Murder on Embassy Row (25 page)

“Inga?” Rekstad said, sliding his hand from beneath Eva’s. “You are Inga’s friend?”

This was a different ballgame, Lake knew. Copenhagen was his home field. A simple local phone call to Lindstrom would reveal any lie. She said, “No, I’ve never met her, but mutual friends back home suggested I look her up when I was here.”

“You look like her,” Rekstad said.

“Yes, I’ve been told that,” Connie said. “I thought I’d call her tomorrow.”

“I am sure she is here,” said Rekstad.

“Oh, good.”

Rosner laughed. “Yes,” he said, “nobody in the caviar business is away this week.”

Lake didn’t want to pounce on his comment too quickly. She sipped from her snifter, glanced at him and said, “This
is
the week, isn’t it,” hoping she sounded like she knew what she was talking about.

“Once every three months,” Rosner said to Rekstad. “Like the old joke goes, tonight’s the night.” They both laughed.

“I’d love another drink,” Connie said.

“You’ve got it,” Rosner said. “
Tjener
,” he called to a waiter.

Eva complimented Rosner on his pronunciation and suggested that after the next drink they all go to her home where she would entertain them. “I have no liquor in the house,” she said, “but I have excellent marijuana and cocaine.”

“Jesus,” Connie thought, thinking of Morizio.

“I prefer akvavit,” Rekstad said.

“Plebeian,” Eva said, squeezing his hand. He withdrew it.

“I’m fascinated with the whole mystique of caviar and this special week in Copenhagen,” Lake said.

“There is a certain circus quality to it,” Rosner said. “Never used to be this way, but that’s what’s exciting about the international food business. A flood here, an overthrow there and the game changes.”

Connie laughed, trying to convey that she understood.

“You know, Erl,” Rosner said, “as chaotic as it’s gotten, there are advantages. Prices have gone down, the quality hasn’t suffered, and it’s a hell of a lot more fun than placing phone calls. Besides, it gives me an excuse four times a year to get out of the house and come to Copenhagen.”

Lake looked at him, and he knew what she was thinking. “I mean the office,” he said. “It’s boring as hell just sitting behind a desk.”

“Of course,” she said. “No wife, my foot,” she thought. She looked at Rekstad, who seemed to be feeling his drinks. His eyes were protruding and watery, and his mouth had drooped. Aunt Eva had pushed close against him, her fingers tightly entwined with his.

“I’m dying to see what goes on this week,” Lake said. “I’ve heard so much about it from Berge and other friends in the food business. I’d hate to leave without experiencing it.”

Rosner screwed up his face and looked at her. Had she blown it, she wondered. Had she overplayed it?

“What’s the big deal about buying smuggled-in caviar off the docks?” he asked.

She took a page from Eva’s book, pressed against him and said, “It’s exciting, dealing in smuggled goods. I suppose it’s tasting the bitter, unattainable fruit.”

“God, it’s working,” she thought as he put his arm around her and said into her ear, “I know what you mean. Want to come with me?”

“Sure,” she said. “What happens?”

“We buy caviar.”

“Where?”

“On the docks. They run it in in small boats.”

Rekstad frowned at Rosner. Evidently he didn’t like him talking about what was supposed to be a well-kept secret.

“I’d love it,” Connie said.

“Tomorrow?” Rosner asked.

“Sure.”

“What about tonight?”

“What about it?”

“We should get together and plan our strategy.”

“It’s that complicated?”

“It’s that simple. I’m staying here at the d’Angleterre. Where are you staying?”

“With Eva.”

“Stay with me.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know you.”

“You will.”

“Over a period of time.”

He pulled away from her as though someone had slipped another disc into his computer, another piece of seduction software. He said, “Let’s forget about caviar and stick to more important things.”

“Like?”

“Like the rest of the evening.” He grinned and whispered in her ear, “What’s with your friend? She’s a little old for this, isn’t she?”

“She’s young at heart, younger than I am.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Rosner said. “You ought to get with it. This is Copenhagen. Everybody’s ‘young at heart,’ as you put it.”

Connie smiled pleasantly. “What about going to the docks? What dock? Where does it happen?”

“In Christianshavn.”

“Oh.”

“Been there?”

“No.”

“Interesting part of town.”

“That’s where the commune is.”

“Right. You can’t believe what pigs they are, all the misfits.”

“Any particular dock in Christianshavn?”

“Along the main canal, on Overgaden.”

