Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [89]
“Detective?” Stripling said, not offering his hand.
“Bret Mullin,” Mullin said, extending his hand, which Stripling took. A weak handshake, Mullin thought. He took some pleasure in being taller and bulkier than this Charlie, whoever he was. To Sasha: “I was just in the neighborhood and—”
“Detective Mullin has been taking good care of me since I came to Washington,” she said. “He’s my only friend here.”
As she spoke, Mullin looked more closely at Stripling’s face. It was familiar.
“You’re a friend of the writer who worked with Ms. Levine’s—ah, former friend?” Mullin said.
“Yes,” said Stripling, sounding defiant.
“Everybody seems to be looking for this writer,” Mullin said. “When’s the last time you saw him?”
Stripling looked at Mullin quizzically. What is this, challenge time? he thought. Fat slob of a detective, he thought. Looks like a boozer to me. Smells like it, too.
“I haven’t seen my old buddy, Rich, in months,” said Stripling.
“Any idea where he is?” Mullin asked.
“I asked Charlie the same thing,” Sasha said.
“You a writer, too?” Mullin asked. He was over his embarrassment; his detective’s penchant for asking questions had replaced it. There was something about this man who called himself Charlie that didn’t ring right to him. He’d seen him before. He was sure of it.
“No,” Stripling said. “This was really nice,” he said. To Sasha: “Eight o’clock tomorrow?”
“Yes. Eight o’clock.”
What’s this all about? Mullin wondered.
“Take it easy, Detective,” Stripling said.
“You, too.”
It was at this moment that Mullin knew why Charlie was familiar. He’d seen him leaving Marienthal’s apartment building.
“You spend much time with Marienthal at his apartment?” Mullin asked.
“What?”
“I just figured you might hang out there, know his girlfriend. That’s all.”
“Sorry,” Stripling said. “Got to run. See you in the morning, Sasha.”
Mullin watched him quickly walk away and turn the corner.
“You knew him before?” Mullin asked Sasha.
“No. He called out of the blue. We had coffee. He’s very nice.”
She pulled a cigarette from her purse. Mullin quickly whipped out his lighter and held the flame out to her, pleased that he could.
“Yeah, I’m sure he is,” Mullin said. “Well, now that we’re here, how about a drink?”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly. I almost said no to Charlie when he suggested a cup of coffee.” She laughed. “Decaf coffee. I would never get to sleep if I had regular.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Well, like I said, I just happened to be driving by and—”
“I am glad to see you again.”
“Maybe I’ll give you a call in the morning, you know, just to say goodbye. What time do you leave?”
“At eleven at night.”
“Okay. You’re having breakfast with Charlie. Right?”
“Yes. But if I don’t get to bed, I will not wake up in time. Good night.”
“Good night, Sasha.”
He decided not to suggest walking her inside. He watched her go into the lobby, admired her legs again, returned to the car, and drove to a bodega, where he picked up a large cup of coffee to take with him to headquarters.
“Hey, pal, how’s it going?” he asked the officer manning one of the computers.
“It’s going, Bret. That’s all I’ll say. What are you doing here?”
“Run a vehicle ID for me.”
“Sure.”
Mullin handed the officer a scrap of paper on which he’d noted the make, model, and plate number of the car he’d seen “Charlie Simmons” get into after leaving the apartment building in which Rich Marienthal and Kathryn Jalick lived. He’d found it among a fistful of receipts he’d stuffed into his glove compartment. It took less than a minute for the information to pop up on the screen. The vehicle was registered to a Timothy Stripling.
“Charlie Simmons, huh?” Mullin mumbled.
“Huh?”
“Nothing. See what you can bring up on Mr. Stripling.”
“Who’s he?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t need you,” Mullin said gruffly.
The officer didn’t say what he was thinking, that Bret Mullin couldn’t retire soon enough. He typed in the appropriate commands, added the name Timothy Stripling