Murder on Embassy Row

by Margaret Truman

  “The point is,” Thorpe said, his attention still on his cigar, “that certain unfortunate events have transpired that turn a routine death into a complicated one.”

  Morizio’s first thought was to question the reduction of a major ambassador’s life to trivia. His second thought was spoken: “What unfortunate events?”

  Gibronski answered. “Under usual procedure, the death of Ambassador James would be strictly a matter for the British to resolve. However, because of indiscretions within the British Embassy, those who prosper from rumor and speculation have insisted upon”—he paused and Morizio enjoyed it—“have insisted upon…”

  “The press?” Morizio asked.

  “…have insisted upon making it a matter of public titillation.”

  “What does this have to do with me?” Morizio asked.

  “There will be a minor involvement of the Metropolitan Police Department. It will be in the best interests of all concerned that the appropriate channels be pursued.”

  “Because it looks good?” Morizio hadn’t intended it to sound so cynical.

  “If you wish,” Gibronski said.

  “Why me, Dr. Gibronski? If this is as delicate as you say, I’d think Chief Trottier would be the one to talk to.”

  “He agrees with us completely. He also suggests that since you coordinate intracity security, you should direct MPD’s contribution.”

  “Contribution?”

  “Yes. You will, of course, work under Mr. Thorpe’s direct supervision. There is to be nothing undertaken without his full knowledge and approval. Above all, there is to be no public statement until I have approved it. Are there any questions, Captain Morizio?”

  “Lots of them, Dr. Gibronski, but I have the feeling that they wouldn’t be answered if I asked them.” He smiled. “Was Ambassador James poisoned?”

  Gibronski frowned.

  “No offense. It’s just that I don’t like working in the dark.”

  “But you will learn to, of course,” Thorpe said. “I suggest we meet each day to compare notes, as you might say. Shall we make it lunch?”

  “How about the end of the day?”

  Gibronski said impatiently, “Work out the details later. That’s all the time I have now. Thank you.” He pressed a buzzer and the young man who’d escorted Morizio to the office appeared through the side door. Morizio and Thorpe followed him to the West Entrance. “Have a nice evening,” the aide said.

  “Buy you a drink, Captain?” Thorpe asked.

  “No, I have to get back.”

  “As you wish.” Thorpe handed Morizio a card on which two phone numbers were printed. “My office and home,” he said. “Call at any hour.”

  “Mr. Thorpe, there’s one question you can answer better than anyone.”

  “Which is?”

  “What’s your position in this? What’s your official connection with the British Government? Who are you?”

  Thorpe turned up the collar of his tan trenchcoat against a stiff breeze. He smiled, patted Morizio on the back, and said, “I’m on call to Her Majesty’s Government. The offer of a drink still holds.”

  “I’ll call you,” said Morizio.

  ***

  Connie Lake was waiting for him at MPD. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Something I don’t understand. Christ, I feel like a spook again, back in the CIA.”

  “Can you tell me about it?”

  “Sure, but let me call the chief first.”

  “Want me to leave?” she asked.

  He shook his head as the chief’s secretary came on the line. “Captain Morizio to speak with him. Is he in?”

  “One second, please.”

  “Sal?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Two things were blatantly different, Morizio realized. Donald J. Trottier, Washington, D.C.’s chief of police, had never called him by his first name before. The second thing that was different was that he’d been put through immediately.

  “Sal, I’m glad you called. I understand you’ve spoken with Dr. Gibronski.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s right. Just got back. There was a George Thorpe there, too.”

  “I haven’t met him, but I understand he represents British interests in this project.”

  Project? Morizio thought. He remembered Gibronski’s term, “contribution.”

  “There’s lot I don’t understand, sir.”

  Trottier laughed. “No need to, Sal. Under normal circumstances, MPD wouldn’t be involved at all, but this has some high-level ramifications that take it out of the realm of the ordinary. That should be obvious with someone like Gibronski involved. We’ve been asked to lend certain limited support and that’s exactly what we’ll do. I don’t know of anyone in the department better equipped to deal with something this sensitive than you. I’ve been reviewing your background. Really impressive. Now I remember why you were a hands-down choice to head up intracity security. One thing I don’t need is a run-of-the-mill cop trying to appease heavy hitters like Gibronski.” He laughed again.