“You’re going tomorrow night?”

“Uh, huh. Still coming with me?”

“I’m not sure I’m free. Can I call you?”

“Sure. How about dinner tomorrow night?”

“I’ll call you.”

“I have the distinct feeling I’m being dismissed.”

Connie shook her head and looked at Eva, who had Erl Rekstad roaring with laughter at something she’d said. “Ready to go home, Eva?” Connie asked.

“We’re all going home,” Eva said.

Connie shook her head. “My headache’s worse,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Rekstad stood unsteadily and kissed Eva’s hand. Rosner took a final shot at Connie. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll buy you a nightcap in my room.”

“Thank you, no,” Connie said. She shook his hand. “I enjoyed meeting you. If things work out for tomorrow I’ll call you.”

“Sure you will.”

“Don’t count it out. Good night.” She took Eva’s arm and propelled her out of the restaurant and into the lobby. “I told him I was staying with you,” she said. “Let’s make it look that way.”

Eva giggled. “Why all the fuss? You should go with him. He’s nice. I like his nose.”

“His nose?”

“He has a kind nose.”

“Aunt Eva.”

“American girls are strange,” Eva said as they left the hotel and stood on Kongens Nytorv, in the middle of the King’s New Square. They crossed the busy intersection to a park. Lake looked back and saw Rosner and Rekstad saying good-bye in the lobby. Rekstad came outside and climbed into a cab, and Rosner went into a richly paneled bar off the lobby.

“I think it’s safe to go back,” Connie said to Eva.

“To see him? He looks lonely.”

“It was good to see you again, Aunt Eva. It’s been what, five years since you visited in America?”

“Yes. It was good to see you, too. My love to your mother and father.”

They kissed. “Where’s your car?” Connie asked.

Eva pointed down the street to a black Saab. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Connie said. They kissed again and Eva walked away.

Lake checked the lobby, quickly got her key from the desk and took the small leather-lined elevator to the second floor, which was considered the first floor. Her room number was 102. The phone was ringing as she entered. She quickly picked it up and sat on the bed.

“Connie?” Morizio asked.

“Hi, Sal. How are you?”

“Lonely. I miss you. How are you doing?”

“Good, but I miss you, too. Let me tell you what happened tonight.” She replayed the evening with Aunt Eva and the two men. There was silence on Morizio’s end when she was done. “Sal?” she said.

“Yeah, I’m here. This Rosner, he’s staying at the hotel?”

“Yes. I managed to avoid him when I left Aunt Eva.”

“That’s good.” His voice was muffled and flat.

“Sal, are you jealous?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You are.” She laughed. “I think it was great what happened. I know where the caviar comes in, and that’s worth something. What luck being here the one week every three months when it happens.”

“I agree, Connie, I really do. What are you doing now?”

“Now? I’m going to bed. I’m beat.”

“I wish I were there.”

“So do I. Callender should be back tomorrow. Then you can get here.”

“Right. I can’t wait. Look, if I can see her early enough I’ll be there tomorrow night. I’ll grab the last flight.”

“Great. I’ll be waiting.”

“Okay. Take care of yourself.”

“You, too. I love you.”

“That goes double for me.”

***

Connie was up early. She opened French doors that led to an asphalt roof over the d’Angleterre’s front entrance and took deep breaths. It was a stunning morning, bright sunshine, a cloudless deep blue sky and springlike air. “Unusually mild,” Erl Rekstad had commented the night before about Copenhagen’s recent weather.

She left the doors open as she turned on the radio, found an open space on the floor and went through a
half hour of calisthenics. She missed Richard Simmons, thought of Morizio’s comments about him, and smiled.

She stood under pulsating hot water from the shower for twenty minutes, vigorously soaping herself and washing her hair. She’d brought her own small hair dryer but didn’t have to use it; there was one built into the wall. The towels were warm from having been on a heated rack, and Lake had draped the white terrycloth robe that came with the room over the rack. It, too, was toasty warm.

There was a small bar and refrigerator in the room, stocked with wines, whiskeys, juices, and mixes. She had a glass of Solita orange juice, sat at a desk, and organized things for the day. She looked at Inga Lindstrom’s address:

Lindstrom Import-Export: 7–12k Overgaden neden Vandet, Christianshavn, Denmark
. She wondered if it were close to Overgaden, the street Rosner had mentioned. She studied a street map she’d purchased at the airport. The streets were across a canal from each other in Christianshavn.

