Murder on Embassy Row Page 28

  “No one seemed to notice it,” Hafez said.

  “I’d love a fire,” Lake said. “It’s freezing in here.”

  It was cold and damp. The building had been vacant for a long time. “No one will see a fire,” Hafez repeated.

  “We’d have light, too,” Lake said.

  Morizio thought about it for a minute, then said, “Okay. We won’t be here long anyway.”

  Hafez made the fire, and the eruption of crackling orange flames provided instant warmth and light.

  “I’m hungry,” Hafez said.

  “So am I,” Morizio said, “but we’re not ordering in a pizza.” He motioned for Lake to leave the room with him, taking the flashlight and leading the way. When they were far enough away to not be heard, he said, “I’ve got to get over to Piccadilly. What do you think? Can we both go, or do you think he’ll bolt?”

  “I don’t think he’d do that, Sal, but why take the chance?”

  “Because I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone with him.”

  She touched his cheek. “Sal, I’d feel the same way except that I’ve already been in a worse situation alone with him. I really believe he’s harmless, just wants this mess over with as much as we do. I’ll be all right, believe me.”

  “I wish we had a weapon. I meant to get one from the apartment but completely forgot.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine. Just be quick. Do you think Johnny’s on duty?”

  “If he’s not, I’ll find out where he lives.”

  “We could wait until morning, go back to one of the apartments and get some sleep.”

  “You could sleep?”

  She smiled. “No.”

  “I’ll hurry. Just watch out for yourself.”

  “I will, don’t worry.” She closed the gap between them and embraced him, her lips finding his. They remained linked for a long time. When she pulled away she said, “I love you.”

  “And I love you. Maybe it’ll all work out, huh?”

  “Maybe. Let’s hope. Go on, get going.”

  She accompanied him to the door and he handed her the flashlight. “See you,” he said.

  “Yeah, see you.”

  He drove as fast as he thought he could get away with to the Piccadilly Pub. It was a disturbing period of time alone in the car. He worried about Lake being with Hafez, worried about whether he’d be able to find what Pringle had left for him and, even, whether it would provide enough answers to resolve everything. He was also acutely aware of the reversal in his life. He’d always enjoyed being a cop, riding tall on the side of law and order, nothing to hide, nothing to fear. But now, as he backparked into an empty space near Chevy Chase Circle, he felt guilty. He was a suspended cop working outside the same system in which he’d been so comfortable all those years. He’d prowled around London and Copenhagen like a private detective, sneaked back into his own country hoping no one would recognize him and the international fugitive he was harboring, entered through back doors of an abandoned foreign embassy like a sneak thief. He drove slowly so as not to arouse suspicion of… the police.

  Maybe even worse was the realization that there didn’t seem to be anyone he could trust. They’d decided on Chief Trottier, but he represented only the best of a bad bunch. He felt very much alone, except for Lake. Thank God for her, he thought. He really did love her, need her, more than ever.

  Morizio had expected Piccadilly to be relatively quiet. It was, after all, Thanksgiving, families at home eating turkey and watching football, which was what he wished he was doing.

  He was wrong. Piccadilly was full, mostly young people. A game was on color TV. The hostess greeted him by name as he came through the big black double doors. He grunted in reply and looked through the arch to the bar. Johnny was there, chatting with customers. “Beautiful,” he said as he headed in that direction. He stopped, turned and went to the bookcase containing the old books. There wasn’t much light; he squatted and squinted as he tried to read the titles. Some were Paul Pringle’s. Which ones? He straightened up and went to the bar.

  “Hello there,” Johnny said. “Long time, no see.”

  “Yeah,” Morizio said, sliding onto a stool.

  “Martini, lager?”

  “Gin, on the rocks. And Johnny, I’ve got to talk to you.”

  “My pleasure.” He poured Morizio’s drink, placed it in front of him, leaned his tall, angular frame over elbows on the polished bar and said, “What’s up?”

  Morizio glanced right and left—the couples on either side were engrossed in their own conversations—and said, “I just learned that Paul Pringle left me something very important. Do you have it?”

