Murder on Embassy Row

by Margaret Truman

  “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:

  Dear Sal—Sorry to vanish like this but duty calls. You’ve been a good friend, and I only wish I could repay what you’ve done for me as a stranger on your shores. But let us avoid the maudlin at all costs. What I leave you are various documents having to do with the death of the ambassador. He was a nasty sort, between you and me, and there were certainly enough people who won’t wear black at his passing, including his lovely and long-suffering wife, his deputy, Barnsworth, certain of the household staff and Lord knows who else around the globe. The point is, Nuri Hafez is being pointed to as the culprit, and perhaps he is, but I wouldn’t take it as Gospel. But then I know the astute detective, S. M., probably hasn’t, and doesn’t need an aging civil servant to tell him that.

  There’s a copy of the guest list in here, some of my notes about certain personalities, other bits and pieces that might entertain you. Naturally, these have appeared from the blue, the work of a demented soul terminally influenced by Dame Agatha, but one who means well.

  I shall miss you, S.M. Hoist one for me from time to time at Piccadilly. God bless.

  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.”

  “Can we go to bed now?”

  “I’d like to listen to the tape you made with Thorpe.”

  They finished listening at one-thirty. Morizio found it boring, heard nothing on the tape that shed any light on things. He labeled the tape, stored it in a locked cassette rack, cleaned the tape heads and turned out the lights. They snuggled together in bed, bare bodies melding like Silly Putty. She knew he would fall asleep quickly. “Sal,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Do you know why I don’t like chasing this James thing?”

  “Why?”

  “Because we have little enough time together as
it is. I was hoping we could grab the long weekend over Thanksgiving and get away, maybe to the shore, Seattle to see my folks, just hole up here for four days, be alone.”

  “That’d be nice.”

  “I know it would be nice. The question is whether we’ll do it.”

  “I’m all for it.”

  “Sal.”

  “I love you, Lake. Just remember that.”

  “I love you too, Morizio. Let’s think about it.”

  “Absolutely. It sounds great. Uh, huh.”

  They awoke early, made hasty love, and were at their desks by eight.

  9

  “Mr. Nordkild?”

  “Yes.”

  “Captain Salvatore Morizio, Metropolitan Police. We’ve met a few times.”

  “Yes, I recall. What can I do for you?”

  “You could give me some education on fancy foods.”

  Nordkild laughed. “It would be my pleasure. Is this for personal or professional reasons?”

  “Strictly personal. Could I visit you today?”

  “Yah, that would be all right. This is the day I taste new foods. Would you like to join me?”

  “I’d love it. You’re sure it’s not an inconvenience.”

  “Not when a police captain is involved. Noon? You know where my offices are?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bring a healthy appetite.”

  “I’ll skip the donuts this morning, Mr. Nordkild. See you at noon.”

  Nordkild Importers and Catering occupied a handsome four-story Georgetown brownstone on Q Street, N.W., off Wisconsin Avenue. Morizio knew the neighborhood; his favorite bookstore, the Francis Scott Key, was a few blocks away.

  He was asked to wait downstairs by a striking brunette who spoke with the same accent as Nordkild, and who was very tall. He examined what hung on the walls: testimonial letters from government figures and entertainers, covers of gourmet food magazines on which Nordkild was featured, large color photographs of Nordkild standing behind sumptuous displays of food, and a black-and-white autographed picture of Washington’s top caterer presenting Jimmy Carter with an oversized peanut sculpted from chicken liver.

  “Mr. Nordkild will see you now,” the receptionist said. Morizio followed her to a tiny elevator. She reached inside, pushed a button for the third floor and stepped back. “Enjoy,” she said.

  “Right,” said Morizio. “Skoal!”

  Nordkild met him on the third floor. “Welcome, Captain. You’re very prompt.”

  “I try to be. Nice building you have.”

  “Functional. Our kitchens are here on Floor Three. Floor Two has offices. My offices are on Floor Four. Come, we eat.”

  The tasting room was directly off a large kitchen and was decorated in muted shades of blue and pink. An elaborately set table stood in the center of the room. Gleaming Bing-and-Grøndahl handpainted porcelain china and Georg Jensen silverware rested regally on a crisp white tablecloth. Two places were set. A Grieg cello sonata played softly from speakers in the room’s four corners.

  “Sit, my friend,” Nordkild said. “We’ve received samples of some interesting new foods. I hope you enjoy them.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  They settled into comfortable Finn Juhl armchairs and two young blonde women wearing starched white uniforms arrived with trays from the kitchen. One held a variety of herring, the other four porcelain bowls filled with varieties of caviar.

  Nordkild took a bottle from an ice bucket and filled two small glasses. “Akvavit,” he said. “This has a dill base. Perhaps you would prefer coriander.”

  “I’ve never tasted akvavit.”

  “Good. I like introducing new things to new friends. Skoal!” He held his glass at eye level, nodded, smiled and tossed it down. Morizio did the same. “You like it?”

  “It’s strong. Yes, I like it.”

  “It gets better by the glass.” Nordkild lifted the edge of his napkin, which he’d tucked into his collar, and wiped his drooping, waxed mustache. “We start with herring,” he told Morizio. “We always start with herring. This brand is from Finland. I have not had it before. Tell me what you think.”

