Murder in the Smithsonian Page 19
She went to the door and took hold of the knob. Hanrahan sat back, folded his hands across his chest and looked at her. She turned slowly.
“Forget something?”
“Do you also know that I dropped Dr. Killinworth off in Belgravia, on the corner where I believe Mr. Ashtat lived, the night of his murder?”
Hanrahan kept a straight face, didn’t indicate whether it was news to him or not. “Did he tell you he was going there to see Ashtat?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you after he came back what he’d done in Belgravia?”
“No, except that it was boring and frustrating. And there are a lot of people in Belgravia one could be seeing.”
“True enough.”
“I’ve told you this in confidence, Captain. I assume you’ll honor that confidence. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to hang a man on the basis of a coincidence.”
“Wrong on the first count, right on the second.”
“I’m half-relieved. What will you do with what I’ve told you? If it has no relevance—”
“That’s not for me or you to decide. For example, I think Scotland Yard should know, don’t you? They’re on the scene, after all. I have a friend at the Yard. I don’t know what color file folders they’re using over there these days, but he hates to see one go into a dead file as much as I do. I’m going to tell him what you’ve told me. If he wants to follow up with Dr. Killinworth, that’ll be his decision.”
“I’m feeling a bit wabbit,” she said, sitting in the chair.
“Wabbit?”
“Not well.”
“Can I get you something? Water?”
“No, thank you, I’ll be all right. I really must go.”
“Sure… Miss McBean, Heather, I’d like to see more of you.” Before she could say anything he quickly put it in a professional context. “I’m not an enemy, I’m on your side, for God’s sake. We want the same thing, to find out who killed Lewis Tunney.”
“I know. I know… well, here I go again, apologizing…” This time she managed a half-smile.
“Please don’t… by the way, are you still staying at Killinworth’s house?”
“Yes. Do you think he might murder me in my sleep? Oh dear, there I go again.”
He sighed. “Yes, there you go. Well, keep in touch.”
Not in your sleep, he thought, at least not in his house…
The moment she was gone Hanrahan put through a call to Scotland Yard in London. When Bert Burns came on the line, Hanrahan told him. “Bert, I think we both just got lucky.”
Chapter 24
Lieutenant Joe Pearl sat in the Garden Cafe of the National Gallery of Art. It was noon. A large circular fountain in the middle of the room spewed jets of water into the air, its streams cascading into the center. A brown-and-burgundy marble wall surrounded the fountain; lush green plants sat on the wall. The tabletops were white-and-gray marble, the bases dark green wrought iron. A large skylight above the fountain directed light down to where the water joined, giving it a shimmering, ethereal quality. The flow of water created a constant, soothing whisper.
Joe Pearl leaned an elbow on the wall and looked through the spray at a table directly across the fountain, where Evelyn Killinworth and Janis Dewey sat. Killinworth, in a tan safari suit and a pale pink open shirt, had just been served, for him, a shockingly prosaic ham sandwich. Dewey, wearing a loose kelly-green dress, had just ordered a shrimp salad. Pearl, wishing they’d met in a restaurant offering heartier food, had ordered roast beef on pumpernickel.
He had tried to get out of Hanrahan’s assignment to follow Killinworth for the day… after all, he hadn’t pulled surveillance duty in years and always found it boring. Still, he couldn’t talk Hanrahan out of assigning him as Killinworth’s tail. “It’ll keep you honest, Joe, get you back to basics,” Hanrahan had said, “Might even take your mind off my lousy-fitting suits.”
The day had started with Pearl driving a safe distance behind Killinworth to Chloe Prentwhistle’s house. A red Citation and a gray de Ville were in the driveway. Killinworth was greeted at the door by a man Pearl knew to be Walter Jones. Killinworth didn’t stay long, twenty-six minutes, precisely, according to Pearl’s watch and log.
