Murder on Embassy Row (31 page)

She muttered something in Danish under her breath, probably an expletive, Morizio decided. “You’re here early,” Morizio said.

She extended her hands. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“Early birds catch worms, I’m told. Connie Lake. Where is she?”

“Where is she? Is this some sort of a joke?”

“It sure as hell better not be. She was here last night.”

“Was she? Excuse me, I have work to do.”

She walked into her office, Morizio at her heels. “Get out!” she said.

“Not until I get answers. I’ll get ’em by myself, or with the Danish police, one way or the other.”

“Then get the police. Why should that be of concern to me?”

“I’ll figure out something. Look, Miss Lindstrom, I’m here for only one reason, and all the tough talk doesn’t help. I want to find Connie Lake. She was supposed to meet me at the d’Angleterre last night but
never showed. I found out she was down here on the docks when the caviar arrived, and stayed around after everyone else went home. I need your help. I’d like it pleasantly.”

If she was surprised that he knew about the caviar delivery, she didn’t show it. She said, “You and your friend have a strange way of soliciting help.”

“My friend and I are engaged to be married.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks. Now, can you help me?
Will
you help me?”

“How?” She sounded sincerely confused.

“You talked to her yesterday afternoon.”

“Yes. I was kind enough to allow her to barge in here and to give her my time.”

Morizio, ignoring the cutting edge of the comment, asked, “Did she say anything that might indicate what her plans were for the evening?”

“No. Christianshavn can be dangerous at night.”

Morizio walked to the window. A few commercial fishing boats slid slowly through the water on their way to the open sea, and lights had erupted in windows across the canal. The horizon was now magenta. The tiny black silhouette of a jet aircraft moved across it like a marker in an arcade video game. Morizio felt tired and grubby. He ran his hand over stubble on his chin and cheeks and rotated his head against an ache in his neck. He said without turning, “I’d like to look around.”

“Be my guest,” Lindstrom said.

Morizio faced her. “I’d like to see everything, everywhere.” Her smile nettled him. He said, “Where do I start?”

“Wherever you wish to start.”

He opened a door leading to other offices, checked
each one, then returned to where she sat behind her desk, legs crossed, a cigarette held too casually between her fingers, as far as he was concerned. “What else is there?” he asked.

She extended her arms.

“You have the whole floor?”

“I have what you’ve seen.”

“What about your warehouse?”

“It’s next door.”

Morizio realized someone else was there. He turned. It was Lindstrom’s male secretary. Lindstrom said, “Kai, this is Mr.…”

“Morizio.”

“Mr. Morizio. He would like a tour of our facilities. Would you please accompany him.”

Kai started to protest. “
Undskyld, jeg Forstar Dem ikke
…” The expression on Lindstrom’s face left little doubt that she meant it. “All right,” he said. “What do you want to see?”

“The warehouse,” said Morizio.

“They’re loading,” Kai said to Lindstrom.

“Mr. Morizio will find that interesting, too,” she said. “Go. I have work to do.”

“I’ll be back,” Morizio said.

“I look forward to it,” Lindstrom said. She’d placed half-glasses on her nose and was reading through an invoice.

Morizio followed the secretary downstairs to the street. “Is there anything particular you wish to see?” Kai asked.

“No. Just take me inside.”

They entered through the first door in the alley, which led directly into the warehouse. The two vans were there; young Iranians were loading caviar into them from the refrigerators. “What are they doing?”
Morizio asked. “Loading shipments to go to the airport,” Kai said.

“Shipments of what?”

“Many things, herring, caviar, salmon…”

“Can I see?”

“See what?”

“What’s in the shipments.”

“No, sir. These are private shipments. Froken Lindstrom would…”

Morizio walked away from him and stepped in front of one of the loaders. He read the label on the chest he carried—it was a food importer in Chicago. He stepped aside and headed for the wooden ladder that led to the attic, Kai at his heels. “What’s up there?” Morizio asked.

“Nothing.”

He climbed the ladder and looked through the opening. It was empty. He came down and prowled behind the pallets and containers. “Where the hell are you, Lake?” he muttered.

“Sir, I…”

“What else is here?” Morizio asked. “What other rooms?”

“None,” said Kai. “The refrigerators…”

Morizio went to the first set of refrigerator doors and opened them. Everything was black inside. “How do you put on the lights?” he asked as he reached for the first set of rocker switches.

