The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [33]
“Did you ask who?”
“No. Like I said, I was a rookie. But it must have been someone really high up.” Hughes coughed away from the phone, then said, “I mean, you have to be way up there toward the top of the food chain to cover up a murder.”
“Murder . . .” Simon repeated as the full implication of what Hughes had told him sank in.
“What would you call it?” Hughes coughed again. “Whoever hit her sure enough wanted that woman dead.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The phone seemed to ring and ring forever before it was answered with a curt, “Yes?”
“Your friend, ah, he had company. I thought you might want to know.”
“Of course I want to know.” A brief pause, then, “Who?”
“I wrote down the name. . . . It was in the book.” He held the mouthpiece closer to his face. “Simon Keller.”
“Simon Keller.” The name was repeated softly.
“Yeah, Simon Keller.”
“When was he there?”
“Um, let’s see; I wrote that down, too.” He turned over the piece of paper. “He was here last Tuesday, then again on Wednesday. . . .”
A sharp intake of breath, then, “He’s been there twice?”
“Ah, well, yes. . . .”
“Why am I just hearing about this?”
“Well, you see—”
“What do you think I’m paying you for?”
“I didn’t know—”
“You’re supposed to know. I pay you to know!”
“I’m sorry. But—”
“No buts,” the voice hissed, a snake shimmying through the phone line.
“Look, see, I was off on—”
“Be quiet. Let me think.”
Silence.
Finally, “How long did he stay?”
“I don’t know.” He scratched his head.
“Then go back, look at the log, and call me back.” Forced patience, as one might speak to a child. “Write down dates and times. Times in, times out. Do you think you can handle that?”
“Okay. My break is over now, but I’ll check when I— hello? Hello?”
The order having been issued, the line had gone dead.
Sighing, the orderly hung up the pay phone and waited a second or two, routinely checking the coin return to see if there was spare change to be found. Then he stubbed out his cigarette and went through the locker-room door and back to work, determined to get the information exactly as it was requested. After all, side gigs like this didn’t come along every day, and he figured out that if he could just keep it going for another five months, he’d be able to buy that hot Camaro he saw in the used car lot his bus took him past every day on his way to work.
There were so many old men in this place, he was thinking as he walked down the deserted hallway, why that one old man should matter so much was beyond him. There were other old guys in here who were much more interesting. Like old Mr. DiGiorgio, whose sons and grandsons dressed in black and who all came down once a month from New York in a limousine carrying a hamper filled with pasta and wine. Now Mr. DiGiorgio, he had been somebody. He had some stories to tell. But old Mr. Kendall, he just sat there, staring out the window.
The orderly paused in front of Kendall’s doorway, then pushed it open only far enough for his head to poke through. The old man wheezed in his sleep but, other than that, slept like a baby.
“Just in case I’m asked if the old SOB talked in his sleep, I can honestly answer no,” the orderly muttered, still not understanding the importance of his mission but knowing that carrying it out would mean the difference between wheels and no wheels. He closed the door quietly, then headed toward the lobby, where the visitors’ sign-in logs were kept.
This time, when he called back he’d have the information. There’d be no reason to ask him again—in that mean, snotty tone of voice—if he knew what he was being paid to do. He knew. And he’d deliver.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The home of Foster Worthington Pierce had been ridiculously easy to find once Simon knew where to look. All he’d needed was a computer and a quick stop or two on the Internet to find it. Wild Springs, Malvern, Pennsylvania.
Simon packed a bag and headed north. His interview with Celeste Hayward was scheduled for the following day, and he figured he could as easily make the flight to Rhode Island from Philadelphia