Murder on Embassy Row (20 page)

“The Pringle murder,” Morizio said. “Let me see the file.”

“Why?”

“I have some leads to check against what you have.”

Scheiner pulled himself out of the chair and walked into a large room where one wall was lined with scratched and stained gray file cabinets. Morizio followed. Scheiner opened a drawer and withdrew a manila folder. Typed on it was
Hom. Pringle. D.C. #2746
. He handed it to Morizio.

Scheiner left the room and Morizio sat at a long table. He pulled a pad and pen from his pocket and made notes. When he was finished, he put the file in its drawer and returned to the lounge where Scheiner and two other detectives were seated at a table and eating bagels.

“Thanks, Fred,” Morizio said.

“Sure. What’ve you got?”

“Not much, I guess. Anything new from your end?”

“Why?”

“No leads, unless Narcotics comes up with something. What’s the word from up top?”

“To let it sit,” said Scheiner. “It’ll stay active but there’s other fish to fry.”

Morizio picked up the file transfer box and started out the door.

“Moving?” asked Scheiner.

“Rearranging.”

Scheiner laughed. “How’s Connie?”

“Good. Quiet night?”

Another detective, Nick Vasile, yawned and stretched. “Just another pleasant evening in the nation’s capital, Sal. A bustling metropolis by day but when the sun goes down, all the good, solid, decent dogooders run home and out come the night folk. A couple rapes, three homicides involving two citizens nobody’ll miss,
and a gay Supreme Court clerk busted for soliciting. Piece of cake. Getting paid for this job is criminal.”

Morizio remembered that he’d promised Lake to empty her desk of certain items and went to the bullpen outside his office. It had been empty when he arrived, but now there was a scattering of people starting their day at MPD. Morizio’s secretary, Ginnie, was one of them. “What are you doing in so early?” he asked.

“You wanted that report typed by noon,” she said. “It’s long.”

“Oh, right. Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“I’ll try to get it to you before lunch.”

“Good. If I’m not here, leave it on my desk.”

“Sure. What’s in the box?”

“Junk. See you later.”

He sat at Lake’s desk and tried to remove what she wanted without arousing attention. The few times he glanced over his shoulder, Ginnie was watching him. Who was he kidding? In an hour the word of their suspension would be all over MPD. Some would laugh, some would be saddened, some would rejoice and chalk it up to being stupid enough to allow romance into the office, others would immediately calculate what it meant to their chances for advancement. “The hell with them,” Morizio mumbled as he left the bullpen and went to his car. “You, I’ll miss,” he said to his parking space as he backed out and headed for his apartment.

Lake was up when he arrived. “Look at this,” he said, showing her the notes he’d taken from Pringle’s Homicide file, pointing specifically to a word he’d written—“Sami.”

“So?” she asked.

“How many guys named Sami do you know?”

“A few.”

“Sammy, maybe, with a
Y
, but not Sami with an
I
.
Sami Abdu, the Iranian journalist. It was written on the same piece of paper that had my name. Paul must have intended to see Abdu when he was here. Why?”

“Did you mention Paul to Abdu at the luncheon?”

“No. Paul just wrote ‘Sami,’ not Sami Abdu. When you just write a first name, you know the person pretty well. Am I right?”

“Sure.”

“Abdu knew the Hafez family in Iran. Hafez skipped the night of James’s murder with the limo and holed up in the Iranian Embassy. Maybe Abdu knows all about that.”

“It’s possible.”

“I’ll find out.”

“Good. Want breakfast?”

“I had some.”

“Have some more.”

It was over a second cup of coffee that Lake announced, “Let’s go to Copenhagen over Thanksgiving.”

“To visit your grandmother?”

“Sure, but that’s not the only reason. I don’t think we’ll ever piece this thing together unless we find out about Inga Lindstrom. Do you agree?”

“Sure I do.”

“We could try and see her.”

“I want to talk to Paul’s widow, Ethel, too. We could go to London.”

“We could do it all in one shot.”