Kai moved quickly to intercept him. “Not that switch,” he said. “That controls the cooling. If it’s turned off an alarm rings in the offices. This one.” He pushed the second switch.

Morizio entered the refrigerator and quickly surveyed it. Its shelves were empty. He looked in every corner, then came out and went to the second set of doors,
opened them and pushed the second switch on the panel. The light on, he peered inside. It, too, was empty.

“Sir, I must ask you what is going on,” Kai said from the doorway. “Froken Lindstrom said you wished a tour, but this is…”

The next set of refrigerator doors were already open. Morizio pushed past Kai and followed one of the Iranians inside. The shelves were almost bare.

“Excuse me,” Kai said, “I must call her.” He walked across the warehouse to a wall phone near the front door. An Iranian picked up a chest from the shelves, circumvented Morizio, and disappeared outside.

Morizio stepped close to the few freezer chests that remained on the shelves. They were labeled
Lindstrom
. “Damn it,” he said aloud, not at anything specific but at the situation in general. He was about to open one of the chests when something on the floor caught his attention, a wadded-up piece of white Kleenex stained with black. He bent over, picked it up, and held it to the light. “You were here, Tissue Queen,” he said. He sniffed it. Fishy. Caviar. One of the Iranians stared at him. “A minute, no
mas
, go on, leave me alone.” He could see Kai across the main floor, still on the phone, his hand punctuating an animated conversation.

Morizio desperately scanned the refrigerator, the floor, ceiling, every shelf. He might have missed it because it was black, and light from the small bulb didn’t penetrate the furthest recesses of the shelves. What kept that from happening was a pinpoint of metallic reflection from the digital counter on Connie’s tape recorder. A cut-out in the black leather case allowed the counter to be read even with the case on. Morizio’s heart tripped. He looked over his shoulder, saw that he was alone, and grabbed the recorder, held it in his hand, squeezed
it, whispered a string of obscenities. He jammed it in his coat pocket and stepped outside. Kai was on his way across the room. “Froken Lindstrom has told me that…”

“Forget it,” Morizio said. “Thanks for the tour. I’ll be back.”

“She told me that…” Kai yelled as Morizio almost ran from the warehouse, into the alley, to the street. “Jesus,” he said as he walked toward Torvegade. He was sweating. He yanked his tie loose from his neck and opened the top button of his shirt. He reached the crossing, paused, looked back, then went over the canal and sat heavily in a metal chair outside a cafe that had just opened. The owner, an old man wearing a red shirt and blue apron, called from inside, “
Hvad onsker De?
”

Morizio figured he was asking for an order, said, “Coffee. Just coffee.”

“
Kaffe?
”

“Yeah, kaffe.” He removed Lake’s recorder from his pocket and examined the tape. It had run to the end. He checked the batteries. Dead. He took his recorder from his coat, transferred the tape and rewound it. It seemed to take forever—His coffee was served. He tasted it. Good, hot, and thick. The tape was at its beginning. He pushed
Play
and held the small speaker to his ear.

An hour later, and after two more cups of Danish coffee, sound ceased from the recorder. The final words came from Lake’s lips—“It’s dark and cold. I don’t know who closed the door… I’m putting this on a shelf, in a corner… I just dropped a tissue on the floor… Tissue Queen to Duke of Disposal… Christ, I’m scared… I don’t know…” There was a great deal of rustling noise as she evidently pushed the recorder into a corner. Now, her voice wasn’t as immediate,
but it was still loud and clear… “They’re opening the door… Sal, I’m sorry… I love…”

The sound of magnetic metal latch disengaging. “Hi,” Lake said. Morizio wanted to cry. Something in Arabic. “No, goddamn it, get your hands off…” There was an ear-piercing scream, scuffling, more foreign words by a male voice, the door slamming shut… and silence, tape hiss…

“
Mejerigtig?
” a waitress who’d reported for duty asked Morizio. He still held the recorder to his ear, the “hissssss” a lingering connection to Lake.

“What?”

“American? You want breakfast? Eggs, bacon…”

“No, nothing, nothing. Here.” He pulled out whatever kroner he had in his pocket and slapped it on the table.

“
Tak
,” the waitress said.

