Morizio hadn’t changed out of his suit. He looked down, then at Thorpe and said, “No, just got here. You want to come in?”
“Thank you.” Thorpe stepped into the foyer and looked around. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
Morizio knew he was really asking whether Connie was there. He ignored the question and asked, “What can I do for you, Mr. Thorpe?”
Thorpe ignored his question and walked across the living room to the window. “Splendid view. I enjoy good views.”
“Yeah, so do I. Like a drink?”
“That’s gracious of you.”
“Scotch?”
“Bourbon? I’ve developed a taste for it since being here.”
Morizio knew Thorpe had already been drinking. There was a hitch to his speech, and unusually high color in his cheeks. Morizio went to the kitchen and filled a glass with ice and Ancient Age ten-year-old bourbon. He poured himself cognac and returned to the living room where Thorpe had settled into a leather club chair.
“Thank you, sir,” Thorpe said. He downed half of what was in his glass, nodded his approval, and said, “I’m disappointed in you, Captain.”
“Really? You came here to tell me that?”
“I came here because we had agreed to meet at the end of each day. We haven’t been.”
“I’ve been busy. Besides, there’s been nothing to talk about. The James… project… is over.”
“Is it?”
“That’s what I’m told.”
“Being told is one thing, Captain, acting upon it is another.”
“Get to the point, Mr. Thorpe. It’s late.”
Thorpe took a tiny sip this time and focused on his glass. He ran a finger over the rim and belched. “We had been on a first name basis,” he said.
“That’s right.”
“But you seem hell-bent on keeping the situation official.”
“How’d I do that?”
“By ignoring the simple rules, Captain. Do nothing unless instructed. Simple. So simple.
“I didn’t break any rules.”
“Berge Nordkild?”
“What about him?”
“Questions about Ambassador James’s death.”
“Idle conversation. We had a social lunch, a food-testing session actually. Of course James came up. Nordkild was at the party.”
“And you had no professional interest in the questions you asked him.”
“That’s right.” Morizio got up, took off his jacket and tossed it on the couch. He yanked his tie loose from his neck and dropped it on the jacket. He didn’t want to demonstrate the anger he felt. It would accomplish nothing, be counter-productive, end up in unpleasantness. He sat down and sampled his cognac.
“The James matter is over, Captain Morizio. It was a tragic experience that has been resolved.”
“Has it? What about the valet, Hafez?”
“Under arrest.”
Morizio sat up. “When?”
“Yesterday, in Iran.”
“In Iran? He went back?”
“Yes. He’ll be prosecuted there.”
“For poisoning Ambassador James.”
“Exactly.”
“Why not extradite him to England?”
Thorpe laughed and extended his empty glass toward Morizio. “I’d love another. Extradite from Iran? Our Arab neighbors are not interested in the civilized manner in which we function. In some ways they have a point. Extradition would mean red tape, delays, negotiations. Have you ever lived in an Arab state, Sal?”
“Now it’s Sal.”
“You prefer, ‘Captain’?”
“I don’t prefer anything.”
“You are, of course, now ready to accept the fact that the James case has reached its logical conclusion. There’s no need to ask questions of anyone any longer. Justice has been done. If you do understand that, then first names are again appropriate.”
“And if I don’t?”
Thorpe smiled. “Excellent bourbon. Please.”
Morizio, too, smiled as he went to the kitchen to refill the glass. There was something strange and inherently charming about George Thorpe. He couldn’t make up his mind whether he enjoyed his company or detested him, but because there was that ambivalence, the tendency was to go along. He brought Thorpe his second drink, settled on the couch, and asked, “How do you know I talked to Berge Nordkild?”
“Irrelevant.”
“Not to me.”
“Too many things have relevancy for you.”
“What’s relevant to you, Thorpe?”
“The quality of my life. I’m dedicated to direct routes, to taking highways rather than winding country roads.” He smiled and raised his glass. “To simplicity, Captain Morizio. It’s a significantly more rewarding way to live.”
