Voices of the Dead Read Online Free PDF Page A

corner table.
    The hostess, a fortyish brunette with fading looks, escorted him to a booth.
    “I’ll have a vodka tonic, and will you send Coco over when she’s free?”
    “Sure‚ hon,” she smiled. “No problem.”
    His drink came, and when the song ended so did Coco.
    “How you today, baby?” she said, sliding in the booth in a G-string, full of energy and personality. Afro accentuating high cheekbones and caramel skin, petite body making her seem younger than she was, girlish.
    “My German friend told me to ask for you.”
    “What German friend you talkin’ about?”
    “He was in last night.”
    She gave him a big friendly smile. “My man, Fritz.” Gave his arm a light squeeze. “What I call him. What’s his real name?”
    “I can’t tell you,” Harry said. “It’s sensitive due to his—” He led her and she picked right up.
    “Don’t have to say no more.” Coco touched his arm again. “Fritz okay?”
    Harry said, “Yeah, I think so.” No idea what she was talking about.
    “Thought he was hurt.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “Had blood all down his pants.”
    “You saw it?”
    “Felt it. Was all wet.”
    “What happened?”
    “Dint say. But when he leave I went to the ladies, washed my hands. Was red blood come off in the sink.”

Harry took a cab to the Four Seasons, checked in and called his office. It was 3:38 in the afternoon.
    “Harry, where are you? People have been calling for you all day, including some detective from the Washington DC police,” Phyllis said. “Is everything all right?”
    “I’ll tell you later,” Harry said. He didn’t want to get into it right now. “How about the guy from the IRS?”
    “Haven’t heard a thing. Harry, you coming in today?”
    “I’m not feeling well.” Which was not far from the truth.
    “Can I do anything for you? Pick up some medicine?”
    “I’ll be okay,” Harry said and hung up. Phyllis Wampler had worked for him for ten years. She was forty-two, never been married, lived in Ferndale with her dog, a little shorthaired, two-toned thing named Lily. Harry had stopped over one time to drop something off. He rang the bell, Phyllis opened the door with the dog in her arms.
    “Lily, this is Harry, the man I work for,” she’d said in a baby-talk voice. “Look at her‚ Harry, she just had a baffer. That’s a pretty girl. She’s a good girl getting her baffer, all pretty girl now. Aren’t you?” The dog barked and she grinned. “Yes her is.”
    Phyllis had dates periodically, but if the guy didn’t like Lily it was all over. Some people liked dogs more than people and Phyllis was one of them.
    He took Detective Taggart’s card out of his shirt pocket and dialed the number, heard him identify himself.
    “It’s Harry Levin.”
    “I’ve got something for you. But I’d rather not say it over the phone.”
    “I’ve got something for you, too.”
    They agreed to meet in the Four Seasons bar in thirty minutes.
    “I was investigating a double murder in Georgetown‚” Taggart said. “Didn’t get to the station till seven. By then, as I told you, the diplomat had been released.”
    He drank Budweiser from the bottle, fingers wrapped around the neck, looking out of place in the swank mahogany-paneled room in his light green shirt, brown tie at half mast, brown plaid sport coat, and brown hat on the seat next to him. Just the two of them sitting at the empty bar, bartender working, mixing drinks and serving customers at tables.
    “What I didn’t know, he’d been read his rights. Printed and photographed before anyone knew about his diplomatic status. He’d caused an accident and he was drunk. Looking at involuntary manslaughter at the very least.”
    Harry picked up his vodka tonic and took a sip. The glass was sweating, so he wrapped a cocktail napkin around the bottom. Taggart reached in his jacket pocket, took out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to him. Harry opened it, studied the face in the photo. Drunk