Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [87]
“Hello?” Kathryn Jalick said.
“Is Richard there?” Stripling asked.
“Who’s calling?”
“Name’s Simmons. I’m with Liberty Media. I’ve been assigned to interview him about his new book.”
“I—I’m afraid he’s not here.”
“My bad luck. When do you expect him?”
“Not for a while. He’s away—researching his next book.”
“If you’ll give a number, I’ll be happy to call him no matter where he is. I’m on deadline.”
“I don’t have a contact number for him, Mr.—”
“Simmons. Charlie Simmons. I’ll try him again another time.”
“If you give me a number at which you can be reached, I’ll—”
The line went dead as he quietly lowered the receiver into its cradle.
He took another look at Marienthal’s photo, shook his head, and muttered, “Terrorist, my ass.” He went to the bedroom, where he dressed in slacks, an open-neck shirt, a blue denim sports jacket, and loafers. Returning to the kitchen, he secured his holster beneath the jacket. Its weight felt strange; he hadn’t worn it or killed anyone in four years.
He took a taxi to the Lincoln Suites Hotel on L Street and picked up a house phone in the lobby. Sasha answered on the first ring.
“Ms. Levine, this is Charlie Simmons. I’m a friend of Richard Marienthal.” He generally used the fictitious first name Charlie because he’d decided over the years that people tended to believe people named Charlie.
“Oh, hello,” she said.
“I hope I’m not calling too late,” he said pleasantly.
“No, not at all. I was reading a book.”
“Hope it’s a good one,” he said.
“A very good one.”
“I’ve been trying to get hold of Richard all evening. I thought—”
“I have been trying to reach him, too,” she said.
He laughed. “You know what writers are like,” he said. “Always disappearing. Any idea where he is?”
“No.”
“I know how excited he is with the book coming out and all. Boy, I have to admit that when he played some of those tapes for me, my hair stood on end.”
“He played the tapes for you?”
“Just some, a few selected portions. He told me all about you and Mr. Russo. I couldn’t believe it when he was killed like that, right in broad daylight in Union Station with a million people around.”
“You said your name was?”
“Charlie Simmons. Rich and I go back a long way.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t believe he ever mentioned you.”
“We kind of lost touch for a while. Any chance of buying you a drink?”
“Oh, that’s very kind, but I’m afraid I’m not up to a drink. Tomorrow I must—”
“Tomorrow?”
“Nothing. Thank you for calling. If you will give me your number, I’ll ask Rich to call if I hear from him.”
“Sure you can’t spare me even a few minutes? Not even a quick cup of coffee? Rich said so many nice things about you that I’d hate to miss the chance to at least say hello in person. I don’t get to Israel very often.”
There was a pause before she said, “All right. But only a quick cup.”
“Great. I’m right around the corner. Be there in five minutes. See you in the lobby. You’ll recognize me. I’m the handsome one in the blue denim jacket.”
Bret Mullin’s experiment with going to bed sober was short-lived. The phone rang minutes after he’d turned out the light. “Mullin,” he said.
“Bret? It’s Rosie.”
He hadn’t heard from his former wife in a month; the familiar sound of her husky voice was welcome.
“How are you, Rosie?”
“All right. I hope I’m not calling too late.”
“No, no, you know me. A night owl.” He was aware that he sounded clearheaded, and was pleased that he did. “What’s up?”
“It’s Cynthia, Bret. She was in a car accident earlier tonight.”
“Jesus. Is she okay?”
“Some bruises and a mild concussion. They treated her at the hospital and released her. She called me from home.”
“Thank God she’s okay. Not seriously hurt, I mean.”
“Bret, she needs money. Her car was totaled. And she doesn’t have health insurance.”
“Doesn’t have health insurance? How can that be? Everybody needs health insurance in case something like this happens. What’s wrong with her?”
He heard her sigh on the other end.
“All I mean is—”
“Bret, this isn’t a time for a lecture