Murder on Embassy Row

by Margaret Truman

  He laughed. “And miss another excuse to come to Copenhagen? Not on your life. Besides, it’s not that simple. The money has to be paid directly to the Iranians.”

  “Why?”

  “Beats me, but that’s the way it’s set up. Inga bills us her fees through normal channels and gets paid like every other purveyor. There’d be a problem with shipping documents, too. The papers that accompany the shipment identify us by name, and we’re the only ones who can accompany it through Customs. That’s the way it is, and who’s to argue?”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Let’s go back to the hotel and make sense.”

  “Make sense?”

  “Carry things to their logical and human conclusion.”

  “Logical and… Look, Mark, I have a big problem.”

  “What is it?”

  “A very jealous fiancé.”

  He grinned. “You should meet my wife.”

  “I’d rather not, but you’ll meet my fiancé. He’s at the d’Angleterre. We’ve been traveling together, but he had business in London.”

  “He’s there now?”

  “Yes.”

  He chewed on his lip and looked around. Everyone from the buyer group was gone. The last van had started its engine and was pulling away for its short run to Lindstrom’s warehouse. The soft sound of the street corner accordionist melded with laughter from a bar across the canal. “You know what you are?” Rosner said.

  “What?”

  “A very beautiful woman who’s also a…”

  She put her index finger to her lips. “Don’t be crude.”

  He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “You’ve never been in Copenhagen before, have you?”

  “I told you at dinner I hadn’t.”

  “Beautiful women are a dime a dozen here.”

  “So?”

  “So, they all have the same equipment. Understand?”

  “I’m well aware of that. I’m glad. It gets me off the hook.” She smiled and touched his arm. “Thanks for the tour, and for dinner. I loved both.”

  “That’s wonderful.” His sarcasm was not to be missed.

  “Look, you go on back and enjoy the evening. I have to stop in and see a friend before I meet up with… him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Sal. What’s your wife’s name?”

  “Linda.”

  “Thanks again.”

  “Sure you won’t come back with me?”

  “Positive.”

  “Don’t wander around Christianshavn too long. It’s quaint, but can be rough.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  She walked with him to Torvegade where he hailed a cab, shook her hand, and winked as the taxi pulled away.

  She looked back up the dock to where they’d been, and beyond. The vans had stopped in front of the warehouse attached to Lindstrom’s office building. Their lights were on, their motors running. A large metal overhead door lifted and the vans drove inside, the door slamming shut behind them.

  Lake started walking toward the warehouse, then stopped. She looked across the canal, which although only fifty yards wide seemed, at least at that moment, to divide two different worlds that were miles apart. The world on the other side was lively and carefree. There was life there. On her side, there was only stillness, and menace. The warehouse seemed to have grown into massive, threatening black shapes against a light sky.

  She resumed walking, her footsteps kicking back at her from the pavement. She glanced into the shadows on her left and imagined there were eyes trained upon her. She looked over the edge of the dock into oil-slicked water and shuddered at the thought of falling.

  There was a scraping noise to her left. She turned and saw the blazing copper eyes of a greasy gray cat. It was gone in an instant.

  This was the point of no return, she told herself as she continued walking, not daring to stop. Up until then she’d considered returning to the hotel, meeting up with Morizio and coming back together. But, the caviar would be gone by morning. She thought of Berge Nordkild and his recent drug arrest, and of Inga Lindstrom. Could there be a connection between her caviar and his narcotics? She wondered, too, whether the Lindstrom caviar setup was linked, in even a tangential way, with the murders of Geoffrey James and Paul Pringle. Pringle had been accused of dealing with drugs. And, there was Nuri Hafez. Was he really dead? Had his involvement with the Iranian pipeline contributed to the events that had caused her and Morizio so much personal grief? She kept walking because what she wanted more than anything was to arrive back at the d’Angleterre with answers to all their questions. It would be good to see Morizio’s face if she could make that happen.