  “Have what?” Johnny laughed.

  “I don’t know. No, strike that. Look, he put some important papers in a book. I don’t know which book it was, or where he left it, but I’m betting on you, or the pub.”

  Johnny turned serious and rubbed his chin. A customer called for a refill but was waved away. “He gave me so many books, Captain.”

  “He did?”

  “Well, maybe not that many, but enough. He knows… knew I sort of like my history, and when he had too many for his shelves he gave them away.”

  “I know that, Johnny. He gave me some, too, but this one is special. Let’s narrow it down. You remember when Ambassador James was murdered?”

  “Sure. They still talk about it here. The date? I don’t…”

  “November Fifth. Okay, did he give you any books after that?”

  “He might have. Let me see… hmmmmm… hard to recall, Captain.” His face lighted up. “Oh, sure, of course he did. In fact, he said one of them was his particular favorite. That’s right. He told me that it’s one you’d especially like, too. He kidded about it, said you’d be mad he didn’t give it to you.”

  Morizio drew a deep, relieved breath and tasted his drink. Johnny took care of other customers, then returned.

  “What book was that?” Morizio asked.

  “The Mexican War. You know how he loved that. I never could muster up much enthusiasm but…” He laughed. “Funny fellow, Paul, always saying this book was his favorite or that one. I didn’t take it too seriously.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “The book?”

  “All the ones he gave you after James died. How many were there?”

  “A dozen, I suppose, maybe ten. I sold them.”

  Somebody snapped a big, fat rubber band inside Morizio. He picked up his glass and drained it.

  “It was after he died, Captain. The missus was on my back about having all those dusty relics around the house, like Paul’s wife did with him. I figured it didn’t matter anymore, so I boxed ’em all up and sold them.”

  “Jesus.”

  “The man was dead, Captain. Besides, better to have them where they were appreciated. That’s what Paul would have wanted.”

  Morizio didn’t want to push Johnny into a defensive corner. He smiled, said. “Give me another drink, Johnny, but don’t go away.”

  Five minutes later Morizio continued the conversation. “You say you sold them. Where, at a garage sale?” He hoped not.

  “No. Can’t stand them damn things. I sold them to Goldberg, the book fellow. You’ve met him here.”

  “Yeah, sure, the big guy. What’s his name, Ben?”

  “Right. I told him I had all these books and he said he’d love to have them. He didn’t pay much, but you know how those people are. I brought them in one day, put them in the trunk of his car and he paid me.”

  “How long ago?”

  “A week, maybe, maybe less, maybe a few days more. Can’t be sure.”

  “Goldberg’s shop’s in Georgetown, right?”

  “I think so.”

  “You don’t have a card, an address?”

  “Sorry, Captain, I don’t.”

  “All right. Thanks, Johnny.”

  “That last one’s on me.”

  “Good. See you later.” He laid a five
dollar bill on the bar and headed for the public phone in the foyer. He went through the Yellow Pages until finding Goldberg, Benjamin—Rare Books. He dialed the number and let it ring thirty times. Nothing. He wasn’t surprised. It was Thanksgiving, but you never knew about those book collectors. They kept strange hours, did strange things.

  He checked the residential listing for Benjamin Goldberg. There were a bunch, but he found one with the same address as the bookstore, probably a brownstone with the shop down, the apartment up. He called the number. This time it was picked up on the sixth ring.

  “Ben Goldberg?”

  “At times. Who’s this?”

  “Captain Salvatore Morizio, Washington Metropolitan Police Department. We’ve met at the Piccadilly Pub.”

  “Sure. So formal. How are you, Sal?”

  Goldberg had obviously remembered him a lot better than the other way around. “I’m fine, but I’ve got a big problem that you can help with.”

  “You want Thanksgiving dinner? We’re just finishing but you’re welcome to come over.”

  “No, I don’t want a meal Mr.… Ben. What I want are the books you bought about a week ago from Johnny, the bartender at the Piccadilly.”

  “The shop’s closed.”

  “Open it for me. It’s official, Ben, police business involving murder.”

  “Who?”