  Run-of-the-mill cop.

  “Was Ambassador James poisoned?” Morizio asked.

  “You should stop reading the newspapers.”

  “Was he?”

  “The autopsy is going on right now.”

  “At MPD?”

  “Under a blanket of top security, and that’s the way it has to stay.”

  “Including me? If I’m in charge of the case, I’d like…”

  “It’s not a case, Captain, it’s a project.”

  Project, my ass, he wanted to say. Instead, he asked, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Whatever this Thorpe fellow and Dr. Gibronski tell you to do. I’m counting on you to be discreet, to say nothing, and to follow their orders—and so is Commissioner Watson. It’ll be over in a few days and everything’ll be back to normal.”

  “All right.”

  “Nice talking to you, Sal. Keep me informed.”

  “If I’m allowed.”

  “Pardon?”

  “If Thorpe and Gibronski allow me to keep you informed.”

  “I don’t think sarcasm serves any useful purpose, Captain Morizio.”

  “Yes, sir, sorry. Good night.”

  “Good night.” His voice had changed from sunny to Arctic freeze.

  “Well?” Connie asked.

  “What are you doing for dinner?”

  “Having it with you.”

  “Good. Come on, let’s stop by the morgue to get in the mood.”

  The MPD morgue was located in D.C. General Hospital. Morizio parked illegally in front of the salmon-colored stone building and he and Lake entered through the police entrance. The guard recognized Morizio and waved them through. They used the stairs to the basement instead of the elevators and pushed open a fire door. The entrance to the autopsy room was sealed by armed security guards from the British Embassy, augmented by a contingent from MPD. Morizio spotted Paul Pringle and approached him, didn’t acknowledge they were friends, simply asked, “What the hell is going on?”

  “Sorry, Captain. No one is to enter.”

  “Who’s in there now?”

  Pringle’s superior joined them. “Captain Morizio, good to see you. How’ve you been?”

  “Just fine. What’s up?”

  “Not at liberty to say.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Morizio said. “The morgue has been invaded by Great Britain.”

  Pringle and his superior laughed.

  Morizio said to Lake in a loud enough voice to be sure Pringle heard, “Come on, let’s eat. I want to be home by eleven to watch the invasion on TV.”

  They ate paella with black beans at Omega and washed it down with a cheap bottle of Spanish wine. Morizio told Lake of his meeting with Gibronski and Thorpe and of Chief Trottier’s side of the phone conversation.

  “What do you make of it?” she asked.

  “I haven’t the vaguest idea,” he said.

  “Want to know what I th
ink?”

  “Sure.”

  “Forget it. Go through the motions, do what they say, and let it slide. Obviously, MPD has no role in it and why should you care?”

  “Because… Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

  She placed her hands on his in the middle of the table and smiled. “I don’t want to see you all worked up over something you can’t control. I like you when you’re calm, relaxed, and mellow. Come on, let’s go home.”

  “Home” that night was his condo in Arlington. They usually decided a day in advance where they would stay the following night and the visitor packed a small bag in anticipation. They averaged four nights a week together, sometimes more, sometimes less, depending upon events at MPD. Lake had pressed months ago that they live together, but Morizio nixed the idea, saying, “I’m afraid it’ll be too much like marriage.”

  “What’s wrong with marriage?” Connie asked.

  “Nothing at all, but I’m not sure I’m ready for it. I’d hate to get used to something I’m not ready for.”

  It was left at that, although each took turns proposing and neither was ever uncomfortable saying no. There was a tacit understanding that one day they probably would marry, but not now—and until they did legalize their relationship, he insisted that they keep their romance far removed from work. Everyone around them at MPD knew of their involvement but never mentioned it, at least to Morizio. Some of Connie’s female colleagues would ask her from time to time how it was going. Her answer was always a smile and a “Hanging in there.”