Morizio drank, said, “Sometimes the simple way doesn’t work.”
“It always works, Captain, if one limits the relevancies in one’s life. Take me for instance. I don’t own a cat or a dog, nor are there any plants in my house. There is nothing I must care for except George Thorpe.”
“Sounds dull.”
“It works. Simplicity.”
“Lonely?”
“Alone, not lonely.” He crossed his legs and drew a deep breath before finishing his drink. Morizio hoped he wasn’t about to settle in for the night.
“A nightcap, Thorpe? Then I have to turn in. It’s been a long day.”
“Yes, of course.” He handed Morizio his glass. “Where is Miss Lake tonight?”
“Home,” Morizio said over his shoulder as he headed for the kitchen. He stood in front of the sink and thought about Thorpe’s claim that Nuri Hafez had returned to Iran and had been arrested. He didn’t buy it. He poured the bourbon over the ice cubes and again felt anger scrape his belly. He’d been followed to Berge Nordkild’s office, had probably been under surveillance all the while. He didn’t like it, and by the time he handed Thorpe his glass he was ready to vent his feelings.
“Why was I followed?” he asked as he sat across from Thorpe and stared at him.
Thorpe laughed and shook his head. “Too many years as a police officer, Sal, too many years developing the paranoia common to your breed.”
“My father was ‘my breed.’ No paranoia with him, Thorpe, just an old-fashioned virtue of liking to see justice done.”
“And you, Sal? No paranoia in your generation?”
“Nordkild.”
“A friend.”
“He told you I had lunch with him?”
Thorpe nodded and sipped.
“Why would he bother?”
Thorpe sat up straight, consumed what was left in his glass, and stood unsteadily. “You’re a hospitable man, Sal. You pour a good drink, perhaps too good. I really stopped by to tell you about Hafez and to say how much I’ve enjoyed working with you. Now that it’s over, there won’t be a reason for us to see each other, unless you allow me to buy you lunch one day.”
“That’d be nice.”
“Yes, it would. Well, again, thank you.” They shook hands and Thorpe walked slowly toward the door, his large feet reaching for the floor with some uncertainty. He opened the door, hesitated as though deciding whether to say something else, stepped into the hall, and disappeared in the direction of the elevators.
Morizio called Connie and woke her. “Sorry,” he said. He told her briefly of his conversation with Thorpe.
“Sal,” she said.
“What?”
“I’m glad it’s over.”
“I don’t know.” He started to express his doubts about Thorpe’s story of Hafez but she asked him to hold them until morning. “If we were married or living together we could fall asleep while you tell me everything that’s on your mind. But I’m sleepy, Sal. Tomorrow.”
He tried reading Edmund Wilson’s The Thirties but couldn’t concentrate. He put on a Billie Holiday tape and settled into a level six match with Rasputin, which ended in a stalemate at three in the morning.
>
News of Nuri Hafez’s capture in Iran was on morning television, and in the papers. What was interesting to Morizio was that most of the attributed statements were from the State Department, not the British government. The spokesman made the same point that Thorpe had, that Iran would not consider extradition but had assured the British that Hafez would be tried and, if convicted, executed under Moslem law.
Morizio tossed his newspaper on the desk and muttered, “Tried, like hell. He’ll lose his head and that’ll be the end of it.”
The Post article also pointed out that Willard Jones, the diplomatic security cop who’d been attacked by Hafez, had been upgraded from critical to satisfactory. The piece ended with: “The United States government shares the loss of the distinguished ambassador, Geoffrey James, with his native Great Britain. It is of little consolation to his family that his murderer has been apprehended and will face an appropriate punishment in his native country, and it is the wish of this government, and the government of Great Britain, that the accused be extradited to Great Britain. However, because of tensions between Iran and Western nations, this has been ruled out by Iran’s leaders.”
