Page 52

Taking my cue from Henri Tourneau, I went to a pay phone on the third floor of the interstate-run travel hub.

The phone rang only twice before he answered, “Braun.”

“Mr. Braun, Tom Boll here.”

“Where were you?”

“There was another case I had to take care of. I’m sorry if I put you out.”

“Where are you?”

“On the street. I like to use pay phones when I can. Feels anonymous. Know what I mean?”

“We need to meet.”

“Not really.”

“No? I thought you were looking into Johanna Mudd’s disappearance.”

“I told my clients about you and they decided to take what they had to the police.”

“That’s a mistake…”

He said more but I hung up in the middle of his protest. I wanted him a little nervous.

“Ecstasies,” a young woman said.

“Mimi, please.”

“And who may I say is calling?”

“Joe.”

“Just Joe?”

“That’s not what my mother would say, but you can tell Mimi that it’s Joe and he needs some ruby slippers.”

“It’s not even eight in the morning,” the lovely voice argued.

“If you look up the code words you’ll see that it doesn’t matter what time it is.”

Even her harrumph was fetching. I wondered what the operator looked like.

Minutes passed and then: “Joe?”

“Hey, Mimi.”

“You in trouble?”

“No more than usual.”

“Then why am I awake?”

“Did a guy call you with a reference from me?”

“Federal man,” she averred. “Is that what this is about?”

“No. I need to get a line on a man you might have some business with. A Chester Murray.”