Murder on Embassy Row (19 page)

“I’ll do my best. I’ll try to be concise and clear so that when you leave here there is no confusion, no questioning what was meant.”

“That’ll be refreshing,” Morizio said.

“Yes, it will, clarity is priceless. Directness.”

“Highways instead of winding country roads.”

Thorpe laughed again. “I’m flattered that you remembered, the way that screenwriter must feel for having written a line that at least one person remembered.”

“Jesus,” Morizio muttered under his breath. He said aloud, “I remember a line from a movie, too. Ever see
Network
, Thorpe?”

“Yes.”

“I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it any more.”

“I recall that. The character Howard Beale said it, played by Peter Finch.”

“You watch a lot of movies, huh?”

“Those that I know I’ll like. What are you mad about, Sal?”

“Lots of things, Thorpe. Who’s been following me and bugging my phones?”

He adopted an expression on his wide face of exaggerated shock. “How terrible,” he said.

Morizio sensed a laugh being stifled and wanted to take a swing. He took a few breaths instead, said, “You know nothing about it?”

“God, no. I don’t believe in electronic surveillance.”

“Does Dr. Gibronski? Somebody does because it’s been happening.”

“I’m sorry, I really am. Miss Lake, too?”

“Leave her out of it.”

“Certainly. You really are angry, aren’t you? At whom?”

“Whoever tapped into my phone and does a lousy job tailing me in a car, whoever’s been playing games and covering up.”

“That sounds serious. Covering up what, Sal?”

“Goddamn it,” Morizio said. He got up and went to the window, played with the wand that controlled the blinds, turned, and said, “Is this room bugged, Thorpe?”

“I rather doubt it.”

“It doesn’t matter. You know anything about Paul Pringle?”

Thorpe pressed his cheeks together with his fingers and grunted. “I’m not familiar with the name.”

“You should read the papers instead of watching movies. He worked security at the British Embassy and was…”

“Oh, yes, I did hear about that. Dreadful thing that happened to him. Drugs, I heard.”

“No drugs. He didn’t use them.”

“I only know what I read.”

“I doubt that.”

“Think what you will. Was he a friend of yours?”

“I knew him. He was killed because he knew something about Ambassador James’s death that somebody didn’t want spread around.”

“You know that for certain?”

“I’d bet on it.”

“Interesting theory. I’d love to know what you base it upon.”

“I’m sure you would. Tell me something, Thorpe, what’s the connection between James’s and Pringle’s murders? I figure that’s a pretty safe question.”

“Why?”

“Because I figure you know the answer.”

It was the same change of expression Morizio had witnessed on Thorpe’s face the night he visited Morizio’s apartment, the wide, forced pleasant grin suddenly running into a face of granite, like one of those plastic boxes filled with colored liquid that creates shapes when you turn it upside down. His eyes were hard—Lake had said it was those eyes that caused her to think he’d do in his own mother—and they pierced Morizio. “Sit down, Captain,” he said.

“Look, I…”

“Sit down!”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

“You take orders from your chief and from your president and from anyone else in a position of authority, Captain Morizio, and I am telling you to sit down.”

There were many things that almost came out of Morizio. He stifled them all and sat.

“Now, you called for an appointment with Dr. Gibronski. He has asked me to represent him. What was it you wished to ask, to say?”

“It’s for him, not you.”

“You’re being absurdly difficult. Are you always like that?”

Morizio smiled. “Difficult but adorable.”

“Miss Lake.”

“Don’t push, Thorpe. I came here to tell Dr. Gibronski and anybody else involved in this thing that I don’t like being jerked around. I don’t like funny little gadgets in my telephones or goons making a right whenever I do. I know more about James’s murder and Pringle’s than you think.”

“Perhaps you do. I’d love to hear.”

“You will. I’ll make another appointment with Dr. Gibronski.”

“Suit yourself. Do you know what bothers me most about all of this, Sal?”

“Captain Morizio.”