  Morizio took tiny bites. He hated herring. When asked by Nordkild what he thought, he said, “Not bad.”

  Nordkild laughed. “Not good, either, Captain. Hopefully, the caviar will be better.”

  Vodka was served in iced glasses, and one of the servers placed a white plastic spoon in each bowl of caviar. “The caviar is from America,” said Nordkild. “The spoons are too, from McDonalds.”

  Morizio laughed.

  “Caviar should never be eaten with anything metal. Doctors’ tongue depressors are good. So are these little plastic spoons.”

  “Yeah, coke addicts like ’em, too.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. Begin tasting, Captain. Tell me if you think the Americans are capable of producing decent caviar.”

  They tasted from the four bowls, with Nordkild providing a running commentary. “At the turn of the century your Delaware River produced tons of sturgeon but you polluted yourselves out of business, and the only real caviar since then has come from the Caspian. Now, you have entrepreneurs from your west coast who claim to have caviar as good as the Caspian. Do you agree?”

  “Don’t use me as a judge, Mr. Nordkild. The only caviar I can afford is in jars at the supermarket.”

  Nordkild made a face. “Lumpfish or whitefish painted black. You do appreciate the difference in what you’re eating now. This is quite good.”

  “As good as from the Caspian?”

  “No.”

  Nordkild continued spooning from the bowls. He was obviously enjoying it. His round cheeks were flushed, and he licked his lips like a cat after lapping milk. One thing was certain, Morizio thought, Nordkild was as fat as he was for good reason. He talked between mouthfuls. “Yes, Captain, there was a time when your rivers were teeming with sturgeon, so much so that barges loaded with them went up the Hudson River to be sold for a penny a pound in Albany as ‘Albany beef.’”

  Morizio smiled. “Times have changed,” he said, reflecting on the current price of caviar.

  Nordkild laughed. “Yes, indeed, Captain. In those days the roe was usually discarded. People only wanted the balik.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The sturgeon’s back. Smoked, it was considered a delicacy, but not the roe. Sad. The rest of the fish ended up bait.”

  “Supply and demand. What happened to the supply?”

  “Pollution, neglect, stupidity.” He guffawed and finished what was in one of the bowls. “Of course, events sometimes occur to mitigate shortages.”

  “Like what?”

  “The vagaries of religion for one. Imagine the strain on the already limited supply of caviar if the Jews deemed it kosher.”

  “They don’t?”

  He shook his head. “Whether a sturgeon has scales or not is debatable, but Jewish leaders, after passing their piece of silk thread over a sturgeon’s body and not having it snag on a scale, decided to prohibit it from their dietary laws. That’s good news for the caviar-loving gentile world.” A hearty laugh.

  Morizio sat back and watched Nordkild consume what was left of the caviar, lean back, smack his lips, and wipe his mouth.

  “Well, what’s the verdict, Mr. Nordkild? Did they pass muster?”

  “They’re adequate, but I haven’t built my reputation for settling for the adequate. No, I reject them both. Iran and Russia have little to worry about—yet.”

  Morizio absently picked up a spoon and slowly turned it in his fingers. He didn’t look up as he said, “You were at Ambassador James’s party.”

  “We now arrive at the obvious reason for your visit. Yes, I was there. I provided the food.”

  “That’s what I heard. You knew him well?”

  “The ambassador? As well as some, not as well as most.”

  “Anything strange about him that night?”

  Nordkild fanned a f
at hand over his face and frowned. “Strange? No, nothing strange. I think that…” The waitresses appeared with two plates of goose rillettes, glazed carrots, and dauphinois potatoes. “I took the liberty of choosing the menu for us, Captain. I trust it will be acceptable.”

  “Looks good to me.”

  “Fine.” A bottle of red wine was opened with care, sniffed, and tasted, then poured into their glasses. “Skoal.”

  “Skoal.”

  Morizio waited until they were well into the meal before returning to the subject of the James party. “Care to speculate on who might have poisoned the ambassador?” he asked.

  Nordkild’s mouth was full. He chewed, holding up a hand to bid for time, then said, “His aide, of course.”

  “Hafez, the Iranian?”

  “Yes. Open and shut, isn’t it? He flees the night of the murder, steals a limousine, hides out, assaults a police officer, and continues to run. Obviously, only a guilty man does such things.”

  “There could be other reasons.”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t know what they might be at this moment, but I learned a long time ago not to jump to conclusions. All the facts might support the assumption that Hafez is guilty, but sometimes we process facts in the wrong way. It’s the old cockroach theory.”

  Nordkild laughed. “I’ve not heard of such a theory.”

  “Yeah, a psychiatrist friend explained it to me once. He said there was this scientist who worked for years trying to teach a cockroach to respond to verbal commands. He succeeded, and the roach would jump over his finger whenever he said, ‘Jump!’ He cut off the roach’s front legs and said, ‘Jump!’ It managed to get over his finger. Off came the middle set of legs. It wasn’t easy, but that little roach crawled over the finger on command. The scientist finally took off the rear set of legs. The scientist said, ‘Jump!’ The roach just laid there. The scientist took out his notebook and observed that when a cockroach’s legs were removed, deafness occurs.”

  “An amusing story, Captain.”

  “Yeah, I always like it. Any other ideas about who might have done the ambassador in?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “How do you figure he was poisoned?”