Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [99]
He’d claimed to Sasha that he was an old friend of Richard Marienthal. Mullin had seen him leaving Marienthal’s apartment building, but he obviously hadn’t been with the writer. No one was home; Mullin’s attempt through the superintendent verified that.
He dialed the number for the Lincoln Suites Hotel on his cell phone and was connected with Sasha Levine’s room.
“Hi. It’s Detective Bret Mullin.”
He couldn’t see her smile at his adding his title. She knew who he was without it. “Hello,” she said.
“How was your breakfast?” he asked.
“It was fine.”
He sensed a reservation in her answer. “You don’t sound too sure,” he said.
She forced a small laugh. “No, no, it was all right. I—”
“What?”
“I don’t believe Charlie Simmons is who he said he was.”
“Is that so? How come?”
“He seemed to want to know so much about Richard and his interviews with Louis. It was nothing specific. I just didn’t believe he was Richard’s good friend as he said he was. The tapes. The tapes of the interviews. That’s all he seemed to care about.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. What could I tell him? I know nothing except that Richard used a tape recorder when he spoke with Louis. I was never present and never heard any of the tapes.”
“Marienthal has them?” Mullin said.
“I assume he does.”
“Did Mr. So-called Simmons tell you anything about himself, where he works?”
“No. I didn’t ask such things.”
“No, of course you didn’t. Why would you? Look, he’s planning to come back and see you before you head home?”
“No.”
“Good. What time did you say you were leaving for the airport?”
“My plane is at eleven. Louis’s remains will have been delivered to the airport. I will leave at nine, nine-thirty?”
“Better make it earlier than that, with security and all. Look, I’m not doing anything tonight. I’ll drive you out there. Maybe we can have dinner at the airport. They’ve got some pretty good restaurants.”
“That is so kind but—”
“How about I pick you up at six? Make it five-thirty. No sense being in a rush.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure. In the meantime, stay close to your room, okay? If Simmons calls again, tell him you’re busy. Same goes for the writer, Marienthal, anybody.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Simmons ain’t what he says he was. You picked up on that. Simmons isn’t even his real name.”
“It isn’t?”
“Trust me. Five-thirty. I’ll be on time.”
After another hour of waiting for Stripling to return, Mullin drove to MPD’s administrative offices, where he borrowed four thousand dollars against his credit union account. He went home, showered, heated up a slice of frozen pizza, wrote a short note to his daughter and signed it Love, Dad, put the check and the note in an envelope and addressed it to Cynthia in Denver. He called the hospital. Katie Accurso answered.
“It’s Bret. How’s the patient?”
“Doing fine, Bret. He’s coming home tomorrow.”
“Sorry I didn’t get over to see him. Put him on.”
“Can’t. He’s with a physical therapist planning his recuperation. It’ll take a while.”
“He’s got nothing but time.”
“How are you getting along without him?”
“I’d be doing better if Vinnie hadn’t taken that bullet. These new detectives get dumber every day.”
She laughed.
“How was the fruit?”
“The fruit? Oh, great. Vinnie’s eaten most of it.”
“Why am I not surprised? You take care, Katie. Give the Italian stallion a hug for me.”
“Shall do.”
He dressed in a fresh suit, shirt, and tie, talked to Magnum for a few minutes, and checked his watch. He had time to kill before picking up Sasha. Although his shoes had recently been polished, he decided a shine was in order and drove to Union Station, stopping at a mailbox to mail the check.
Bootblack Joe Jenks had just finished with a customer as Mullin approached. He climbed up into Jenks’s chair and rolled up his trouser cuffs.
“Mullin, my man,” Jenks said, pulling his tools from the drawer beneath the chair. “How goes it?”
“Not bad, Joe. You?”
“Business is good. Long