  She’d turned off the tape recorder once Rosner got into the cab. Now, she turned it on again and talked as she walked, recounting her thoughts and observations. She stopped talking when she reached the warehouse. She listened, heard nothing. The large overhead door was closed, its seal tight; no light showed around or beneath it.

  A narrow alleyway between the warehouse and the three-story glass office building was shielded from the street by a tall red board gate. It looked to be open a crack and Lake went to it. A slide latch hadn’t been secured. She pushed on the gate and it swung open with a rusty moan. She tensed and waited for a reaction to the noise. Nothing. She looked into the alley and noticed a shaft of light coming from beneath a steel door at the far end. She went to it and turned the knob. It was locked. A few feet farther into the alley was another door half the height of the one she’d tried. It was more like an internal submarine hatch; a person of normal height would have to double over to get through it. Its handle was of the latch variety. She slowly turned it and pushed. The door swung open easily. She bent over and looked inside. It was difficult for her to know what was there because it was dark, except for moonlight that filtered through dirt-crusted windows high on a back wall. “What the hell,” she said in a whisper. She also said for the tape recorder, “In an alley next to a warehouse adjacent to Lindstrom’s office building. Time about nine-thirty. About to enter small door at rear of alley.”

  Once inside, she was thankful for the moon. Without it the hallway would have been coal black. She moved slowly, her hand in front of her, eyes straining to see as much as moonlight would allow. She heard voices from a room to the right and looked for a door. There wasn’t one. She continued to the end of the hall where a steel ladder attached to the wall led to an open trap door in the ceiling. The voices were louder now as she climbed the first three rungs of the ladder and poked her head through the opening. It was a large empty attic. There were no windows, but light glowed from an opening in the floor a hundred feet to her right. She completed her climb and tested the floor. It seemed solid. She took a step toward the light and stopped. The boards didn’t creak. She took another step, then another until she was in a position to view the downstairs on an angle. Men below were talking and laughing. She was about to move into a better position to observe when there was the dull thud of a heavy door being shut, then the harsh rattle of chains lifting the overhead door. A rush of cool air came up through the opening in the floor and it felt good. The attic was hot. There was more laughter, then vehicle doors closing and engines starting. She went to the edge and looked down. The vans that had transported the caviar from the dock drove from the warehouse and into the street. One of the young Iranians hopped out and activated a switch that caused the heavy metal door to descend.

  Connie waited a few minutes, then tentatively tested a rickety wooden ladder. She reached the bottom and surveyed the area. The only illumination was from a work light in a far corner, just enough for her to see that she was in the middle of a large storage room. Steel cargo containers were piled at one end, hundreds of cardboard boxes at another. A hill of empty pallets and two forklifts were in the middle of the room.

  The back wall, which butted up against the hallway through which she’d entered the building, contained a corner-to-corner and flo
or-to-ceiling bank of walk-in refrigerators. Above each set of doors was a tiny glowing red light. She opened one of the doors. Chilled darkness. She scanned the outside wall and noticed sets of rocker switches. She pushed the first one, which produced nothing, then pushed the second and a dim light came to life inside the refrigerator.

  She entered and saw that the labeled freezer chests had been stacked on slatted wooden shelves. She opened the first case to her left and removed some of the caviar tins. The labels read: Caviar—Product of the Soviet Union—Sevruga, Osetra, Beluga, depending on the tin’s contents. Those processed with little salt said Malossol.

  The chests were grouped according to whose shipment they comprised, and each group had a packet of papers with it. She opened one that was addressed to a food broker in Dallas, Texas. In it were bills-of-lading, Customs releases, port-of-origin forms, and tax declarations, all executed with fancy seals and scrawled signatures. She replaced those papers and went to Mark Rosner’s shipment. His envelope also contained the necessary official papers.