“Childish temper, certainly not befitting a man of your rank. I like you, Captain, yes, I really do, and that’s what makes this so difficult. I like your Miss Lake, too…” Morizio started to respond but Thorpe held up a hand. “But you don’t seem to understand where you fit in. Perhaps it’s explainable. Until now you’ve functioned in rather restricted parameters, doing your job, keeping things moving, going by the book. But there is no book for this project. The book is written as the story unfolds. There is no index to consult for guidance when a new aspect of it arises. This is very big, Captain Morizio, very very big, which is why it is being handled in ways outside of your area of understanding. I sympathize with you. I would act and feel the same way were I in your shoes. But lacking understanding really shouldn’t be an impediment to proper behavior.”

“Proper behavior?” Morizio guffawed.

Thorpe’s voice was the hardest it’d been since he entered the room. “
Taking orders
. Does that register with you?”

“Who do I take them from?”

“Your boss. Unless I am gravely mistaken, Chief Trottier has been explicit in his orders to you regarding the death of Ambassador James. You were told to do nothing unless instructed. You were ordered to ignore it, forget it and get on with your own area of knowledge and interest.”

“What about my friend, Paul Pringle? Do I ignore that?”

Thorpe blinked and rubbed his chin. He was obviously exasperated and wanted Morizio to know it. He
said, “There are times when my patience amazes me. It’s so simple, but you insist on confusing it. If you keep doing that, Sal, you’ll regret it.”

“Now threats.”

“Warnings from someone who likes you and your Miss Lake.”

“Damn it, Thorpe, I told you…”

“Listen to me, Morizio, and listen carefully. I no longer have patience. I have a job to do, too, one I take seriously. I receive orders just as you do. The difference is that I follow them. If your own chief of police does not command enough respect from you to have his orders followed, let me invoke a higher authority.”

“Like who?”

“
Like me.
” He said it slowly and deliberately, and turned his index finger from pointing at Morizio to pointing at himself. You are dealing with matters that impact upon two major world nations. Your precious little pique at the death of a friend, your ridiculous curiosity about a death that doesn’t concern you within an embassy is leading you into very deep and dangerous waters, for you and for…”

“Thorpe…”

“…and for your Miss Connie Lake.” He boomed it out, and the force of his voice caused Morizio to pull away.

“Take a vacation, Captain Morizio. Get away, relax, play golf, swim, make love—but get away. Forget an ambassador and a second-line security agent ever existed.” He spoke softly. “Do it for me, Sal, for your friend. Take the highway. There are so many unexpected rewards. Winding country roads can be slippery and treacherous. Small covered bridges collapse at unexpected times, animals cross the road, drunk drivers fail to navigate the turns.”

Morizio got up and went to the door. He stood facing it and took a series of deep, frustrated breaths.

“I’m sincerely grieved it comes to this,” said Thorpe from his chair. “I truly do like you, thought we might become drinking friends at Timberlakes, or Piccadilly or wherever you felt comfortable. Chums. I thought we might become
chums
.”

Morizio, now under control, slowly turned and grinned. “You’re an interesting guy, Thorpe, a great case study. I also think you’re a psychopath. Drinking buddies? Never drink with a psychopath. Rule One, basic street smarts. Say hello to Dr. Gibronski.”

“I shall. The communication has failed, hasn’t it?”

“Yup.”

“I tried.”

“You did.”

“I regret the failure.”

“You do?”

“Yes, and so will you.”

“You know what you’ve been doing here, Thorpe? You’ve been threatening a police officer. I could arrest you for that.”

It started as a low rumble deep inside his large belly, then slowly bubbled to the throat and out the mouth. It was the cruelest, most anger-provoking laugh Morizio had ever experienced. He was mad, frustrated and, most important, felt total impotence. He slammed the door behind him and went directly home.

***

It was midnight when the phone rang in Morizio’s apartment. He reached over Connie Lake and fumbled for the phone in the darkness. “Hello,” he said.

“Captain Morizio?”

“Yes.”

“This is Chief Trottier. I want you in my office within the hour.”

“I thought you were out of town until tomorrow.”

“I returned on urgent business. Officer Lake. I tried her home number but no one answered. Do you know her whereabouts?”

“I, ah… Yes, I do.”

“Please bring her with you.”

“What is this about, Chief?”

“Within the hour, at my office.”

