Murder on Embassy Row (26 page)

“Good morning,” Lake said. “I’d like to see Ms. Lindstrom.”

“American?”

“Yes.”

He smiled. “My brother lives in America.”

“Oh? Where?”

“Minnesota.”

“I’ve never been. Does he like it?”

“
Ja
. You have an appointment with Ms. Lindstrom?”

“No. I won’t take much of her time. I’m a friend of Berge Nordkild…” She hesitated, then added, “And Erl Rekstad.”

The young man’s blond eyebrows went up; Lake wasn’t sure at which name. “You are here on business?”

“Yes, I am. I can probably explain it better to Ms. Lindstrom. It’s complicated, business and pleasure. I’m sure she’ll want to talk to me.”

“
Undskyld
,” he said, getting up and going to a door that led from the room. “
Vaer sa venlig at vente
.” He
smiled. “I am sorry. I forget. I should speak English. Please wait.”

He returned a few minutes later and said, “She has someone with her now. It won’t be long.”

Connie passed the next twenty minutes browsing through a copy of
Copenhagen This Week
she’d brought with her from the hotel. The Glyptotek Museum was on the cover, and inside was a day-to-day listing of events around the city: chamber concerts at every hour of the day, jazz festivals, readings, theater, tours and guided walks, organ recitals, trotting races and craft demonstrations; and always music, bluegrass and jazz and opera. She hoped she and Morizio would have time to enjoy a little of it. It dawned on her that the next day was Thanksgiving. It was easy to forget it, not being home.

The door opened and a tall, slender blonde appeared. They
did
look alike, Connie thought, could have been sisters. Lindstrom wore a tailored suit the color of blanched straw. Her blouse, full of ruffles and with large pearl buttons, was deep purple. She wore black, high-heeled pumps. She was deeply tanned; her eyes were large and very blue. “Miss Lake,” she said, crossing the room to Lake and extending her hand. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Connie stood. “I’m sorry to barge in without an appointment,” she said.

Lindstrom’s smile was big and bright, perfect teeth rendered whiter by her bronze skin. “No problem. This is a light day. You say you’re a friend of Erl Rekstad.”

“Yes, not close friends but…”

“I called him. He speaks highly of you.”

“Does he?”

“Yes. He said you were together last night, with Mark Rosner. Interesting men.”

“Yes, they were very… very pleasant.”

“And Berge Nordkild? You know him?”

“Yes, in Washington.”

“You know, of course, of his recent trouble.”

“Yes. I was so sorry to hear it.”

“He deserved it, I fear. Come, we’ll talk in my office.”

“The lady’s sharp,” Lake thought as she followed her through the door. “I’d better be on my toes.”

Lindstrom’s suite of offices was spacious and flooded with light from floor-to-ceiling windows. Connie sat in a brown Hans Wegner armchair, one of a pair in front of a large Danish modern desk. Lindstrom asked, “Coffee, tea? Akvavit?”

Connie had had akvavit with Aunt Eva and hadn’t liked it. “Tea,” she said.

Lindstrom ordered it over the phone, sat behind her desk, dangled one long leg over the other, and said, “So you’re here from Washington. My receptionist said it was business and pleasure. Pleasure is easy in Copenhagen. What business are you on?”

Connie had anticipated this moment and had decided to be honest and direct. She thought for a moment, framed her words, and said, “I’m a police officer, Ms. Lindstrom. I’m with the Metropolitan Police Department in Washington. I’m not here officially, but I do have a vested interest in the Geoffrey James and Paul Pringle murders.”

Lake waited for a response. Lindstrom sat passively, her eyes on Connie. Finally, she said, “And?”

“There are questions that concern you, Ms. Lindstrom, that might help us fit some pieces into the puzzle.”

“What questions?”

“All right, to begin with…”

Lindstrom held up a hand. “Before you begin, Miss
Lake, let me say that one of the murders you mention means nothing to me. His name was Pinger?”

“Pringle, Paul Pringle, a security officer at the British Embassy in Washington.”

“Never heard of him.”

“You didn’t read about his murder?”

“No.”

“All right, then we’ll stick to Ambassador James. You knew him.”

“Yes, I did. You do realize I have no obligation to answer any questions about his death. I’m happy to help, but please understand that it’s out of a desire to cooperate, nothing more.”