He followed the large professor from Prentwhistle’s house to a Mobil station where Killinworth made a brief call from a booth while a young man with long blond hair filled his car with premium unleaded. From there Killinworth had driven directly to the National Gallery, made a call from a lobby phone booth and then had taken a table next to the fountain. Janis Dewey joined him ten minutes later. Two things struck Pearl about her. First, she was beautiful; he’d always been partial to redheads, especially those with long red hair.
He also noted that she seemed flustered. She’d obviously not met Killinworth before, and once she sat down she had the appearance of someone wishing she were somewhere else.
Pearl could not hear their conversation, momentarily considered changing tables and decided against it. He had the rest of the day to go and didn’t want to draw attention to himself.
After they had eaten, Janis Dewey stood and extended her hand. Killinworth got to his feet and took it. For a moment Pearl thought he was going to kiss her hand; he didn’t.
Pearl then got behind Killinworth in the cashier’s line, positioning himself so that he would be seen only in profile if Killinworth turned. He needn’t have bothered. Killinworth walked straight out of the museum, got into his car and drove to the Georgetown University library, where he spent four hours. Pearl was losing out to boredom and sleepiness in the parking lot when Killinworth reappeared and drove to F. Scott’s in Georgetown, where the afterwork crowd was now gathering. Pearl gave Killinworth a three-minute head start through the doors before following him inside.
Business was brisk at the black-and-chrome bar. Killinworth had found space at the bar and was talking with a young man dressed in a glen plaid suit, button-down shirt and brown silk tie. Pearl approached the bar as nonchalantly as possible, slipped in behind Killinworth and ordered a glass of white wine. Killinworth couldn’t see him, which was good, but his bulk also made it impossible for Pearl to see the other man and to hear more than snippets of their conversation.
Killinworth was saying, “…she’s a nice girl… dreadful food, for little old ladies with tiny stomachs… yes, I saw Chloe and Walter this morning… of course they did…”
The young man said, “I still find this…” Pearl wasn’t sure but he thought he said, “ludicrous.”
“Think what you will, Mr. Kazakis,” Killinworth said, “but it is more a matter of—”
“Joe. Hey, Joe.” Pearl felt a slap on his back, turned to see a former MPD colleague, Johnny Carter, who had been quietly eased off the force for shaking down an after-hours social club owner who turned out to be the son-in-law of a leading politician.
Carter was drunk. The woman hanging on his arm was a walking Revlon investment. Black hair sprouted out beneath a blond wig, and a black dress was cut to the navel, exposing flat breasts. “Hey, Joe, what’s a cop doin’ in a place like this? Lookin’ for action?”
Pearl smiled tightly at Carter, nodded to the woman. “Have a nice night, Johnny,” he said, and turned his back on them, hoping Killinworth hadn’t heard the exchange. Killinworth, still deep in conversation with Kazakis, seemed not to have noticed.
Carter now poked Pearl in the back, “Hey, Joe, so what’s going down?”
Pearl turned. His smile had vanished.
Carter said, “Say hello to Brooke, Joe, Brooke Brown.”
“Please to meet you.” And to Carter: “Please get lost, Johnny.”
Carter seemed not sure how to react. He squeezed Brooke’s arm, narrowed his boozy eyes at Pearl. “How’s things at MPD?” he asked loudly. Pearl understood he was doing it deliberately. “Hey, Don, give my cop friend here a drink on me.”
Killinworth now turned and looked at Pearl.
Pearl tossed money on the bar and walke
d toward the door.
Carter followed him outside. “Hey, Joe, what’d I do, blow a collar?”
Pearl abruptly laughed and slapped him on the shoulder, “No, Johnny, just killing time… hey, how about a big favor?”
“What?”
“I need wheels for an hour. You planning to stay here that long?”
Carter shrugged. “Yeah. Seems the broad wants to eat.”
“Is that really her name, Brooke?”
“Who knows, who cares? What do you need a car for?”
“Believe it or not somebody made mine. Just an hour. Nothing’s sacred.”
“All right, sure, Joe. Glad to.” Carter reached into his pocket, pulled out a set of keys. “It’s that maroon LTD over there.” He pointed across the street.
