Murder on Embassy Row (12 page)

“Autopsy?” Morizio said.

“In about an hour, Captain. We did notice this.” The attendant, a slight black man with sparse reddish hair, took Pringle’s wrist and suspended his arm. There were needle marks in the crook of the elbow.

“He didn’t use drugs,” Morizio said.

“You knew him pretty good?”

“Yeah, I knew him pretty good.”

“He’s British, huh?” the attendant said as he replaced the sheet over Pringle’s torso and face. “You want to handle next-of-kin?”

“I’ll figure that out later. Thanks.”

He returned to his office at MPD and called Homicide. “There’s more to this than meets the eye,” he told the detective. “Don’t do anything with it until we have a chance to talk to Chief Trottier.”

“Whatever you say, Sal, but what’s going on? Why the fuss over him?”

“He was a friend.”

“Sorry to hear it. A good one?”

“Yeah, and he was about to become an even better one.”

Pringle’s murder was handled by the press as just another D.C. crime until his connection with the British Embassy was revealed. Then, the story took on greater importance. His former colleagues at the embassy were scouted up and interviewed, at least those who were willing to talk. One was Melanie Callender, the ambassador’s former personal secretary, who was interviewed in front of her apartment building. At first, she was composed. “Yes, I knew Paul Pringle well… No, I was unaware of any connection with drugs… He was a fine man, a good family man… I have nothing whatever to say about Ambassador James’s death…” She started to cry. The TV reporter asked about Pringle’s departure from the embassy shortly after the ambassador’s death. “Please,” Callender said, waving her hand at the camera, “no more. Two fine men are dead and I… I…” She broke down, turned, and walked quickly inside the building.

Morizio and Lake watched the interview on the six o’clock news. They were at his apartment. It had been,
as Morizio put it, “a bitch of a day.” He’d spent a lot of time with homicide detectives discussing Pringle’s murder. Arrangements had been made with Pringle’s widow to have his body returned to England for burial. Residents of Adams Morgan had been questioned by a team of investigators, as had known drug dealers. Nothing concrete had surfaced, and Homicide was still labeling it “drug-related, assailant unknown.”

“It’s got to be connected with James’s murder,” Morizio said as he turned off the TV and started an Ella Fitzgerald tape. He paced the living room. “Pringle was coming here to tell me something, and it had to do with James. What else could it have been? Somebody didn’t want him talking to me and headed him off, dragged him into Adams Morgan, beat the hell out of him, held him by the throat with a wire, and pumped him full of heroin.”

“You can’t be sure of that, Sal.”

“You got a better version?”

“No, but maybe he wasn’t coming here to talk about James. Maybe he came here for another reason and just wanted to catch up for a drink with an old friend.”

“Doesn’t play.”

She shook her head and sighed. “I don’t know.”

“I’m going to find out. You want a drink?”

“No. How are you going to find out?”

“By asking questions, starting with Paul’s wife.”

“It’s not your case, Sal.”

“I’m not so sure.” He sat next to her on the couch. “You don’t have to get involved.”

“If you’re involved, I want to be.”

“Go talk to Callender.”

“Why?”

“Woman to woman. She worked closely with the
ambassador. Maybe she’d tell you something she hasn’t told anybody else. Hell, she talked to the press.”

“Do I do it officially?”

“Any way you can. You don’t have to.” He touched her honey hair. “They won’t like it.”

“Chief Trottier?”

“All of them.”

“I love you, Sal, and I know how important this is to you.”

“And I love you and don’t want you hurt because of my craziness.”

“Maybe that’s
what
I love. Jake Feinstein will have Callender’s address.”

“Yeah, he’s got addresses on everybody in D.C. who works diplomatic.”

“What if somebody asks where I am?”

“In the department? Don’t worry, you work for me. You’re at a meeting. There’s always enough meetings in this town to go around.”

Connie Lake arrived at Melanie Callender’s apartment house at eight the next morning. She didn’t bother calling ahead, preferring to be turned away in person. Callender came on the building intercom and Lake told her who she was.

“The police? I have nothing to say to the police.”