Lake was late that morning, and Morizio didn’t try to hide his pique. That was the problem with being intimate with someone who works for you, he told himself. He told her that, too, when she arrived carrying a brown bag of fresh blueberry muffins, his favorite, and hot coffee. “The super was supposed to be there at eight to fix the tub, but he didn’t show until nine,” she said. “You should have called,” Morizio said. “I’m sorry,” she said. “This is awkward,” he said. “I said I’m sorry, Captain.”
He smiled and handed her the morning paper. As she read it he ate two muffins and finished his coffee. “Well?” he asked.
“Like I said last night, Sal, I’m glad it’s over.”
“It’s not.”
“What do you mean?”
“You buy this garbage?”
“It doesn’t matter whether I buy it or not. Somebody buys it, and that’s the name of that game. Forget it, Sal. Instead of trying to complicate everything, let it go and get on with what’s important to you.”
“Keep it simple, huh?”
“Yes.” She blew her nose and dropped the tissue in the ashtray. He put it in the waste basket and handed her a piece of paper outlining the day’s schedule. She would represent him at two meetings that afternoon, while he met with the congressional budget people who funded the city of Washington, D.C.
Morizio’s kid cousin was in town looking for a job, and he took her to lunch at the Market Inn. When he returned to MPD there were a dozen phone messages waiting for him. One immediately captured his attention. It was from Paul Pringle. It said: “Urgent I see you tonight at Piccadilly. Seven? I’ll wait. Paul.”
Chief Trottier called a few minutes later. He’d been going over the preliminary budget figures and saw potential problems. “Let’s meet at six in my office.”
“Can we make it another time?” asked Morizio. “I had plans.”
“Department business?”
“Well, yes and no. It’s…” He knew he shouldn’t mention Pringle, and didn’t. “No, sir,” he said. “Six will be fine.”
Lake got back to the office at five. “Connie,” Morizio said, “Paul Pringle’s in town.”
“How nice.”
“Maybe.” He explained his conflict and asked her to get to Piccadilly by seven. “I’ll join you as soon as I can. Just don’t let him leave.”
Morizio reached Piccadilly at eight-twenty. Lake was at a booth having a shepherd’s pie. “Where is he?” Morizio asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “He never showed.”
Morizio had a roast beef sandwich and a glass of ale. He was visibly upset at Pringle’s failing to show. Lake asked him whether the message had been taken correctly at headquarters. “Yeah, I double-checked. It’s not like him, Connie. Damn it, why would he suddenly show up back in Washington unless he had something important to tell me about James.”
“Sal, that’s old business.”
“Not for me. Where the hell is he?” He ordered another beer and kept glancing at the front door. At eleven he said, “Let’s go.”
“All kinds of things could have happened,” Lake said.
“Yeah. Where would he stay overnight in D.C.?”
“The embassy?”
“Last place. Let’s go home.” He checked with Johnny, the bartender, who confirmed he hadn’t heard from Pringle, paid the check, and drove to his apartment. At one, Morizio said he was going to bed. They turned off the bedside light and Connie quickly drifted into a peaceful sleep, a pleasant smile on her lips. Morizio was wide awake. He didn’t want to disturb her, carefully slipped out of bed, and went to the living room where he stood at the window and watched the lights across the Potomac come and go through a ground fog. He eventually turned on a small lamp with a green shade on the desk and sat in a straight-back chair, his hand resting inches from the phone. “What the hell is going on?” he asked himself as he did drum rolls with his fingers. He placed a call to Pringle’s home near London. Again, no answer. He called the Foreign and Commonwealth Office in London and was connected with the minister of security’s office. A clerk informed him that no one was in yet. Morizio asked about Paul Pringle. The clerk said he wasn’t familiar with the name, took Morizio’s number, and hung up. He considered calling some British law enforcement contacts he’d made over the years but wasn’t sure how they could help at this point.
He turned off the light and was about to return to bed when the phone rang. The loudness of it in the black, silent room jarred him. He grabbed it before it could ring again, flipped on the lamp, and said, “Morizio.”
“Captain, Schwab in Homicide. Sorry to wake you.”
“You didn’t.”
