound of a TV in the background.
“No time now. Go away.”
Mullin felt his anger rise. “Hey, I’m the police. I need to talk to you.”
“The police?”
“Yeah, the police. Come on, I don’t have all day.”
The superintendent came through the door separating the foyer from the building interior.
Mullin flashed his badge. “I’m looking for these people, Marienthal and—” He looked at the intercom board again. “And K. Jalick.”
“I don’t know nothing about them,” the super said, making a move to retreat back inside.
“Hey, buddy, hold on a minute. They live here. Right?”
“Yes. I have to go. I am busy.”
The super’s overt nervousness caused Mullin’s antennae to go up. Sure, people got uptight when confronted by a cop, especially foreigners. But this guy looked like he was about to race from the foyer. What’ve you got going inside, baby? Mullin wondered. Illegal alien? A few bags of crack? Running some broads?
“Calm down,” Mullin said. “I just want to