Murder in the Smithsonian (23 page)

She was quiet for several moments, then looked up uneasily at him. “I’ve been trying to find some answers myself. I appreciate everything you’ve said, but can I also remind you that
I’m
the one whose fiancé was killed.” She slung her purse over her shoulder and started for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Sit down.”

“Why? What’s your next move, to arrest me, put me in solitary confinement and keep a twenty-four-hour guard over me until you’ve found Lewis’s murderer, or until your purple folder goes to its final resting place in dead storage.”

“That’s not a bad idea.” He allowed a sour grin.

“I don’t see the humor in it, Captain—”

“And I keep trying, although it isn’t easy. Sit down and I’ll tell you what I’ve come to. Maybe if I do you’ll understand a little better why I’m so worried about you.”

She sat in the chair.

“Let’s start with this.” He pulled a sheet of paper from the folder and handed it to her. Typed across the top in capital letters was EVELYN KILLINWORTH.

She had just started to read when Joe Pearl opened the door.

“Not now, Joe.”

“Only take a minute, Mac,” he said, motioning Hanrahan to accompany him to the bullpen, where he gave Hanrahan a list of Evelyn Killinworth’s travels over the previous five years.

“And?”

“Lots of unexplained chunks of time, as we knew. Not that it’s unusual for a professor to have lots of time off to travel.”

“Get to it, Joe.”

Pearl glanced through the glass at Heather, who seemed deep in her reading. “There’ve been six separate trips to the Middle East over the past five years—Jidda, Beirut, Morocco, a couple of others.”

“What’d he do in all those places?”

“Ask him, Mac. Whatever, he always stayed at the best hotels, that’s for sure. Anyway, you wanted it and we got it for you. What’s going on with her?”

“I’m not sure. Well, thanks, Joe. Keep on it.”

“Mac.”

“What?”

“You ought to take that suit back and have it re-altered. It bunches in the back, up around the neck.”

Hanrahan looked down at his suit. It was new; he hadn’t worn it before, had picked it up only two days ago from Cavalier at F and Ninth, where he bought all his clothes off the rack. “I think it fits fine,” he said.

“Just thought I’d mention it. I like the color, though. Slate blue.”

Hanrahan returned to his office, took off his jacket and hung it on a rack. He ran his thumbs around the
waistband of the pants, caught a fast look at his reflection in the door’s glass and sat behind the desk.

“Why did you give me this?” Heather asked, handing him back the paper on Killinworth.

“You read it?”

“Yes. I knew all these things about him. It’s really nothing more than a short biography.”

“Nothing strikes you as strange?”

“What do you mean?”

“Where does he get all his money?”

“All his money? I didn’t think Evelyn was a rich man.”

“He lives like one. What about it? No questions about him, no doubts?” He sensed that she’d suddenly become uncomfortable. “Haven’t even thought about it?”

“Well… not exactly.”

“You don’t sound too sure. When Dr. Tunney was murdered, Killinworth was here in Washington. He was here when you were attacked, and when your hotel room was broken into. Now, he’s in London when someone else is murdered.”

“He wasn’t there when Peter was killed. You said he’d been dead a week before they found him.” Wasn’t she overdoing this defending him? After what had happened to her…?

“I’m not talking about Peter Peckham, I’m talking about an Arab art dealer named Rashad Ashtat. Ever hear of him?”

“Well, I read about him in London.”

“Then you know he was killed while you
and
Killinworth were in London?”

“Yes…”

“What was your reaction?”

“I didn’t know the man—”

“I didn’t ask you that. Well, did Dr. Tunney know him?”

“I don’t know.”

“How about Peckham? Did he know this Ashtat?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“Killinworth… did he ever mention an art dealer named Rashad Ashtat?”

“No…”

“He’s spent a lot of time in the Middle East… Look, I’m just trying to put some things together. That’s my job.”

“I understand that.”

“Good. You said that the private detective confirmed that Dr. Tunney had spent time with Peter Peckham before coming to Washington. Do you have any idea what they talked about?”

“No… I don’t.”

Hanrahan picked up the purple folder, bent it and its contents back and forth. “Like I said, this one’s
not
ending up in a dead file. Anything else to add to it?”

“Captain Hanrahan, I know you feel I don’t always tell you everything I should, but I—”

“Now that you mention it, I’ll say you’re right. For instance, I heard you almost got yourself run over in Edinburgh.”

“How did you know
that
?”

“It’s not important, but where I come from that might be considered a pretty close call.”

“It was, but people on the scene said it was just a stupid hit-and-run
American
who couldn’t remember the right side of the road to drive on… by the way, did you have me followed?”

“That would annoy you, wouldn’t it? Even if the reason was that I was worried about you.”

“I do seem to be a problem for you, don’t I? In fact,
I mostly seem to be apologizing to you. I’ll be going now.”

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.”

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 walked 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.”