Trottier’s message to them was simple and direct when they arrived. “I am suspending both of you from active duty for insubordination, for failure to follow direct orders from your superior, for conduct unbecoming officers in the Metropolitan Police Department, and for gross negligence in your duties. Suspension will be
with
pay until a board of inquiry is convened and the charges can be formally investigated. You are to turn in your weapons and badges and vacate your offices by eight
A.M
. Further, you are to remain away from this building until the board resolves this matter, and are to have no contacts with the press. Are there any questions?”

“I’ll fight this, sir,” Morizio said.

Trottier relaxed the rigid posture he’d maintained during his speech. He said, “I don’t like this, Captain, but you force my hand. I don’t understand it but evidently you do. You’ve been given every opportunity to avoid this but you’ve chosen to go in your own direction. I wish you hadn’t, and I say the same thing to you, Officer Lake.”

She said nothing.

Trottier slumped in a swivel chair behind his desk and rubbed his eyes with both hands. “Can I make a suggestion?”

“What’s that?” Morizio asked.

“Take a vacation, a long one. Get out of Washington. Your relationship is well known around here. Go away together, far away. I promise you the suspension with pay will hold for as long as you want to stay away. You’ve done good jobs up until now, and I’d hate to lose you permanently, but be smart. The pressure’s been on you, and maybe that’s why you’ve gotten into this mess. Go away, on MPD. When you come back the pressure will be off and we can all get on with business as usual.”

Morizio started to ask a question but Trottier stood and waved him off. “Just listen to someone else for a change,” he said. “I know your father was a good police officer, and you’ve been, too. Don’t toss it all away. I’m very tired. Good night.”

Connie cried on the way home. Morizio asked why. She said, “It’s embarrassing. I’ve never been fired from anything, never even spent two minutes in the classroom corner.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry about,” she said. “I’m sorry that it happened, not about anything you’ve done.”

“Pigheaded Morizio,” he grumbled as he parked the car and came around to open the door for her.

“I love you,” she said.

“Terrific.”

They sat in silence in his living room. He’d put on a tape of Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings, and the heavy, sad music softly embraced the still, dark room.

“That’s too sad,” Connie said, referring to the music.

“Fitting,” he said.

“Let’s put on something lively, something positive.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to be dragged down, Sal.”

He laughed. “How much more dragged down can you be?”

She twisted on the couch and grabbed his face between her hands. “Let’s fight it, Sal. We have nothing to lose now. We’ve been raped and I’ll be damned if I’ll just lay back and enjoy it. I’ll be damned if I’ll have my reputation smeared this way.” She jumped up and kicked a throw pillow that had fallen to the floor. “Let’s go after it.”

He hadn’t touched his drink. He placed the glass on the table, stood and looked toward the bedroom. “I’m tired, Connie. I just want to sleep.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do, and tomorrow we’ll turn everything upside down until we find out what it is you’ve been after all along.”

“Ants,” he said wearily.

“Ants?”

“You said we were ants. We are.”

“And ants are hard working, Sal. ‘Take a vacation,’ Trottier said. He’s gutless, Sal, they all are. We’ll make it work. I promise we will.”

They clung to each other in bed, then made love with an urgency that had been recently lacking. She fell asleep as he stroked her long blonde hair.

“The most beautiful girl in the world,” he thought. “I’m sorry.”

Lake slept late the next morning: “I might as well take advantage of this,” she said sleepily. Morizio was out of the apartment by seven. He grabbed a bowl of corn flakes and coffee at a local diner and swung by MPD. There he pulled from his desk any papers he felt he needed, shoving them into a cardboard transfer file box, including a dispatch from Traffic Control on which was written “Federal—Official,” identifying the owner of the car that had followed Morizio to the White House. “Big help,” he muttered as he packed his telephone book, personal photographs and memorabilia and office Dopp kit into a large leather briefcase. He took a last look over his shoulder as he stood at the door, and went to the homicide detective’s lounge. A friend, Detective Fred Scheiner, was asleep in a battered leather chair. “Hey Fred, wake up,” Morizio said.

Scheiner opened one eye and growled, “What?” They didn’t call him Jolly Fred around MPD for nothing.