“Definitely,” Morizio said as he got up and walked away. He saw an empty taxi, got it and told the driver to take him to the d’Angleterre. “Fast,” he said. “You understand English? Drive fast.”

The driver laughed and drove the way all Danish cab drivers drive at all times, suicidally fast.

He checked the desk for calls, as though Connie would be in a position to make one. Nothing. Room 102 was cold; he’d left the French doors open. He slammed them shut, sat on the edge of the bed, and forced himself into a calmer frame of mind. He called Mark Rosner’s room. No answer. The desk said Mr. Rosner had checked out.

Morizio summoned from memory the name of the one Danish police officer he’d once met, Leif Mikkelsen, deputy chief inspector in charge of Copenhagen’s
politi
’s famed “flying squad.” Mikkelsen had participated in an exchange program in which three Washington, D.C.
police officers went to Copenhagen for a month, and three Danes came to Washington. Morizio had become friendly with the rumpled, red-cheeked Mikkelsen, a Jutlander who spoke with a deep, throaty accent and who had, according to his biography, graduated from the Danish police college at Aalborg with the most perfect grades in the school’s history. Mikkelsen didn’t look especially brilliant, Morizio had decided during that month in D.C., but looks were deceiving. The Dane had a mind like a computer.

He called the number listed for the Copenhagen
politi
. Someone answered in Danish, then easily shifted to flawless English. He put Morizio on hold. Seconds later a throaty voice said, “Captain Morizio. What a surprise.”

“Hello, Leif,” Morizio said. “Yeah, it is a surprise, and an urgent one. Glad you’re in so early.”

“I never left, caught a nap on a couch. Not an easy night.”

“Sorry to hear it. Look, can I come over and see you right away?”

“You’re in Copenhagen?”

“Yeah.”

“By all means. I was about to go out for breakfast. Perhaps you could join me.”

“We’ll see.”

“Is Miss Lake with you?”

It hit Morizio in the gut like a fist. “No, she’s not, and that’s the problem. She was with me but… I’ll be there as fast as possible.”

“I’ll be waiting. I’ll clear you downstairs.”

The taxi driver pulled up in front of police headquarters on Hambrosgade, near the river. It was an imposing building, if only because of its dour, somber architecture, its original gray stone almost black now, concrete steps worn away by millions of shoes. Morizio
went to an office immediately to his right that had a sign—
Information
. He introduced himself to the uniformed officer, who immediately escorted him to another officer manning a booth at the main entrance. Morizio looked through an arch into a circular courtyard that looked like an ancient Roman arena. Its walls went up three stories, the mortar as dirty as outside. At its far end was a huge tarnished metal statue of a man holding a rifle above his head.

The guard made a phone call, and a young officer appeared from behind the statue, crossed the courtyard, and said to Morizio, “Right this way, sir.” They retraced his steps over pavement of uneven squares and rectangles, went around the statue, and entered an interior hallway. Morizio realized the building was in the shape of a trapezoid as they climbed stairs leading to a section identified by the sign—
Kriminalpoliti
. The young officer stepped back and allowed Morizio to precede him into the area. “In there,” he said, pointing to an office. “Thanks,” Morizio said. He stopped at the open doorway and saw Mikkelsen behind his desk stuffing papers into a briefcase.

“Leif.”

Mikkelsen looked up, smiled and said, “
Godmorgen
, Sal.” He came around the desk and they shook hands. “What a pleasant way to conclude a thoroughly unpleasant night. Come, sit down. Oh, I mentioned breakfast. Hungry?”

“Yeah.”

“Then we go eat.” He put on a black topcoat and gray hat and led Morizio back the way he’d come, stopping only to tell a female officer, “I will be back soon.”

Five minutes later they were seated at a table in a small, attractive restaurant a block away, on the corner
of Rysensteensgade and AankerHeegarde. It was called Politigaarden. They sat in the front section; a raised area to the rear contained the bar. The small tables were covered with crisp green tablecloths. A flowered lampshade with fringe hung over the table. On the walls were large black-and-white vintage photographs of Danish policemen.

“It is handy,” Mikkelsen said.

“Yeah, like Jaybird’s. Remember?”

“Of course I do.” He rubbed his hands together, squinted across the table at Morizio, and said, “You look as anxious as you sound. What’s wrong?”