“Yeah, I guess we could. You know, maybe we could get some help from that Danish cop I got friendly with when he was here. Leif Mikkelsen. Remember him?”

“Sure I do. Good idea.”

Connie took a deep, satisfied breath and bit her lower lip. Sunlight through the kitchen window sent dancing
patterns of light across her face. She wore no makeup, seldom did. There was a natural healthy glow to her face that rendered the use of anything artificial overkill. Her wheat-colored hair hung loose and long over the shoulders of a teal robe that was loosely sashed about her. She always looked good to Morizio, but there were moments like this that especially captured his mental, emotional, and anatomical attention.

“It’s strange being here at this hour of a weekday morning,” he said. “I’m not used to it.”

“It’s kind of nice,” she said.

“You’re handling this better than I am.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You look relaxed, contented. Why are you smiling?”

“I’m applying the glass half-full theory to what’s happened instead of half empty. I wanted time for us over Thanksgiving and now we’ll have it. I know it’s not the ideal way to have it come about, but as long as it did, we might as well take advantage of it. It could be a nice trip, Sal, productive and relaxed. We could use it.”

He sat back and frowned. “I promised my mother I’d see her over the holiday. Maybe I should go up now, spend a day or two with her in lieu of Thanksgiving.”

“Will she be terribly disappointed?”

“No, she’s a glass half-full person, too. Besides, there’s plenty of family for her to cook for, at least a dozen.”

Lake smiled, leaned forward, and took his hands. “I’ll go with you. We could go up tonight. I haven’t seen your mother in awhile.”

“Good. Let’s do it. She loves surprises. In the meantime.”

She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head.

“I’m suddenly in need of a nap and some serious cuddling.”

She let loose with a throaty, wicked laugh and said, “Beneath that conservative, businesslike façade is an inveterate lecher.”

“Just trying to get with the half-full philosophy,” he said, taking her hand and leading her from the kitchen.

***

“Well?” his mother said after she’d registered shock at finding them at the front door, and after they’d settled down in the living room of her house on K Street, “You have news, don’t you?”

Morizio looked at Lake, laughed and said, “Lots of it, Mom, but nothing you’d be interested in.” He told her that they were working closely together on a case that he couldn’t discuss, and were taking a vacation over Thanksgiving to London and Copenhagen. “That’s why we came up now,” he said, “because I won’t be here.”

His mother, who had gracefully aged into a stunning older woman with coal-black hair pulled back into a tight chignon, appeared to be saddened by the news. “I hope you understand, Mom. I’d love to be here… we both would… but…”

“I thought you were here to say you were getting married.”

Morizio coughed, Connie laughed. “It’s okay by me,” she said.

“We’ll surprise you one day,” Morizio said.

“You’re not a kid anymore, Sal,” said Mrs. Morizio.

“I’d love a drink,” Morizio said. He went to the kitchen where he made drinks for himself and Connie, poured a glass of red wine for his mother. He could hear his mother talking about how she worried about his growing older without a good wife.

“Here’s to good health to everyone,” he said as he returned from the kitchen. They toasted. “And don’t you worry about your son, Mrs. Morizio, he’s doing just fine.”

“Is he?” she asked Connie.

She nodded.

“Good,” said his mother. “I’ll whip up some spaghetti with shrimp sauce. It’s his favorite, Connie. Did he tell you that?”

“Yes, he did.” Lake got up, put her arm around the older woman’s shoulder, and said, “I’ll help. I’m a good second woman in the kitchen. I know how to stay out of the way. Besides, you’re working with one arm.” They disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Morizio alone with his drink. He wished he had some good news to bring his mother, a promotion, plans for marriage, a pending grandchild. In fact, he realized, he had nothing to report but trouble, and he was glad he’d decided to mention nothing of what had happened. Hand-in-hand with that was a strengthened resolve to clear his and Lake’s name. If it meant a lot to them, it would mean the world to his mother.