  The next order was addressed to Nordkild Importers and Catering, Washington, D.C. Lake read it aloud for the tape, and included the question, “Why another shipment to Nordkild now that he’s been arrested?” She provided a possible answer as she removed the lid of one of the chests and took out a can—“The order was in before his arrest.” Then she asked, “Will it still be shipped to him, or will Lindstrom hang on to it?”

  She slipped off the rubber bands that secured the lid and looked inside. Black, oily sevruga caviar glistened in the light of the tiny bulb. She pushed her little finger into the roe and held up the can to judge how far her finger had invaded, relative to the tin’s depth. It seemed to her that she hadn’t reached bottom. She placed the can on a shelf, took a Kleenex from her purse, wiped her finger on it, then spread it out, and dumped the contents of the caviar onto it. She found a nail file in her purse and used it to pry around the tin’s metal bottom. It came loose and fell to the floor. Lake held the can close to her face. “Sure,” she said as she visually examined a plastic pouch of white powder. She slit it open with the file, smelled it, removed some, and tasted it. Cocaine, just the way it tasted during her MPD narcotics training sessions.

  She replaced the false bottom, managed to get most of the caviar back into the can, wadded up the tissue and jammed it in her coat pocket. She carefully adjusted the rubber band over the top, talking for the tape all the while, put that can in her purse, and repeated the test on a can from a chest labeled simply—Lindstrom. The result was the same, cocaine beneath a false bottom. That can, too, went into her purse.

  Should she check other shipments for signs of drug smuggling? She decided not to take the time. Her visit had paid off, and what seemed monumentally important now was to get back to the safety of the hotel, where Morizio would be waiting. Her heart beat faster; fear and excitement joined forces.

  She hadn’t been aware of the musty cold of the refrigerator because she’d been busy. Now, she shivered, and her nostrils tightened against the smell. One final look around. Everything was in place.

  “What?” she said. There had been a noise outside. She slowly turned and looked into the warehouse but saw nothing—until a shadow ten feet tall fell across the floor.

  Then, the light in the refrigerator went out.

  “Oh,” she said.

  And the heavy steel door slammed shut.

  24

  Midnight.

  Morizio prowled Room 102 at the d’Angleterre, checking his watch and going in and out the French doors to the roof. He went downstairs at 12:30 and told the desk he’d be in the bar in case there was a call for him. He thought a drink would relax him, but it didn’t. He gulped it down and returned to the room where he went through Connie’s belongings. Her tape recorder was gone, but there were tapes, each carefully labeled. He inserted one in his recorder and listened to her conversation with Inga Lindstrom. He found it interesting but it shed little light on Connie’s whereabouts.

  Once the Lindstrom interview ended, there were a series of comments from Connie, notes and observations, and she recounted, in detail, her dinner with Mark Rosner, Erl Rekstad, and Aunt Eva. Although Lake didn’t specifically say it, it was clear to Morizio that she intended to go to the docks when the caviar shipment arrived. “Damn it, why didn’t you wait for me?” he said aloud. The answer was obvious. She wasn’t sure when he’d arrive and didn’t want to miss the opportunity.

  “Is that where you are?” he wondered as he got up, swiped a used Kleenex from a night table and tossed it in a basket. He looked at his watch. 1:15. He took a Copenhagen phone directory from beneath a Danish Bibelen in a night table drawer, found the listing for hospitals and called them all. No American woman had been admitted that night was the unanimous response.

  He found a listing for Eva Nygaard and called the number. Eva answered. There was music and laughter in the background. Morizio introduced himself. “Ah, yes, Constance’s young man. How are you?”

  “Worried,” said Morizio. “I can’t find Connie.”

  “Really. Perhaps she’s out.”

  “Of course she’s out, but where? We were supposed to meet here at eleven.”

  “You’re at the hotel?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause. Eva then said, “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Probably not. I was hoping she was with you.”

  “I wish she were. I’m having a party. Why don’t you join us and we can wait for her together. Leave a message at the desk and…”

  “No thanks. I’d rather stay here.”