“Of course, and I appreciate it. I’m sure you’ve been interviewed before about Ambassador James’s murder.”

Lindstrom nodded. The young man from the reception desk arrived carrying a tray. He placed it on the desk. “Anything else?” he asked Lindstrom.

“
Nej. Tak. Ah, ja. Vil De Bestille en samtale for mig til London? En time
.”

“
Ja
.” He left the room.

Lake wished she understood Danish. The only thing she knew was that it had to do with London.

“Your tea,” Lindstrom said. They poured and sat back. “Now, your questions.”

Lindstrom’s composure impressed Lake. She didn’t seem the least bit concerned at having an American police officer visit her and ask questions about an ambassador’s murder. She was in complete control of herself, beautiful and charming and friendly without becoming patronizing.

“Ambassador James called you at the Madison Hotel the night he was killed.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He wanted to see me. No, to be more precise, I wanted to see him.”

“About what?”

“About what?” She raised champagne eyebrows and grinned. “About love.”

“You were in love with Ambassador James?”

“Yes, very much.”

“You were having an affair?”

“I suppose when you’re in love with a married man and share his bed, it must be called an affair. How unfortunate.”

It was going to be too fast and neat for Lake. She’d expected some cat-and-mouse exchanges, some attempt on Lindstrom’s part to couch her answers, but there was none of that. The lady was more impressive by the minute. “How long had you and the ambassador been seeing each other?”

Lindstrom shifted position in her high-back leather chair and adopted an expression of honest reflection. “A long time, years, ever since Iran.”

“You were there?”

“In and out. I did business there.”

“And you met him and…”

“Yes, and fell in love.”

Lake had to fight against a growing feeling that she was intruding into Lindstrom’s personal life. She wouldn’t have liked it herself. She continued. “Did you see him the night he died?”

“No. He wouldn’t come to the hotel.”

“Why not?”

“He said he was tired. We argued.”

“I see.”

“Anything else?”

“Should there be? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be flippant, Miss Lake. Geoffrey’s death was a great shock
to me. I’ve lost not only a good friend but the only man I’ve ever really loved.”

“I’m sorry,” Lake said.

“Thank you.”

“You said you’d met the ambassador in Iran. There was a rumor that he’d benefitted from the American hostages being taken captive, that he had business dealings in Iran. Do you know anything about that?”

Lindstrom shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t. More tea?”

“No, thank you. Miss Lindstrom, what about the smuggling of caviar from Iran through Copenhagen. You knew Nuri Hafez, didn’t you?”

Lindstrom’s eyes opened and she formed a bridge over her lap with her fingers, rapidly tapping them together. “He’s dead.”

“Yes, so I’ve read. Was he involved with the ambassador in any… well, any caviar trade that might have been illegal?”

Lindstrom laughed and poured more tea into her cup. “Miss Lake, Geoffrey James was many things, some good, some bad, but one thing he was not was a smuggler… of anything.”

“What about Nuri Hafez? Did you know him?”

Lindstrom returned to a relaxed pose in her chair, her teacup in her hands, steam rising gently into her face. “Yes, I knew him.”

“Because of Ambassador James.”

“Yes, and here in Copenhagen.”

Lake’s heart tripped at Lindstrom’s easy admission. She asked, “What was he doing here in Copenhagen?”

“Smuggling caviar.”

“I thought you said…”

“I said that Geoffrey James would not be involved in anything like that. He wasn’t, but Nuri was. He and his
brother in Iran took advantage of the political turmoil there and undercut the state caviar commission by paying fishermen much more than they were receiving from the government. They devised an elaborate means of spiriting the caviar out of Iran and to Copenhagen. They made a lot of money, Miss Lake, particularly from America where Iranian goods were banned.”

Lake blew an imagined strand of her hair from her forehead and poked at a note pad with the tip of her felt pen. “I understand it’s still going on.”

“Smuggling? Yes, it is.” She smiled warmly and took a cigarette from a tile box on her desk. “Smoke?” Lake declined. Lindstrom lighted the cigarette, recrossed her legs and slowly exhaled.

“Are you involved in caviar smuggling?” Lake asked.

“If I were, do you think I’d admit it? Look, Miss Lake, Copenhagen is a free port. That doesn’t mean that illegal products are accepted here more readily than other cities, but things are a little easier. That’s all, just a little easier.”