***

The return flight to Washington a day and a half later was uneventful, except for an Associated Press item Lake discovered in the
Boston Globe
she’d been handed by the flight attendant. It was a small story buried deep inside the paper. The headline read:
D.C. CATERER IN DRUG BUST
.

There was, of course, a larger story in the
Washington Post
, and Nordkild’s arrest was reported on local television. Nordkild’s attorney, Joseph Turner, one of Washington’s best, issued a flat denial of the charges against his client and had asked the court to reduce the original bail of $750,000 to $50,000.

They unpacked, made coffee, and discussed the news about Nordkild. Morizio wanted to call the caterer’s office but Lake dissuaded him. “He won’t talk to you or anyone, Sal,” she said, “not with something like this pending. Maybe in a couple of days. Besides, we’ve got other things to do today. I want to call Georgia Watson at the American Petroleum Institute.” Connie and Georgia had been classmates at Washington State University, and although they saw little of each other in Washington, D.C., Connie was hopeful that Georgia, who worked in the institute’s research department, could dig up something on Geoffrey James’s Scottish oil interests.

“I also want to book our trip,” Connie said.

Morizio called the Piccadilly Pub, asked when Johnny would be tending bar and was told Johnny was on days
that week. Morizio decided to have lunch there. Johnny wouldn’t know about the suspension, which would allow Morizio to mix a personal approach with an official one.

They agreed to meet at Lake’s apartment at six.

Piccadilly was filling up fast when Morizio arrived at 12:30, mostly businessmen and government workers from the area. He perched on a corner barstool, greeted Johnny, ordered a Beefeater martini on the rocks. He watched Johnny work, a consummate pro, juggling a barrage of orders from waitresses at the service bar, taking care of customers at the bar, and keeping up with housekeeping, ringing sales on an ancient cash register, a captain of a small efficient ship in which every inch of space counted, every item in its proper place if it were to navigate the heavy seas of a brisk lunch trade.

There was a lull; customers served, waitresses satisfied for the moment, glasses washed and stacked. Johnny, who was very tall and thin, and who wore tight black pants, a white shirt, and a clip-on black bow tie, came to Morizio’s end of the bar. “Well, Captain, how’s things?”

“Not bad, Johnny. You?”

“Never changes. Fill ’em up, wash ’em out.” He laughed, causing a prominent Adam’s apple to go into action. “Anything new about our friend?”

“No, but I thought you might help.”

“Not much for me to offer, Captain, except condolences. You two were good buddies, I know.”

“Johnny, let me ask you something. They’ve accused Paul of using drugs. Did you ever see anything that would support that?”

He rubbed his chin and looked toward the ceiling. “No, can’t say that I have. Not the type, if you know what I mean. Paul was… well, he enjoyed his ale and
… Ooops, excuse me.” Three waitresses had suddenly appeared at the service bar and verbalized their orders simultaneously. It wouldn’t be easy talking to Johnny, never was with a busy bartender, and Morizio wondered whether he’d do better later that night. He was about to take a table when Johnny returned. “Drugs,” he said. “Nasty business, but not for him. I’d bet my tips on it.”

“That’s the way I feel,” Morizio said.

“I told the other guy the same thing yesterday.”

“Who’s that?”

“The British investigator who was in asking about Paul. Big, burly fellow, pleasant. Put ’em away, too, he does, four bourbons while he sat here.” He laughed.

“Thorpe,” Morizio thought. He asked.

“Never got his last name, called himself George. Works for the British Embassy.”

“Does he?”

“Another, Captain?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Johnny refilled Morizio’s glass and took care of other customers. When he returned Morizio said, “This investigator from the Embassy, George, you said, what was he asking?”

Johnny again assumed a thoughtful expression. “He just wanted to know about Paul when he was here, who he saw, hung around with. I mentioned you, as a matter of fact.”

“Who else?”

“His buddies. He had a lot of ’em as you know, and the Arab.”

“What Arab?”

“Big heavy guy, as big as the investigator. They used to meet up here, not a lot but sometimes. The Arab left a package for Paul with me now and then.”