“That’s good. Captain, we wouldn’t be calling you on this ordinarily except that there’s an unusual circumstance with a homicide we handled tonight. It looks like a drug rubout. The victim carried ID and some papers. Your name was on one of them.”
“Who’s the victim?” Morizio knew the answer.
“A Paul Pringle, Caucasian, male, about forty-five…”
“Where’d it happen?”
“Adams Morgan. A grisly one, Captain. Somebody sure didn’t like him.” Adams Morgan, a poor, heavily Hispanic section of inner-D.C., had one of the city’s higher crime rates, particularly narcotics.
“Where’s the body?”
“The morgue.”
“Thanks. I’ll be there right away.”
He hung up and realized Connie was standing in the bedroom doorway. “Who was it?” she asked.
“Homicide. Paul was murdered tonight.”
“Oh, my God.”
“They said it looks drug-related.”
“Paul?”
“He had my name on a piece of paper. That’s why they called.”
“Is he at D.C. General?”
“Yeah. I’m going down.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No, hang in here, Connie. I’ll call you later. Get some sleep.” He started into the bedroom. She touched his arm, started to cry, and wrapped her arms around him. “I’m sorry, Sal.”
***
Paul Pringle was on one of the stainless steel tables in the morgue. An attendant led Morizio to it and pulled back the sheet that covered his body. Morizio looked down into Pringle’s face. There was a bright red ring around his neck where he’d been garroted, probably with a thin metal wire. He’d been savagely beaten; his face was swollen to twice its size and was the color of blueberries.
“Autopsy?” Morizio said.
“In about an hour, Captain. We did notice this.” The attendant, a slight black man with sparse reddish hair, took Pringle’s wrist and suspended his arm. There were needle marks in the crook of the elbow.
“He didn’t use drugs,” Morizio said.
“You knew him pretty good?”
“Yeah
, I knew him pretty good.”
“He’s British, huh?” the attendant said as he replaced the sheet over Pringle’s torso and face. “You want to handle next-of-kin?”
“I’ll figure that out later. Thanks.”
He returned to his office at MPD and called Homicide. “There’s more to this than meets the eye,” he told the detective. “Don’t do anything with it until we have a chance to talk to Chief Trottier.”
“Whatever you say, Sal, but what’s going on? Why the fuss over him?”
“He was a friend.”
“Sorry to hear it. A good one?”
“Yeah, and he was about to become an even better one.”
12
Pringle’s murder was handled by the press as just another D.C. crime until his connection with the British Embassy was revealed. Then, the story took on greater importance. His former colleagues at the embassy were scouted up and interviewed, at least those who were willing to talk. One was Melanie Callender, the ambassador’s former personal secretary, who was interviewed in front of her apartment building. At first, she was composed. “Yes, I knew Paul Pringle well… No, I was unaware of any connection with drugs… He was a fine man, a good family man… I have nothing whatever to say about Ambassador James’s death…” She started to cry. The TV reporter asked about Pringle’s departure from the embassy shortly after the ambassador’s death. “Please,” Callender said, waving her hand at the camera, “no more. Two fine men are dead and I… I…” She broke down, turned, and walked quickly inside the building.
Morizio and Lake watched the interview on the six o’clock news. They were at his apartment. It had been, as Morizio put it, “a bitch of a day.” He’d spent a lot of time with homicide detectives discussing Pringle’s murder. Arrangements had been made with Pringle’s widow to have his body returned to England for burial. Residents of Adams Morgan had been questioned by a team of investigators, as had known drug dealers. Nothing concrete had surfaced, and Homicide was still labeling it “drug-related, assailant unknown.”
“It’s got to be connected with James’s murder,” Morizio said as he turned off the TV and started an Ella Fitzgerald tape. He paced the living room. “Pringle was coming here to tell me something, and it had to do with James. What else could it have been? Somebody didn’t want him talking to me and headed him off, dragged him into Adams Morgan, beat the hell out of him, held him by the throat with a wire, and pumped him full of heroin.”
Murder on Embassy Row Page 9