Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [88]
“Yeah, I guess I can. I’ve got some savings, not a lot—the divorce and all—and I can borrow against my credit union account. How much does she need?”
“She has to find a car, a secondhand one, I’m sure. I don’t know how much the hospital costs, but you know how expensive hospitals can be. Five thousand?”
“Whew!” He resisted the urge to ask why his daughter hadn’t called him, why she never called, why she thought she could cut him out of her life, but was comfortable taking his money.
“Will you send her the money, Bret? I’m short of funds, but I’ve already written a check for a thousand. Can you send four thousand?”
“Okay.”
“You have her address.”
“If she hasn’t moved in the past year.”
“She hasn’t.”
“Good.”
“Bret.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t go writing her a nasty letter with the check. She needs help, nothing more.”
“Yeah, sure. Right.”
“Thanks. You’ve been okay?”
“I’m fine. You?”
“Fine. Just fine. Thanks again. I know she’ll appreciate it.”
The conversation over, he went to the kitchen and poured bourbon into a water glass over a few cubes. He checked his watch; too late to call Sasha at the hotel? He decided it wasn’t and dialed the hotel, was connected to her room. No answer. He didn’t leave a message on her voice mail.
He was wide awake. After another tumbler of bourbon, he brushed his teeth and dressed in the suit, shirt, and tie he’d worn earlier that day. “Hey, buddy,” he told Magnum, “guard the joint till Poppa gets back.” The black-and-white cat rubbed against his shin, and he reached down to scratch its head. He loved that cat. He was halfway out the door when he retreated to the bedroom, rummaged through a bureau drawer, and came up with a cigarette lighter. He tried it; it worked. He pocketed the lighter and left.
It wasn’t his business that Sasha wasn’t in her room when he called, and he knew it, acknowledged it as he drove in the direction of the Lincoln Suites Hotel. But why wasn’t she in her room? She’d said she was tired. She didn’t know anyone in Washington except for the writer, Marienthal, and she hadn’t been able to reach him. He hoped she hadn’t decided to take a walk. It was dangerous for a woman to walk around alone at night, especially someone who didn’t know the city and its notorious areas. How many crimes had he investigated that involved women walking alone at night? Plenty.
Had she come down for coffee or a nightcap and met someone? Women were so vulnerable to smooth-talking strangers, weirdos in sheep’s clothing. This is silly, he told himself, driving faster. Chances were she’d been in the bathroom when he’d called and hadn’t heard the phone. Did the hotel have a phone in the bathroom? Many did these days. Someone had broken into her apartment in Tel Aviv. Why? Did it have to do with her lover, Russo?
He pulled to the curb across from the hotel, turned off his lights, and debated what to do. Should he use his cell phone and call again? Make the call from a lobby phone? Would he look like a fool? He shouldn’t have had the drinks before leaving the apartment. He should have had vodka. He didn’t want to see her smelling like a distillery.
He turned off the ignition, opened the door, maneuvered his large belly past the steering wheel, planted his feet on the concrete, and straightened. He was about to close the door when he saw Sasha step through the hotel’s front entrance. A man wearing a blue denim jacket was with her. Mullin’s stomach churned. If she had some boyfriend in D.C., why didn’t she just say so? He decided to leave, but before he could reenter the car, Sasha saw him and waved. He muttered an obscenity under his breath. How could he explain being there that time of night? What lame excuse could he come up with in front of her male friend?
He didn’t have a choice. He hitched up his pants, waited for a car to pass, and slowly crossed the street.
“Hello there,” she said.
“Hi,” Mullin said, not looking at Stripling.
“This is a surprise,” she said, suddenly aware of the awkward moment