She rigged her raincoat with tape recorder and microphone, dressed in a tan camel-hair blazer, cranberry tweed skirt, and white blouse and went downstairs for breakfast in the terrace, a room surrounded by glass and decorated with hundreds of plants. She’d decided not to call Lindstrom ahead of time. Just showing up had worked with Callender in Washington, and she hoped it would in this instance, too. She had a continental breakfast and read the European
Herald Tribune
. The waitress was a pleasant middle-aged woman who refilled Lake’s coffee cup every time she took a sip.

“I’m going to Christianshavn,” Lake said. “Can I walk there?” It looked on the map that she could, but map mileages could be deceiving.

“
Ja
,” the waitress said, “or you could take the boat from Nyhaven. It’s only a few blocks.”

The idea of a boat ride appealed. Lake had assumed that the famed Copenhagen passenger boats that traveled the canals would have stopped running once the tourist season ended. She received directions to the Nyhaven dock, said, “
Tak
,” which meant “Thank you,” the only Danish word she knew, and started walking. The streets were filled with robust people on bicycles and on foot, and Lake reminded herself that she, too, was of Scandinavian stock. It was hard for her to focus on approaching Inga Lindstrom. How nice it would be to simply be on vacation, to soak up Copenhagen without the pressures of clearing their names. That hit her hard, the fact that she and Sal had ended up in a state of dishonor, suspended from jobs they liked and worked hard at. It wasn’t fair. They’d tried to do the right thing and had ended up being punished. For what? For caring? What was wrong with people? Were they all so frightened that doing what was right became wrong? She was angry, could have cried, except that she wouldn’t. “Damn it,” she mumbled as she approached the Nyhaven dock where a broad, flat boat called the
Kobenhaven
was loading passengers. Lake paid her 160 krona and took a seat. The captain looked like a boat captain was supposed to look, face rendered leather by a lifetime in the sun, a white capped hat at a jaunty angle, a confident expression that promised he wouldn’t run them into a piling or a shifting sand bar.

A teenage boy flipped the rope free of a spike and they backed into the canal. Lake sat back and watched Copenhagen slide by, bridges with impossible names; the Stock Exchange with a serpent’s tail on top; the current Christiansborg Palace: the previous five castles, dating back to 1167, having been destroyed by fire and
pillage; red brick buildings covered with ivy, churches and government institutions in which bureaucracy flourished as it did in Washington—“Could this mess have happened here?” Connie asked herself. “Probably,” she answered.

They passed fishing boats and luxurious passenger liners, tattoo parlors and seedy bars; the Hydrofoil dock that ran people across to Malmö, Sweden, where her grandmother lived, lovers kissing as they sat in the sun, old men drinking beer and smoking pipes. They stopped at designated areas to discharge and pick up new passengers, mostly tourists reveling in the mild weather while natives bundled up against it and chose enclosed, heated transportation.

They entered Christianshavn’s main canal and Connie took in the sights on both sides. Overgaden, where Mark Rosner had said the caviar transactions took place, was lined with well-kept apartment buildings and quaint little restaurants. There were trees and brightly painted window frames on the red and gray buildings, and every apartment had flower boxes beneath its windows.

The other side of the canal, Overgaden neden Vandet, contained a series of warehouses, yellow and red and gray brick with hoists in between. Lake squinted to read the numbers; 7–12 was on a three-story modern structure with numerous windows that was attached to one of the warehouses.

The
Kobenhaven
docked and Lake disembarked into the midst of a bustling Christianshavn. Salty commercial fishermen repaired flaking boats alongside counterculture men and women preparing for another leisurely day with earnest determination. Lake was reminded of Seattle where hundreds of miles of waterfront were peacefully shared by residences and industry.

She crossed a pedestrian bridge over the canal and
walked along Overgaden naden Vandet until reaching 7–12. There was a vertical row of signs in front, gold lettering on a black background. At the top was
Lindstrom Import-Export
. Lake went inside and read a building directory. Lindstrom’s offices were on the next floor. She climbed a staircase, paused in front of a wooden door with the company name etched in gold leaf, decided not to knock and entered. The reception area was panelled in light oak. A display case to her left held a variety of canned foods illuminated by recessed fluorescent fixtures. The carpeting was a black, hard-finished industrial grade. Chairs for visitors were covered in orange vinyl. A young blond man wearing a white shirt and red tie sat behind a desk. He glanced up from his newspaper. “
God morgen
,” he said.