  “Yours if you don’t cooperate.”

  “I get the feeling this is not as official as you say it is.”

  “Feel what you will, I’m telling you this is important. Nothing to worry about from your end, but I need those books. They belonged to a friend of mine who was killed, Paul Pringle, and…”

  “I know. Johnny told me how he came to own them. Come on over. The shop’s right downstairs, but I can’t promise that I have them all. Some were sold.”

  Morizio’s heart sank. “How many?”

  “No idea.”

  “Do you still have the one on the Mexican-American War?”

  Goldberg laughed. “The only way I’d know that is to look. We’ll do it together.”

  Morizio parked at a hydrant in front of Goldberg’s shop and rang the upstairs bell. A light came on in the foyer and a large black shape behind white curtains descended the stairs. Goldberg opened the door. “Happy Thanksgiving,” he said.

  “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “A drink? I have guests upstairs.”

  “Thanks but…”

  “Come on, let’s take a look.”

  They entered the shop through another door from the foyer. There were books everywhere, piled on the floor, on shelves that sagged beneath their weight, on desks and windowsills, chairs and a couch. It was a discouraging sight to Morizio. It’d take a month to go through them all.

  But then Goldberg navigated his bulky body through the stacks with the skill of a downhill racer skirting gates and said, “Johnny’s books are over here.” He picked up a stack from the couch, maneuvered other stacks on the desk to make room and plopped them there. The third book in the pile attracted Morizio’s hand like a magnet—Armed Conflict: The Mexican-American War, 1846–1848. “Please, let it be you,” Morizio said as he opened the hardcover book and thumbed through it. There was nothing there that shouldn’t have been, just printed pages and illustrations.

  “Is that the one?” Goldberg asked.

  “No,” Morizio said.

  “Perhaps the others. Look through. I’ll check on what’s going on upstairs. Be back in a minute.”

  Morizio examined the other books in the stack. The same. Goldberg returned with his wife, Betty, whom he introduced to Morizio. “Are you sure you won’t join us?” she asked. “We have enough turkey to…”

  “No, thanks, I… Maybe a leg or something to chew on. I haven’t eaten in awhile and…”

  “Of course,” she said. “Sure you won’t have a drink?” her husband asked.

  “A Coke? Seven-Up. Whatever.”

  “Tell me,” Goldberg said to Morizio after his wife was gone, “what precisely are you looking for?”

  “That’s the problem, I don’t know. I learned in London that Paul Pringle, the guy who used to own these, left me some important information about a murder case, two as matter of fact, including his own.”

  “Yes, I remember him from Piccadilly. Nice fellow. He appreciated history.”

  Morizio was too dejected for historical banter. “It was a shot in the dark,” he said. “A book. What book? I had this dumb faith that I’d come back, pick up that Mexican-American War book, find a neatly typed set of notes that solves everything and off I’d go.”

  Betty Goldberg arrived with a plate of turkey and a large glass of soda. “Thanks,” Morizio said as he picked up a leg and took a bite. He thought of Lake back at the embassy, cold and discouraged and hungry. Maybe I could bring a doggy bag, he thought.

  Ben Goldberg picked up one of Pringle’s books, a history of the Crimean War, and ran stubby fingers over the inside of the front and back covers, saying as he did it: “I bought a book once from an estate… it sat here for a year. One day I picked it up and admired the binding, felt a bulge inside the front cover…” He laughed. “There it was, beneath the glued-on paper, a will that had never been probated.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I found important papers another time, too, wedged into a book’s spine.” He picked up another of Pringle’s books and checked it.

  Morizio held the Mexican-American War volume in his hands. He opened the front cover and ran his fingertips over it. It was bulky, felt like padding underneath. He looked at Goldberg. “Check this,” he said. He handed it to Goldberg, who used his fingers. “Right you are,” he said. He searched the desktop, came up with a double-edged razor blade, and carefully slit the inside front cover. Beneath its pasted-on decorative page was a single sheet of white bond paper, folded in half. He handed it to Morizio, who unfolded it. Its neat type ran margin to margin, top to bottom. He moved beneath a lamp and read it.

