Read Online The 13th Target by Mark de Castrique - Free Book Online Page A

to stop the bleeding from a shaving cut.
    Sullivan jotted a note to remind himself to ask Rusty Mullins if he’d noticed it when he picked Luguire up for work. Then he locked the case file in his desk drawer and went to the office of the duty lieutenant Charlie Crouch.
    “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go home.”
    Crouch looked at the wall clock. “You sick?”
    “No. I was up all night with the Luguire murder and worked through the day. I’m beat.”
    “Sure. Things are quiet. The captain will be happy to save the overtime.”
    “You know I work more hours than I put in for.”
    Crouch waved him away. “You don’t have to sell me. Go home, Rob. If something comes up, I’ll take it myself.”
    Sullivan started out the door.
    “Hold up a second,” Crouch said. “You might have a reporter waiting for you.”
    Sullivan turned. “At this hour? What’s he want?”
    Crouch shrugged. “He said he needed to talk to you about the Luguire case. I told him there was nothing new to report, and that you were tied up with other investigations.”
    “When was this?”
    “About thirty minutes ago.”
    “You think he’s gone?”
    Crouch shook his head. “I don’t know. He said he was here to give, not get information.”
    Sullivan stared at his supervisor.
    “I know. I should have told you. But the guy’s not with any real news organization. And I suspected you were trying to wrap up early. Frankly, I forgot about him.”
    “That’s okay. If he’s still here, I’ll talk to him.” Sullivan hesitated as a thought crossed his mind. “Charlie, do me a favor, will you?”
    “What?”
    “Put a call through to the M.E.’s office and ask that someone take a closer look at the shaving nick recorded on Luguire’s autopsy report.”
    “What are they supposed to be looking for?”
    “Damned if I know. But I saw an expensive Braun electric shaver charging in the bathroom.”
    As Sullivan entered the public waiting room, the duty officer at the desk gave a slight nod toward a white man sitting alone in a plastic chair by the wall. He wore black jeans and a blue dress shirt that was untucked, either through a style choice or sloppiness. The frumpy guy looked about forty, and if he was a reporter, he certainly wasn’t television.
    The man was writing in a journal, one of those blank page books that populated the swivel stands in stationery stores. He glanced up at the sound of Sullivan’s footsteps.
    “Are you waiting for me?” Sullivan asked.
    The man snapped his journal closed. “Are you the detective on the Luguire case?”
    “I am. You have information?”
    “Maybe.” The man stood. “My name’s Sidney Levine. I used to be a reporter for The Washington Times .”
    “Used to be?”
    “I wrote a book about the Federal Reserve. It did okay. But with a certain element it did really well. I was, shall we say, embraced by their extremist camp.”
    “Because of what you wrote?”
    “Because of the way my book was interpreted.”
    “And how does this relate to Luguire’s death?”
    “I don’t know. How did he die?”
    Sullivan glanced over his shoulder at the desk officer. The man was watching to make sure Levine wasn’t some loony about to go off the deep end. Sullivan mouthed, “It’s okay,” and turned to the reporter.
    “Look, we issue our information through the press briefings. Nothing has changed since the last one. If you’ve got information regarding the death, I’ll be glad to hear it. Otherwise, we’re wasting each other’s time.”
    “I have one question. Are you one hundred percent certain that Paul Luguire committed suicide? If you are, then I’m sorry I wasted your time. If you’re not, then I might provide access to a suspect pool whose fervor against the Fed runs hot enough to include murder.”
    Sullivan studied the journalist. The man stood calmly waiting for his reply. Rusty Mullins’ misgivings were contagious, but Sullivan needed hard evidence and a strong motive if