  They slipped into matching terrycloth robes and settled in front of the TV. It was ten o’clock; the early news had just begun. “Drink?” Lake asked.

  “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

  She returned from the kitchen with two snifters of cognac and snuggled close to him. They clinked their glasses together and said, “To us,” a private little ritual.

  “We’ll be back in a moment with the latest on the mysterious circumstances surrounding the death of the British ambassador to the United States, Geoffrey James.”

  After three consecutive commercials, the anchorwoman returned. “An unusual autopsy was conducted today on the body of British Ambassador Geoffrey James, who was found dead at a party celebrating his one-year anniversary as ambassador to the United States. Informed sources told this station that the autopsy was performed at the Metropolitan Police Department’s main morgue at D.C. General by two British physicians. Security around the morgue was extremely tight, our sources report. There has been significant speculation that Ambassador James was poisoned. Under diplomatic law, local authorities are forbidden from interfering in an embassy’s internal affairs, even when it involves potential murder, unless specifically invited, which makes the use of the MPD morgue all the more interesting. The British Embassy on Massachusetts Avenue has been vehemently silent on the matter. Greg Basso with sports right after these messages.”

  Morizio went to the phone.

  “Who are you calling?” Lake asked.

  “Ross Brown. They used his morgue. He ought to know something.” Ross Brown was Washington, D.C.’s chief medical examiner.

  “They told you to stay out of it, Sal.”

  “I know.”

  “Hello?”

  “Ross? Sal Morizio. Sorry to bother you at home.”

  “That’s all right, Sal. The missus and I were making love. We do it once a month and tonight’s the night, but don’t let it bother you.”

  “I almost believed you.”

  “Believe me, Sal. You want to know about James’s autopsy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Call the British doctors. I was told to vacate by none other than Trottier. I know nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. They used the facilities, but brought their own people. Mind if I get back to the foreplay?”

  Morizio laughed. “Enjoy. Sorry to bother you.”

  “Don’t sweat it.”

  Morizio returned to the couch. The folds of Connie’s robe had fallen open. He was about to embrace her when the phone rang. He leaped up and went to it.

  “Sal, Paul Pringle.”

  “I was hoping you’d call. What’s going on?”

  “A great deal. He was poisoned, Sal. Ricin, not cyanide.”

  Morizio whistled. “That’s exotic,” he said. Ricin, Morizio knew, was one of the world’s most toxic substances, ranking right up there with botulinus. It was isolated from castor oil beans and had been considered for use as a chemical weapon during World War II. One-millionth of a gram was a lethal dose and one gram would kill almost 40,000 people. It was difficult to detect in the body—the lab boys had done a good job.

  Pringle asked, “Did you have any luck with Nuri Hafez and the limousine?”

  “I didn’t do anything about it. Things got hectic today and I was concerned about putting out an APB and prompting somebody to wonder where I got the information about Hafez and the limo. Nothing from your end on it?”

  “No. There’s evidently some debate about how to handle it, but I’m not privy to those conversations. Sal, I must tell you something.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I think I’d best sever contact with you for awhile. There’s a lot at stake here and…” It sounded as though he’d been interrupted.

  “Paul?”

  “Yes, Sal, sorry. Someone was near. As I was saying, I’d best lay low for awhile. You understand.”

  “Sure I do, but before you go, who gave TV the story about the autopsy?”

  “Probably someone who owes a favor, like I owe you. I’ll be in touch later, but not very soon. Cheerio, Sal.”

  Morizio told Lake of the conversation. “I don’t like it,” he said. “I don’t like games like this. If the British have their reasons for covering up what happened to their ambassador, that’s fine, but why drag others in? Ship the body home, bury it, and forget about it.”

  “Sal.”

  “What?”

  “Let’s go to bed.”

  “You don’t want to talk about it?”

  “About going to bed?” She giggled.

  “About James.”