“Oh… yeah. Thanks.”
Pearl took the keys and Carter started back toward F. Scott’s. “Hey, Johnny,” Pearl suddenly called out. He went up to Carter, slapped his head and laughed. “Don’t know what’s wrong with me, Johnny. I don’t need a car until later. Got my assignment mixed up. I’ll check one out from the motor pool.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure, but listen, thanks anyway.” He handed Carter back the keys.
“Any time, Joe. Hey, you’re sure you’re not sore at what happened in there? Just havin’ some fun.”
“Million laughs, Johnny. Drop in some day. Lunch is on me.”
“Yeah, I will.” He turned conspiratorial. “Hey, Joe, Brooke here’s got a friend who…”
“Good for her, Johnny. Well, enjoy, see you…”
Pearl waited for Killinworth, followed him home, lingered a half hour, then went to his own apartment, where he called Mac Hanrahan at home.
“Find out anything?” Hanrahan asked.
“No, Mac. I’ll give you a full report in the morning.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not pulling that duty tomorrow, am I?”
“No.”
“Good. Then I won’t call in sick.”
Chapter 25
Two eight-year-old kids were doing a brisk business in fireworks around the corner from MPD headquarters. Hanrahan stopped on his way to work and examined their merchandise. “It’s illegal to sell this stuff,” he said.
One of the kids told him to get lost.
“Watch your language,” Hanrahan said as he walked away. He hoped his nephews wouldn’t have firecrackers at the Fourth of July family picnic, which was two days away. He’d ended up the heavy last year when he took them away.
Sergeant Arey was on desk duty. “Mornin’, Captain,” he said as Hanrahan pushed through the glass doors.
“Arey. What’s new?”
“Not much. Can I ask you something? What’s the chances of getting off on the Fourth? They’ve got me down for nine-to-four.”
Hanrahan looked at him. “You know I never get involved in duty rosters outside homicide.”
“Yeah, I know, but I figured maybe you’d put in the word, I like being home on the Fourth.”
Hanrahan was tempted to switch with him. It would be worth it to get out of the picnic. Ever since his divorce he dreaded the annual event, found his relatives boring and nosey and, in some cases, even smug and cruel. Kathy would be there this year. One of his kids called and told him so.
“Just thought I’d try, Captain,” Arey said.
“No harm in trying, Arey.”
He hung up his jacket, got coffee from the bullpen and settled behind his desk with the morning paper. There was an editorial critical of the MPD’s handling of the Tunney murder. What especially rankled him was:
The best Capt. Mac Hanrahan and his staff have been able to accomplish is to arrest a Hispanic dishwasher named Montenez, whose common-law wife delivered, on a silver platter to MPD, the missing Legion of Harsa. MPD has hounded Montenez, caused him to lose his job. For shame, MPD, for allowing a sordid murder in a revered institution to linger into the national holiday, the Fourth of July. For shame.
By the time Joe Pearl walked into Hanrahan’s office a half hour later Hanrahan was, as Kathy used to say, a cross between Attila the Hun and Henry VIII.
“Hey, Mac, have dinner with your mother last night?” Pearl said it with a smile.
“No, Joe, and one more wise-ass comment from you will put you back checking parking meters.”
“Sorry. Well, here’s the rundown on my day with Killinworth.”
“Don’t bother. He called a few minutes ago. What did you do, Joe, hand him your business card?”
“What?”
“He demanded to know if he was being followed.”
“Mac, I’m sorry about that… it was on account of that fool Johnny Carter—”
“And you slashed his tires.”
“What?”
“Carter called too, says you cut two of his tires.”
“That’s ridiculous. You know Carter. He’s a psychopathic liar—”
“I told him as much. Considering the way you’ve handled this assignment, though… well, I got some other calls too, Joe. Commissioner Johnson, for example.”
“Oh?”