“Is the caviar coming through here connected with Nuri Hafez and his brother?”

“I wouldn’t know. My assumption is that once Nuri was executed, their operation stopped. You must understand, Miss Lake, that my only knowledge of Nuri Hafez’s trade in caviar stems from what Geoffrey told me. He was furious when he learned that a trusted servant had abused his position for profit. Had Geoffrey ever suspected that Nuri would do such a thing, I can assure you he’d never have fought to bring the boy out of Iran.”

“Yes, I believe that,” Lake said. “Did he confront Hafez about it?”

“Of course.”

“How did Hafez react?”

“With sullen anger.”

“Enough to murder Ambassador James?”

Lindstrom looked surprised that Lake would even ask such a question. She said, “That’s exactly why he
did
murder Geoffrey.”

Now it was Lake’s turn to register surprise. “You say it, Ms. Lindstrom, as though you haven’t a doubt in the world.”

“I don’t. Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Based upon what?”

“Instinct, pieces that don’t quite fit. There’s a great deal that you naturally wouldn’t be aware of.”

“Such as?”

“I’m really not at liberty to say.”

Lindstrom stubbed out her cigarette in a tile ashtray that matched the cigarette case. “But you expect me to be open and candid with you.”

“Yes. It happens to be the position I’m in.”

Lindstrom’s face had hardened. Now, it was soft again as she said, “I understand. The difference is that I have nothing to hide, no reason to withhold everything I know. That’s why I’m talking to you at all about it. There’s tremendous comfort in not having things to hide, isn’t there?”

“I was brought up that way, Ms. Lindstrom.”

“So was I. Have you been told that we look alike?”

Lake laughed. “Yes.”

“Who told you, Berge?”

“No. Melanie Callender, for one.”

Lindstrom lighted another cigarette. “The ever-faithful secretary. She was madly in love with Geoffrey, you know.”

“I surmised that.”

“He had an interesting effect upon women, magnetic.
It was part charm, part power. Your Dr. Werner Gibronski once said in an interview that the reason women found
him
attractive was because women love power.”

“I remember reading that,” Connie said. “What about Mrs. James? Did she know?”

“About me? Of course. I was never on her A-List for parties.”

Lake wasn’t sure where to lead the conversation. She mentioned Sami Abdu’s name, which caused Lindstrom to chortle. “A fat fool,” she said of him. “Harmless.”

“What about Nuri Hafez?” Lake asked. “When did you last see him?”

“Shortly before he returned to Iran. He hid here in Copenhagen for a week after leaving the States. He came to see me, wanted to borrow money. I refused.”

“Why didn’t you contact the police? He was a fugitive.”

“Because I felt it was not in my best interest.”

Once again, Lake was taken aback by Lindstrom’s candor. There was never a moment of doubt of what answers to give, never a hitch in her voice, nothing to indicate calculation. She was “a piece of work,” as Morizio would say.

“You’re sure Hafez is dead?” Lake asked.

“I read the same newspapers as anyone else, Miss Lake. I hope you’re not offended but I really must go now. I have someone else to see.”

“Offended? Hardly. I barged in here, asked you personal questions, received honest answers, and had tea to boot. Thank you very much.”

“I enjoyed meeting you. Please give my best to Erl and Mark, and Berge, if you ever see him again.”

Lake stood. She asked, “Do you think it’s true about Berge?”

“Probably. People like him become rich but remain greedy. I’m sorry that it happened. He was a friend and a very good customer.” She walked Lake to the door. “Any last minute questions?”

“Just one. Mark Rosner seemed to indicate that the smuggled caviar was… well, not unfamiliar to you.”

Lindstrom smiled. “Whatever I sell can be openly and proudly displayed. The smuggled variety of caviar tends to have a distinct fishy odor, no matter how fresh it is. Thank you for stopping by.”

Approximately an hour after Lake left Inga Lindstrom’s office, Sal Morizio parked a rented Austin in front of Melanie Callender’s house in Blackheath, a suburb southeast of London. It hadn’t been an easy trip. Driving on the “wrong” side of the road for the first time had left him shaken, especially at the numerous “roundabouts” he encountered.

The street contained neat, narrow rowhouses. He thought of the opening segment of “All in the Family.” It could have been Queens, New York, except for the orange tile roofs.