A Shroud for Aquarius

19

At the hotel room a red light was lit on the phone, indicating I had a message; I called down to the desk — I was to call Charlie Stone, at his home number, which they gave me. I tried several times, but there was no answer. Finally, shortly before we should be leaving for the airport, I tried one last time. And this time he did answer.

“Mr. Stone!” I said. “Thank you for all you’ve done...”

“I’m going to do you one more favor,” he said, his voice soft, strong. “I’m going to tell you something else about Ginnie Mullens — something I’d have to deny should anybody official ask me.”

I swallowed. “Understood.”

“I held back from you last night. I had to sleep on it.”

“Okay.”

Pause.

Then: “I had a phone call last week from someone in Chicago. The name wouldn’t mean anything to you, but I’m not going to mention it, just the same.” Another pause. “Questions were asked about Ginnie.”

“Questions...?”

“About what happened in this casino two weeks ago. And whether or not she was a high roller, a regular here, which of course she was.” His voice took on a weary note of resignation: “They asked, and I told it like it is, with her — or anyway, like it was. Y’see, when certain people ask, there’s no choice but to answer.”

I didn’t know what to say to that; I could hear him breathing on the other end of the line.

“You should also consider,” he said finally, “that if I got a call, so did other people around town.”

“What do you make of that?”

“Certain business interests in Chicago were checking up on Ginnie not long before she died.”

“What does that mean?”

“I got no idea,” he said; he seemed to be telling the truth. “Why anybody in Chicago would have the slightest interest in Jack Mullens’s little girl is beyond me.”

“Did you tell Ginnie about this? Did you call her and warn her?”

“Warn her of what?”

“Did you call her, Mr. Stone?”

“Subject closed.”

“Mr. Stone...”

“I hope you enjoyed your stay at the Four Kings.”

The line went dead.

Jill had come in halfway through the call to sit on the edge of the bed, in a towel, having just showered, brushing her hair.

“What was that all about?” she asked, eyes wide and blue.

“It was the piece of information I’ve been looking for,” I said.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Hurry up and get your clothes on, or we’ll miss our plane. Don’t take anything to read — we’ll have plenty to talk about.”

“Such as?”

“Such as who killed Ginnie, and why.”

“Do you know?”

“I know.”