  Sal—As I write this I anticipate seeing you soon. I’d do it now, tell you in person what’s in this letter, but there are still loose ends to tidy up. Once I’ve done that, I’ll sit with you over a drink and explain everything. But, and I have come to learn the necessity of facing reality, there is always the possibility that I shall never see you again. What has happened in recent days renders each of us irrelevant. Greater forces have determined the course of events with Ambassador James. Still, I am unable to simply allow it to slide into obscure history. There must be someone else who knows, and I’ve chosen you. Sorry. It certainly isn’t an act of friendship to make you a party to it but I happen to believe in Sal Morizio.

  I couldn’t mail this to you, nor could I telephone and tell you what is in this letter. They seem to know everything, Sal, because they have the wherewithal to listen to our conversations and to read our most personal correspondence. Don’t debate it, friend. They do, and they take advantage of it.

  Enough preface. I must keep this to one page. I learned too much, know too much about James’s demise to allow me the luxury of guaranteed old age. James was poisoned by the Crown. That’s right, Sal, the British government. He was too embarrassing to us to be allowed to live. He sold out your embassy personnel in Iran for profit. They—your government and mine—found out about it and worked together to resolve it. Real hands-across-the-sea. Our people didn’t want it to become public, and we promised to take care of it in our own way, with our own people. And we did. To be honest with you, Sal, I do not know precisely who placed the poison in the ambassador’s caviar. Barnsworth received the order, which I intercepted, but I doubt if he did the actual deed. It could have been anyone, a housekeeper, a maid, the secretary, another security person, whomever. Perhaps Barnsworth did lace the caviar. He is loyal to higher authority to a fault, and James was no longer his higher authority.

  Don’t let me lead you astray. It wasn’t all national pride and international cooperation. There was a practical side to it, too. Imagine the
lawsuits your hostages could bring against the Crown. Imagine it, Sal. And the bad press. Untenable, beyond imagination. We took care of James in a time-honored manner. He was eliminated. It was to have been a heart attack, body wrapped quickly and shipped home, sterling servant of the Crown buried with high honors. But the best-laid plans went haywire. The press. And me, calling you. The show was on, press conferences, your Chief Trottier playing the game because of larger stakes than simply law enforcement. Don’t judge him harshly. He took orders, as we all did. Well, I say modestly, excluding you, and me.

  I’m running out of room on this single page. What else? James was a bastard, weak and ineffectual but with some sense of business. Pity his wife, and beware a large Englishman named Thorpe. Her Majesty’s hitman guised in the respectable role of trade representative, but with the blood on his hands of Africans and Indians, Orientals and even his own. British citizens who strayed, slipped, were indiscreet. He was in charge of James’s unfortunate demise, and the cover-up. He didn’t do very well, and his head is on the line, too. He has the sensitivity of a mole, Sal, the conscience of a Hitler. There is always the “greater good” with Thorpe, which reduces smaller, true values to the expendable.

  I wish I hadn’t come into possession of these facts. It bloody well gets in the way of the retirement dream, tiny soldier shop, pipe in mouth, and leisurely days whiled away reading history, painting my miniature heroes in bright colors and enjoying my grandson, thanks to you. Harriet is a good girl, slow-witted but decent, a classic female victim of the male Barnsworth. He told her he loved her. Damn him. He pays. I mustn’t fault that. The Crown pays. Mrs. James will be taken care of for the rest of her life to keep her mouth shut, to allow her husband’s Scottish oil company to die a simple death so that its “business” never becomes public knowledge. What a crew, Sal. But not so unusual, huh? Human nature. Greed. I’ve known it, and assume you have, too.

  End of page, Sal. I hope you never have to find this because it would mean I am still alive. But I don’t expect that to be the case, and I trust in your ingenuity. Say hello to Johnny if I miss that opportunity. It’s gone so fast, this life of mine. I’m smiling. Until now it’s been rather dull. Hello to Connie Lake. Hello to you. Of all the Americans I’ve met, you’re the best, Sal. You care. What a precious commodity. Paul.