“What the hell happened to Mort Stroble last night?” Fred Pembroke raged, as he burst into the majority leader’s office.
Tom Kelly did not appreciate the senator’s lack of consideration. “Calm down, Fred. MPD Homicide Captain Max Walsh called me a little after ten last night. I called Capitol Police Chief Dan Harbesham and asked him to help us track down Stroble’s family.”
Kelly then explained to Pembroke how he and his chief of staff, Charlie Frost, had worked with Harbesham to locate Stroble’s wife, Kyre, who was at her parents’ home in Michigan.
“Charlie placed the call. The father-in-law was not happy being disturbed late at night.” Kelly had never had to make such a call in all his twenty-five years in the Senate.
He continued, “I then got on the line and explained that I need to talk with Kyre, which was a very trying but short conversation. She broke down, and her father came back on calmer this time and I gave him the meager details, assuring him we were doing everything possible to apprehend the killer. Then Charlie got the Strobles on the phone for me. It was not a fun time.
“Afterward, Charlie and I had a couple of stiff drinks while scoping out what needed to be done and who would do what. Charlie’s our point man with MPD.”
During Kelly’s soliloquy, Pembroke had sat. “How could this happen?” he asked weakly.
Kelly leaned forward, forearms on his desk. “The police don’t know much. There was a fight, two drunks, something. They suspect Mort got caught between them and took a knife meant for someone else.”
“Were they Blacks?”
“No. Two white guys in business suits who didn’t stick around. Mort was having dinner with three others. They had all gotten up to leave when the fight started.”
“Do you think this had anything to do with . . . ?” Pembroke said, slouching back in his chair rubbing his face.
“I don’t know any more than you,” Kelly said solicitously. “It is what it is.”
Pembroke slowly rose and slouched out.
Kelly put in his third call to Stanley Horowitz, who had not returned his previous two.