“I’m police, Ms. Callender, but from a different perspective. I don’t want to talk about Ambassador James, only about Paul Pringle. My boss was a close friend of his and is heading up a special investigation. It’s… well, it’s somewhat unofficial but it’s important. Paul wasn’t murdered for drugs, and we all know that. What you say to me is off the record. I promise you that. I’ll share it only with my boss, and that’s where it stops. You talked to the press and they’re only
out after a story. We
care
about Paul Pringle. Please, Ms. Callender, help us.”

There was a very long pause on the other end. Finally, Callender said, “Only for a few minutes. I’m leaving for London.”

Callender’s tenth floor apartment was small and sparsely furnished, a place reflecting someone who wasn’t sure how long she’d be staying. A row of suitcases stood by the door. Sun highlighted dirt on the windows. There was a tiny pullman kitchen and a faded pull-out couch. A bookcase made of boards and bricks was without books; a row of houseplants sat on the top shelf.

“Connie Lake, Ms. Callender.”

“I really am in a hurry,” Callender said. She was visibly nervous, kept brushing away a wisp of auburn hair that tickled her forehead.

“You said you were going to London. Vacation?”

“No, for good. I’ve been replaced. I’ll be working at the home office, I think.”

Lake wasn’t sure she should sit on one of two vinyl chairs or to wait for an invitation. She sat and said, “I would think keeping you at the embassy would be valuable for the new ambassador.”

“He hasn’t been named yet.” Callender stood over the suitcases and counted them, which she’d obviously done countless times that morning.

“I won’t take much of your time, Ms. Callender. I just wanted to…”

“Ask what you want. Just be quick.”

Lake was aware of a tenuous resolve Callender was holding onto, a strength that could be washed away at any moment by a torrent of tears. She hoped for the tears; Morizio always said that tears brought with them revelations, something every good cop and journalist
understood. She also remembered she promised to talk only about Paul Pringle, not Ambassador James. “Ms. Callender, what do you think really happened to Paul?”

Callender continued to stand over the suitcases and said without turning, “Paul was a decent man. He’d never use drugs.”

“We know that.”

“He was different.”

“How so?”

“He… he bloody well cared about people.” The tears were ready to erupt and Lake felt like a ghoul for not getting up and hugging them away. She sat quietly and waited for Callender to continue, which she predictably did. “He cared about his family and his job,” she said.

“Why do you think he came back to Washington? He left a message for my boss, Captain Morizio, that he wanted to meet him at Piccadilly. He never showed up. Now we know why.”

“Piccadilly.” Callender turned and brushed away that strand of hair. “He loved it there. Most of us never went because we considered it a pale imitation of home. We preferred American places, real American places. We followed baseball and ate chili. Assimilation, it’s called. Paul hung on to home. He wanted a pub no matter where it was, Africa, China, Washington, D.C.”

“Who killed him?”

“How would I know?” She sat heavily on one of the suitcases and pressed her hands to her mouth. “Ask Barnsworth,” she said through her fingernails.

“Barnsworth? The assistant?”

“Deputy charge of mission. Nigel Barnsworth.” She said it as though her mouth were filled with lemon rind.

“You’re saying Nigel Barnsworth knows who killed Paul Pringle?”

“He knows everything, why not this? I hate him.” She stood and shook herself into a posture of dignity. “There, I’ve said it. Now, please leave. I’m going home.”

“Why do you hate him?” Connie asked.

“Please, your time is up, Miss Lake.”

“I’m on your side, Ms. Callender. I’m not an enemy.”

“I know that.”

“Why are you leaving?”

It was more a snort than a laugh. “I was told to.”

“By Nigel Barnsworth?”

“Of course. He’s the acting ambassador until another is named.”

“Could
he
be named?”

“No. He’s a good administrator, a bloody failure as a diplomat.”

“Geoffrey James was a good diplomat, wasn’t he?”

“Very good.”

“Could Barnsworth have poisoned him?”

Melanie looked at Connie as though she’d uttered the ultimate blasphemy. “That loyal, nasty little viper, that tribute to the civil service, Nigel Barnsworth? Don’t be ridiculous.”

It was Connie’s turn to laugh. “From the way you describe him, he’s capable of anything.”

“Yes, to further his career, but he learned long ago that he would never be a full ambassador, not with his snotty disposition. If he thought he’d gain an ambassadorship he’d kill his own mother, but he knows better.”