  “No. I want to go to bed, make love, have a good night’s sleep, and spend breakfast talking about murder.” She took his hands, pulled him up from the couch, and turned off the living room lights. He took a detour on the way to the bedroom to pick up a discarded Kleenex she’d tossed on a table and to throw it in the kitchen wastebasket. She watched him with a bemused smile. Sal Morizio put Felix Unger to shame when it came to neatness, and tissues especially nettled him. It was a running gag between them, her cavalier attitude toward disposing of tissues and his obsession with getting rid of them. He sometimes called her “the Tissue Queen” and she would say, “And you’re the Duke of Disposal.”

  They called each other quite different names ten minutes later, once they were in bed.

  5

  Willard Jones was on routine car patrol for the State Department’s embassy security force. It was shortly after sunrise, but still dark enough for lights in buildings to be discernible. He’d made a pass along Massachusetts Avenue’s Embassy Row and was now on his way back. He was hungry and looked forward to pancakes and sausage at his favorite diner.

  Massachusetts Avenue was virtually without traffic. A stray dog crossed the wide boulevard and Jones slowed to allow him to make it safely. Jones was a dog lover and had two strays at home that he and his wife had rescued over the years.

  He’d put on weight recently and his pants pressed in on his stomach. His uniform was almost identical to that worn by MPD cops, except that it had a bright yellow stripe down the side of the pants. He’d been turned down by MPD ten years ago and had settled for the embassy patrol. He liked police work. He liked uniforms.

  He hugged the curb across from the South African Embassy. The three-story white cinderblock building was dark, just as it had been during his initial run. He yawned, put the gearshift of his unmarked car i
nto DRIVE, and proceeded at a snail’s pace, stopping across from a two-story white building whose windows were covered by ornate blue metal grillwork with bronze tulips woven into the design. The number was 3005. A weathered wooden sign read: EMBASSY OF THE ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF IRAN. It was translated below into Arabic.

  The Iranian Embassy in Washington had been vacant since diplomatic relations between Iran and the United States had crumbled in 1980. It—and other buildings owned by Iran—had dramatically deteriorated, prompting constant protests from neighbors. A thick layer of leaves covered the front lawn. The flagpole was bare. Blue-and-white Persian ceramic tiles on the front of the building were stained and lifeless.

  Jones was about to continue on his route when a light flickered in an upstairs window. “It’s supposed to be empty,” he told himself. The light continued to dance, then vanished. The window was black.

  He made a careful U-turn, pulled into a driveway in front of the embassy, and shined a flashlight on large wooden front doors whose windows were covered with bronze scenes of stags, horses, and lions locked in combat.

  Jones followed the driveway to the rear of the building where the garages were located. One of the overhead doors was raised a few feet. As he got out of the car, a gust of wind picked up dry leaves and swirled them into his face. He came around the front of the car, stooped, and directed the beam of his flashlight beneath the door. There was a vehicle inside. Jones pushed up on the door and it retracted with a bang.

  The vehicle was a black Cadillac limousine. Its license plate designated it as belonging to the diplomatic corps. Jones entered the garage and opened the driver’s door. The interior light came on. The sun visor was down. A sign attached to it read: OFFICIAL BUSINESS—BRITISH EMBASSY.

  Jones stood in the garage and pondered the situation. There was no reason for a limousine from the British Embassy to be there. The Iranian Embassy had been vacant for years. All abandoned cars had been towed away. Jones looked to where he’d left his patrol car running and debated whether to call in or to give his report in person. Calling in would mean staying there—and he was already a few minutes past quitting time. Willard Jones always had trouble making decisions. This time, the decision was taken out of his hands. A man stepped into the garage through a door shrouded in shadow, came up behind Jones, and brought a tire iron down on his neck. Jones’s head snapped back and his pupils disappeared behind his eyelids. A rush of air exploded from his lungs and filled the garage with an anguished, breathy scream. He pitched forward over the limousine’s hood, his fingers grasping the smooth black metal as he slowly slid back toward the floor. By the time he reached it he was unconscious.