Murder on Embassy Row (8 page)

“I’d be delighted,” said Thorpe. “That is, if your captain doesn’t have objections.”

“Why would he?” Lake asked.

“George is aware that we have a relationship aside from the department,” said Morizio.

She was surprised that he would have admitted such a thing, but knew this wasn’t the time to bring it up. She smiled at Thorpe and said, “I’d enjoy dinner and hearing more about Africa.”

Now, it was Morizio’s turn to be perplexed. He was certain she’d turn down Thorpe’s offer.

“The food here is surprisingly good for a pub,” Thorpe said, “which is why I’m partial to the establishment. I’d avoid the seafood, with the exception of oysters, and the quiches are uniformly satisfying.”

“Enjoy yourselves,” Morizio said, barely able to hide his annoyance that Connie decided to stay. “I’ll call you later,” he told her as he slipped into his coat.

“Okay, Captain.”

Morizio pondered her playful use of his title, let it pass and said to Thorpe, “Maybe you’ll have a chance
to explain to Connie why someone who’s spent his life as a trade representative ends up in charge of an ambassador’s murder, George.”

“I’ll do my best,” Thorpe said. “Enjoy your chief’s wife’s cooking.”

“I’m sure I will.”

Morizio wanted to sit down, remove his coat, and ask the questions that were really on his mind. Instead, he shook Thorpe’s hand, nodded at Connie and left Timberlake’s.

***

He didn’t leave Chief Trottier’s house until eleven. Dinner was excellent, and Trottier’s wife, Maureen, was as plain and straightforward as her husband was pompous. Throughout dinner Trottier claimed the reason he’d invited Morizio was to get to know his key men better. “There’s a tendency for a gap to exist between a chief and his captains, Sal,” he said. “I’ve been impressed with the way you’ve handled this Geoffrey James matter and wanted you to know it on a more personal level than’s possible at headquarters.”

“More pie?” Maureen asked.

“No, ma’am,” Morizio said. “I’m stuffed. It was very good.”

Morizio had hoped to find time alone with Trottier to clear up some of his confusion over the handling of the James murder. That chance never materialized. As he stood at the front door and Trottier helped him on with his coat, he asked, “Can we catch some time together, Chief? I’ve got questions about the James case that are bothering me.”

“Nine?”

“Sure thing.”

“I’d intended to hold a briefing on it anyway. There’s
still protocol to be followed, even though we’re out of it.”

“Out of it? What about finding Hafez?”

“I’m sure he’s long gone from D.C. by now. It’s an international matter. We’ll let them know what we know, which isn’t much, and get on with things. See you at nine.”

“Yes, sir. A wonderful meal, Mrs. Trottier. Thank you.”

“Come again, Captain. I enjoy meeting the men my husband works with.”

***

Morizio considered stopping by Connie’s apartment on his way home but decided not to. He didn’t call her either because he didn’t want to wake her. She called him at midnight. He was playing chess with Rasputin. “How was dinner?” she asked.

“She’s a good cook. You?”

“I’ve had better food, I’ve had worse.”

“I don’t care about the food. Anything come out of Thorpe?”

“It’s all on tape. He’s a charmer. I wish his stomach were under better control but aside from that, I enjoyed his company.”

“Well, I didn’t. I don’t like him.”

“Neither do I.”

“You sound as though you do.”

“Oh, Sal, that little vestige of jealousy peeks through now and then and I love you for it.”

“Jealous, hell. Thorpe’s not what you’d call a threat to a relationship.”

“He’s not
that
bad. But do you know what, Sal?”

“What?”

“One, I love you very much. Two, I’m anxious to listen to the tape with you and discuss it. And three, I
sense a side of Mr. George Thorpe that would allow him to blow up his own mother if there were something in it for him.”

Morizio laughed. “He’s not
that
bad.”

“I think he could be. Sleep tight. See you in the office, Captain.”

Morizio had just climbed into bed at two when the phone rang. An overseas operator told him to wait. A few seconds later Paul Pringle came on the line.

“Paul, I was looking for you today at the embassy. They said you’d gone home on some special assignment.”

“Call it what you will, Sal. I didn’t want to just leave without saying good-bye.”

“I appreciate that, but what’s really going on? Why the sudden departure? The James thing? Do they know you’d been in touch with me?”

“Best not discuss it on the phone, Sal, best we just drop this whole James business and get on with our lives.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“We’re all different people at different times, Sal. I really must scoot. Thanks so much for all you did for me in the States, and for your continuing friendship. I’ve left a little token of my appreciation with the bartender at Piccadilly. Johnny, the skinny one. Just ask for the envelope with S.M. on it. Perhaps we’ll meet once again. If you ever get over this way please ring up. And my best to your Connie Lake.”

“Yeah, thanks. I appreciate the call, Paul. Take care.”

There was the hint of a laugh. “Oh, yes, Sal, I certainly intend to do that, and I urge you to do the same.”

“Count on it. Best to the family.”

Morizio tossed and turned until five, then drifted into
a light sleep. He sat bolt upright when the alarm went off at seven, immediately got out of bed and showered. He called Lake. “Don’t mention the meeting with Thorpe around MPD,” he told her.

“I didn’t plan to. Shall I bring the tape?”

“No. We’ll listen to it tonight. Where are we staying?”

“Your choice.”

“Here. Okay?”

“Sure. If Kissinger could get used to shuttle diplomacy, I can handle shuttle romance.”

Morizio and Lake had a chance to talk before his nine o’clock meeting with Chief Trottier. “Did you press Thorpe on why a so-called trade rep ends up representing England in a murder case?” he asked her.

“I pursued it. Pressing’s not my style.”

“What did he say?”

“He said… well, you might as well hear it tonight. It’s all on tape.”