Lake thought of George Thorpe and her evaluation of him. She said to Melanie, “What about the ambassador’s wife, Mrs. James? Was it a good marriage?”

Callender thought for a moment. A smile crossed her face to indicate she’d arrived at the perfect answer to the question. “An excellent marriage. Consistent.”

“Meaning?”

“Never varying, daily hatred.”

Lake hadn’t expected the answer. She sat a little forward in the chair and hoped Callender would keep talking. When she didn’t, she said, “The relationship between Ambassador James and his wife really isn’t of concern unless it bears upon his murder and Paul Pringle. Does it?”

“No.”

“Daily hatred.”

“People in their position don’t commit murder. They suffer and live out their lives.”

“Lovers?”

“Would it surprise you?”

“Of course not.”

Callender took a cigarette from her purse and lighted it. “The last vestige of Geoffrey James,” she said through the smoke. “He had these flown in every day, in the pouch, his favorite fags. He knew how to live, he did.”

“A little perk of the position,” said Lake. “I understand diplomatic pouches are used for many… many personal things.”

Callender’s eyebrows went up and she smirked. “Oh, yes, many personal things. Fags and caviar, his excellency’s passions.”

“Are you that bitter?”

“Bitter? Anything but, Miss Lake. I appreciate the chance I’ve had to serve my government and the ambassador. I am a fortunate young woman. My future is secured, I have contributed to world understanding, and I am bursting with pride. There is no room for bitterness in that, is there?”

Callender’s increasing “bitterness” made Connie uncomfortable. She considered leaving but decided to
ask a final question. She said, “You knew a Miss Inga Lindstrom.”

“Inga? Oh, my god.” Callender sat on her suitcase and lit another cigarette. “The Scandinavian goddess.” She looked seriously at Lake, then said, “She looks like you. Yes, very much like you.”

“Inga Lindstrom?”

“Yes. Are you Scandinavian?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. You could be sisters.”

“Did she and the ambassador…?”

“Have an affair. Of course they did. He had an affair with every woman who appealed to him.”

It took a lot for Lake to ask it. “Does that include you?”

“According to Mrs. James.”

“I don’t care about Mrs. James. I’d like to hear it from you.”

“You have no business asking.”

“I have no business asking anything, but you allowed me here to ask questions. I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to intrude on personal matters.”

“Of course you did. Everything that’s happened involves ‘personal matters,’ doesn’t it? What could be more personal than murder?”

“Most murder is personal, at least according to statistics.”

“Passion, jealousy, hate. I loved the movie
Casablanca
, didn’t you?”

“Very much.”

Callender stood and straightened her skirt. She was wearing a heather tweed suit over a dark blue blouse that bunched around her neck. She was an attractive woman, Lake realized, vital and bright and leggy. Such color in her cheeks and lips. Callender said, “Ambassador
James slept with Inga Lindstrom. It doesn’t matter. Sleeping with people doesn’t make one a bad person, does it?”

“Why did the ambassador and his wife stay together?”

“His majesty and the missus? Money. Her money carried them through for so many years. Then he found his own money and he could divorce her.”

“Divorce?”

“It was in the works. Once his oil company succeeded in spawning millions for himself, it was time.”

“Because he didn’t need her wealth.”

“It’s all money, isn’t it? Is there anything you can name that doesn’t rest, in its deepest roots, in money?”

“I wish I could but I’ve come up a blank. You mention Ambassador James’s new wealth through his oil company. I knew he sat on the boards of companies but didn’t know he owned an oil company.”

“Not many people did. Actually, it isn’t an oil company, no drilling of wells or refineries, nothing like that. A small bank he founded in Manchester financed an oil brokerage firm in Scotland. It represents Scottish oil interests to the rest of the world.”

“A middleman?”

“Yes, quite. It’s been very successful.”

“Were you involved in that company?”

“Goodness, no, only peripherally, as his secretary.”

“Was Inga Lindstrom part of that company?”

“Of course not. Inga Lindstrom is very successful in her own right with all her fancy foods.” There was venom in every word.

“You really hate her, don’t you?”

“I hate no one, Ms. Lake. I simply dislike dishonest people.”