Read Murder on Embassy Row Online
Authors: Margaret Truman
“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
.
“Well?” Goldberg said as Morizio put the paper in his jacket pocket and swallowed against a large lump in his throat.
“That’s it. Thanks.”
“I’m glad you found it. Of course, my book is now damaged.”
“Gee, I…”
“Just kidding. Sure you won’t join us upstairs? Nice group, all family.”
“I can’t, but thanks for letting me barge in on Thanksgiving.”
“Glad I could help.”
Morizio looked at the plate of turkey. “Maybe I could take this with me. I have a friend who…” He realized there was no way he could explain.
“Of course. One minute.”
Goldberg returned from upstairs with a large plastic bag filled with turkey. Two smaller bags contained stuffing and mashed potatoes. Morizio emptied the platter Betty had brought into the larger bag. “I appreciate it,” he said, feeling foolish, like a bag lady at a city welfare agency.
“See you again at Piccadilly,” Goldberg said as Morizio left.
“I hope so. Thank your wife for me, and happy Thanksgiving.”
His car had a ticket, which he tossed into the gutter. He drove slowly, trying to remember everything he’d read in Pringle’s letter. He couldn’t deal with it, the broad ramifications, the issues it raised. “Jesus,” he muttered as he pulled up to a corner, got out, and pushed a dime into a public phone. He dialed a number, waited for it to be answered. “Hello?” a female voice said.
“Mrs. Trottier, this is Salvatore Morizio, Captain Morizio. I’m sorry to bother you at home on a holiday but…”
“Happy Thanksgiving, Captain,” she said. He could
hear music and laughter in the background. “I’ll get Don for you.”
“Hello.”
“Chief, this is Sal Morizio.”
“Yes.”
“Sorry to bother you but…”
“You’re back.”
“Yeah, I… you knew I was away?”
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“I… I have to see you right now.”
“Now? It’s Thanksgiving. I have family here and…”
“It’s…” He couldn’t find a word that would convey what he felt. “It’s goddamn important, Chief. I have Nuri Hafez with me, and a letter that explains the murder of Ambassador James, Paul Pringle, everything. I have it all. I…”
“You have Hafez with you?”
“Well, not exactly. He’s with Officer Lake and he’s willing to straighten everything out. I have the proof.”
“Of what?”
“You son of a bitch.”
“What did you say to me?”
“Jesus, look, I don’t give a flying… I’m sorry, I’ve gone through a lot.”
“Excuse me,” Trottier said. He returned to the phone a minute later and said, “I understand, Sal. You took me by surprise, that’s all. Of course I’ll meet with you. Where are you?”
Morizio hesitated. Was he doing the right thing? It had occurred to him earlier in the evening that a better approach might be to go to the press, to Jack Anderson, Woodward and Bernstein, maybe even one of his casual acquaintances at local radio and TV stations. But that frightened him, too. Their needs didn’t match up. They’d
view it as a story. He needed resolution within MPD, for himself and for Lake.
“Where are you now, Sal?”
“In a booth in Georgetown. I’m heading back to meet Lake and Hafez. They’re at… okay, they’re at the Iranian Embassy, 3005 Mass. Ave.”
“Why there?”
“Hafez had a key. Are you coming now?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
A pause. “Yes, if that’s what you want.”
“Good. Come down the driveway to the rear of the building. The door is the first one you come to after the garages. I’ll leave it open. I don’t know if there’s a buzzer. There’s no electricity. Knock when you get there. Knock loud, yell. I’ll come down and get you.”
“All right. Give me some time to explain to my guests. We eat late. We were just sitting down.”
“Yeah, well…”
“I’ll be there inside an hour.”
“Okay.”
This time he didn’t worry about driving too fast. He took Lake aside the minute he arrived and showed her Pringle’s letter. “That’s it, isn’t it?” she said when she was finished reading it. “We’ve got it all.”
“I think so. It’s scary as hell. I can’t even begin to deal with a friendly government like Great Britain getting together with our top people to plan a murder.”
“Assassination, Sal. There’s a difference to them.”
“Greater good. It’s still murder, and Paul’s death sure as hell doesn’t rank as an assassination.”
“To them it does. It’s awful, I agree, but that’s what Gibronski and Thorpe and Trottier were telling you all along.”
“And I couldn’t buy it.”
“I’m glad you couldn’t. There’s got to be room for personal honor in the midst of national goals. There has to be.”
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
They returned to the tiled conference room where Nuri Hafez was adding a log to the fire. He looked at them as though he wanted to know what had occurred, but he didn’t ask. Morizio said, “Everything’s going to work out, Hafez. I found what I was looking for, and it makes it plain you didn’t kill anyone. This will be over soon. You did the right thing coming back with us. We’re all going to be cleared very soon.”
Morizio remembered the food he’d brought from Goldberg. “It isn’t much, especially for Thanksgiving, but maybe it’s the best holiday dinner we’ll ever have.” He tossed Pringle’s letter on the table and held up the plastic food bags. They tore them open at the seams and used them as plates, ate with their fingers, savoring every bite, Morizio and Lake looking at each other and smiling.