Margaret Truman Thrillers by Margaret Truman

Author:Margaret Truman [Truman, Margaret]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-7953-5136-5
Publisher: RosettaBooks, LLC
Published: 2015-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

19

Lake slept late the next morning: “I might as well take advantage of this,” she said sleepily. Morizio was out of the apartment by seven. He grabbed a bowl of corn flakes and coffee at a local diner and swung by MPD. There he pulled from his desk any papers he felt he needed, shoving them into a cardboard transfer file box, including a dispatch from Traffic Control on which was written “Federal—Official,” identifying the owner of the car that had followed Morizio to the White House. “Big help,” he muttered as he packed his telephone book, personal photographs and memorabilia and office Dopp kit into a large leather briefcase. He took a last look over his shoulder as he stood at the door, and went to the homicide detective’s lounge. A friend, Detective Fred Scheiner, was asleep in a battered leather chair. “Hey Fred, wake up,” Morizio said.

Scheiner opened one eye and growled, “What?” They didn’t call him Jolly Fred around MPD for nothing.

“The Pringle murder,” Morizio said. “Let me see the file.”

“Why?”

“I have some leads to check against what you have.”

Scheiner pulled himself out of the chair and walked into a large room where one wall was lined with scratched and stained gray file cabinets. Morizio followed. Scheiner opened a drawer and withdrew a manila folder. Typed on it was Hom. Pringle. D.C. #2746. He handed it to Morizio.

Scheiner left the room and Morizio sat at a long table. He pulled a pad and pen from his pocket and made notes. When he was finished, he put the file in its drawer and returned to the lounge where Scheiner and two other detectives were seated at a table and eating bagels.

“Thanks, Fred,” Morizio said.

“Sure. What’ve you got?”

“Not much, I guess. Anything new from your end?”

“Why?”

“No leads, unless Narcotics comes up with something. What’s the word from up top?”

“To let it sit,” said Scheiner. “It’ll stay active but there’s other fish to fry.”

Morizio picked up the file transfer box and started out the door.

“Moving?” asked Scheiner.

“Rearranging.”

Scheiner laughed. “How’s Connie?”

“Good. Quiet night?”

Another detective, Nick Vasile, yawned and stretched. “Just another pleasant evening in the nation’s capital, Sal. A bustling metropolis by day but when the sun goes down, all the good, solid, decent dogooders run home and out come the night folk. A couple rapes, three homicides involving two citizens nobody’ll miss, and a gay Supreme Court clerk busted for soliciting. Piece of cake. Getting paid for this job is criminal.”

Morizio remembered that he’d promised Lake to empty her desk of certain items and went to the bullpen outside his office. It had been empty when he arrived, but now there was a scattering of people starting their day at MPD. Morizio’s secretary, Ginnie, was one of them. “What are you doing in so early?” he asked.

“You wanted that report typed by noon,” she said. “It’s long.”

“Oh, right. Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“I’ll try to get it to you before lunch.”

“Good. If I’m not here, leave it on my desk.”

“Sure. What’s in the box?”

“Junk.

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