“Give me a hint.”

“He said that he sometimes is called upon to perform other duties for ‘Her Majesty’s government.’”

“Like what?”

“Like… like overseeing a murder investigation that involved his country’s ambassador to the United States.”

“But why him? Why not somebody from Embassy Security, or Scotland Yard, or Interpol?”

“He seemed to say, Sal, that it’s really not the murder that involves him. It’s more a case of being on
the scene to represent a government 3,500 miles away. I can buy that.”

“But you think he’d blow up his own mother.”

She laughed. “An overstatement. You can hear it all tonight. By the way, did you tape dinner at the chief’s house?”

“Of course not.”

“Just wondering. Thought we might swap tapes, like a club.”

“I have to go.”

“Kiss?”

“Jesus.”

Trottier made it known immediately that he had only fifteen minutes for the “briefing” on the James case. Joining Morizio around a conference table were five other officers representing public affairs, administration, tactical crime, forensics and communications. Trottier’s statement was short and direct. “From the standpoint of this organization, the case of British Ambassador James is closed, except to assist in the search for the accused assassin, Nuri Hafez. All matters relating to the forensic assistance we gave the British government are sealed, unless specifically ordered open by me. The press is to be told nothing aside from the prepared statements they’ve received. Are there any questions about this?”

Only Morizio responded. “Chief Trottier,” he said, “there are areas that concern me relating to intracity security. If the British had immediately issued a report on Hafez and the limo, Officer Jones from State wouldn’t be in a hospital with a fractured skull and, most likely, Hafez would be in custody right now.”

“And, Captain Morizio?”

“And… and, there’s an assumption that Hafez is no longer in the D.C. area. That’s not been established.
I’d like to know what guidelines we’re to follow in looking for him.”

Trottier sighed and said, “The guidelines are exactly what I’ve outlined.”

“But we are actively looking for the suspect in Washington. Is that right?”

“An APB has been issued.”

“What about the Iranian community in the city? Are we looking for leads there?”

“We are looking for the suspect as we would any suspect, with one exception. If the averages hold, sixteen people will be murdered in the District this month. One will be a child below the age of twelve. One will be older than sixty. We now average an eighteen-percent solve-rate for all serious crimes in the District, which puts D.C. eleventh on a list of twelve area police departments. In other words, Captain Morizio, we have more pressing things to attend to than poking our noses into Great Britain’s criminal business. Does that answer your question?”

“Not really, sir, but your point is well taken.”

“Thank you. That will be all.”

Morizio and Lake met up at six that evening. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll treat you to some mutton chops and a yard of beer at Piccadilly.”

“I don’t like mutton chops, and I don’t drink beer.”

“Maybe they’ll make you Cockney chop suey. I have to pick something up before we go home.”

They drove up Pennsylvania Avenue, past the White House, then went north on Connecticut Avenue until reaching the Chevy Chase Circle where the Piccadilly Restaurant and Pub was located. Morizio had spent evenings there with Paul Pringle, who claimed it was the only restaurant in Washington with the ambiance of a London pub, even though it was owned by Germans.

They found a legal parking space across the street from the pub’s gray-and-gold awning and lighted sign, approached the entrance on Astroturf and went through heavy black double doors. A German hostess greeted them.

“Is Johnny on tonight?” Morizio asked.

“No,” the hostess said. “Dinner?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

They settled at a table. “I’ll be right back,” Morizio told Lake. He headed for the bar, which was entered from the small dining room through an archway. A pair of swords hung over it. Morizio stopped to admire a collection of old books, an antique globe and ship models in a bookcase next to the archway. Paul Pringle had donated some of the books. He was an inveterate history buff, particularly military history, and when his book collection overflowed his shelves, he gave some to friends, and to his favorite pub.

Morizio asked a barmaid whether a package had been left for him by Johnny. She rummaged through a drawer until finding an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven manila envelope with the initials S.M. written in red ink.

Morizio took it to the table and handed it to Connie.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Paul Pringle left it for me before he took off. Says it’s a token of his appreciation.” He mimicked a British accent.

“That was thoughtful of him.”

“Yeah. Nice guy. I’d sell Rasputin to know what really sent him back to jolly ol’ England.”

Morizio ordered beer, and Lake had wine. Then, mutton chops for him, Dover sole for her. It wasn’t until they’d finished dinner and had ordered a trifle to share that they finished reading twenty pieces of
paper, some fastened together with paper clips. There was a covering note from Pringle:

They drove to his apartment where they got into robes and poured themselves nightcaps. “What do you make of the papers Paul left?” Morizio asked.

She rubbed her eyes. “Obviously, he doesn’t think Hafez killed James, although he doesn’t offer anything you’d call proof. The guest list is interesting, but so what?”

“Why?” Morizio asked the middle of the room.

“Why what?”

“Why hush things up? Why George Thorpe? Why does Pringle not buy the official line? Why heavies like Werner Gibronski in the act? Why the chief treating it
as though plans for nuclear destruction rode on keeping it so goddamn secret?”

She extended her hand and touched his cheek. “Sal, drop it. They’ve told you to drop it, and that’s what you should do. There’s nothing to be gained, no up-side.”

“There’s still an APB out on Hafez.”

“So?”

“So, I’m still involved officially. So are you because I am.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“See what you can dig up on Rich Washburn.”

“The hostage?”

“Yeah. Maybe something he said about James from the Iranian days would shed a little light.”

“All right.”

“Did you notice the name Berge Nordkild on the guest list?”

“Sure, he’s in the society pages all the time. Caters all the fancy parties.”

“That’s right. Half the black tie dirges I attend are catered by Nordkild. I’ve met him a couple of times. Think I’ll give him a call.”