  “All right. I’m sure everything’s fine, just a mix-up. She’ll be there. She seems to be a responsible young woman.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s very fond of you, very loyal.”

  “Yeah, I… thanks. Maybe we’ll get to meet.”

  “Please call and let me know when she arrives. I stay up very late.”

  “I will.”

  At three, he called the desk and asked what room Mark Rosner was in. “Ring him,” he told the operator.

  “Sir, it’s…”

  “Just call him. He’s expecting the call.”

  The phone in Rosner’s room rang ten times before he picked it up and mumbled, “Hello?”

  “Mr. Rosner?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name’s Salvatore Morizio. My fiancée, Constance Lake, told me about you.”

  “Oh.” There was a long silence. Finally, Rosner said, “Yes, she told me about you, too. I don’t really know her. We had a drink… a whole group… just a… I mean, I was with some friends and so was she and…”

  “Jesus, calm down, I’m not calling about that. Look, Rosner, she was supposed to be here at the hotel at eleven. It’s three. She’s not here. Do you know where she is?”

  “She’s not here. Three? Three in the morning? God, I…”

  “Yeah, sorry to wake you and I wouldn’t have unless I was worried. I am worried.”

  “Three. She’s not there. I don’t know what to tell you, I…”

  “You haven’t seen her tonight?”

  “No, I… well, yeah, I did, as a matter of fact. We had a fast dinner and then we…”

  “Where’d you have dinner?”

  “Where? A place called Els. It was quick, just a fast dinner before we went to the docks.”

  “What docks? Where the caviar comes in?”

  “You… yes, as a matter of fact. She told you?”

  “That she was going? Yes. You did go?”

  “Sure. I left her there.”

  “On the docks? Alone?”

  “Hold on, it was her decision. I asked her to come back here with me but… I mean, I just asked her out of courtesy, didn’t want to see her wandering around down there. I warned her. It’s pretty, Christianshavn, but there’s…”

  “When did you leave her?”

  “I don’t know, around ten-thirty, I guess. Can’t be sure.” />
  “Where exactly did you leave her?”

  “Well, let’s see. It was on the corner of… of the street that crosses the canal… Torvegade, it’s called… at Torvegade and Overgaden neden Vandet. Sorry, my pronunciation’s not too good.”

  “Spell them for me.”

  Rosner did his best.

  “How would you like to take a ride?”

  “A ride? Now?

  “Yeah, right now.”

  “I can’t, I…”

  “Mr. Rosner, I’m a cop, so’s Connie. We’re here on a murder case.”

  “She said she was…”

  “An interior designer.” Lake had mentioned that in her taped notes.

  “That’s what she said. You’re both cops?”

  “Right, and I have to find her, now. I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes.”

  Morizio stood by the desk until a sleepy Rosner arrived. He extended his hand and said, “I’m Mark Rosner.”

  “Sal Morizio. Let’s go.”

  They took one of two cabs from in front of the d’Angleterre and went to where Rosner had left her. “Wait,” Morizio told the driver. He and Rosner stood on the street and looked in the direction of where the caviar drop had been made. Rosner explained what had happened. “Let’s go,” Morizio said.

  Rosner led him to where they’d taken delivery of the caviar. “What next?” Morizio asked.

  Rosner shrugged, pulled up the collar of his Chesterfield coat against the cold, wet fog and said, “It goes to the warehouse.”

  “Which warehouse?”

  “Down there, at Lindstrom Foods.”

  “Inga Lindstrom.”

  “You know her, too.”

  “Sure. Show me.”

  Morizio checked the roll-up main door and the gate to the alleyway. Both were secured, although he was able to unlatch the gate. He looked into the alley, saw nothing. “What time does Inga get in in the morning?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow… I mean this morning it’ll be early. We pick up.”

  “Your caviar.”

  “Yes. Listen, Mr. Morizio, none of this has to do with the caviar, does it?”