“Oh yeah. He wants us to be sure than nothing unfortunate happens between now and the Fourth. The vice president is concerned that the celebration not… how did he put it?… not ‘sully the American spirit of the Fourth’… sully, Joe. Your kind of talk. No matter what, no sullying. Got it?”
“Yeah, I—”
“Did you read the funny papers this morning?”
“No.”
“‘For shame,’ they said. Our record on the Tunney case was the object of their affections.”
“What else? I mean what else turned you into Attila the Hun this morning?”
“Never mind… tell me about Killinworth.”
Pearl read his notes to Hanrahan. When he was through he said. “What’s with Janis Dewey, Mac?”
“Meaning?”
“What’s her connection with the Tunney murder?”
Hanrahan ran his hand over his beard. “I don’t know. Did you pick up on what she and Killinworth were talking about?”
“No. I kept a low profile.”
“Real low, Joe. According to Killinworth you wore a sandwich board announcing your profession.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“Bad enough. You say Janis Dewey seemed flustered?”
“That’s the way I read it. She looked like Killinworth hit her with something fairly heavy.”
“Any idea what it was?”
“I couldn’t hear.”
“But you know he had a ham sandwich, and she had a shrimp salad.”
“I could see that.”
Hanrahan shook his head, picked up the phone. “Get me Alfred Throckly at the National Museum of American History.” He looked at Pearl. “Call Janis Dewey. Get her over here this afternoon. Make it three o’clock, and growl at her on the phone. You should be able to handle that, Joe.”
When Throckly came on the line Hanrahan said, “Mr. Throckly, Mac Hanrahan from MPD. Hold on a minute.” He pulled a computer print-out from the Tunney file. “Mr. Throckly, I have a question for you.”
“Yes?”
“I tried to reach you a few days ago. Your secretary said you were away.”
“That’s right.”
“Where did you go?”
“I don’t think I’m under obligation to answer that—”
“Want me to put you under obligation?”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“There’s no need for threats, Mr. Throckly. I called your office, your secretary said you were away. I asked where you’d gone. She told me England. I thought to myself how nice that sounded, getting away to jolly old England for a few days.”
“I thought the same thing, Captain—”
“Yeah, sure. How did you get there, Mr. Throckly? I checked passenger manifests between New York-Washington and London. I missed your name.”
“I don’t quite follow—”
“I had reasons for checking those manifests, Mr. Throckly. Some nasty things going on in London recently. I wanted to see who was there that I knew when they were happening.”
“And you found that I wasn’t there. What good fortune.” He laughed.
“Not necessarily, Mr. Throckly. Where were you?”
It took Throckly a beat or two to say, “Can I depend on your discretion?”
“You can’t depend on anything with me, Mr. Throckly, but then again, I’ve never been known as a great conversationalist.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Well… actually, I told people I was going to Europe so that I could find a few days’ peace and quiet. I needed to get away. The fact is, I never went further than Georgetown.”
“Where did you go there?”
“To a friend’s home… I read a book, slept, ate and, as they say, recharged batteries that were running low.”
“Who was this friend?”
“Does it matter?”
“I don’t know. You tell me and I’ll have a better idea.”
“If I tell you the name of my host, will it somehow get him involved in your Tunney investigation?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Throckly. But it would help your story.”
“I don’t appreciate the implications of that, Captain. But, all right, I was at the home of an old friend, a Mr. Norman Huffaker.”
Hanrahan was tempted to mention the arrest sheet from Vice on Ford Saunders and this same “old friend,” Huffaker, but decided not to. “Well, sorry you didn’t get to Europe, glad you found some rest. Thanks for your time and your cooperation…”
Hanrahan’s switch to noncommittal pleasantness seemed to make Throckly uneasy.
“Is there more to this than you told me?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know, I just have this feeling that—”
“Mr. Throckly, I spend most of my working days and nights asking questions and getting answers that have nothing whatsoever to do with anything.” True enough, but he was pleased to see Throckly’s failure to be reassured.
“All right… if I can be of any help, please don’t hesitate to call.”