Murder on Embassy Row (30 page)

She slipped off the rubber bands that secured the lid and looked inside. Black, oily sevruga caviar glistened in the light of the tiny bulb. She pushed her little finger into the roe and held up the can to judge how far her finger had invaded, relative to the tin’s depth. It seemed to her that she hadn’t reached bottom. She placed the can on a shelf, took a Kleenex from her purse, wiped her finger on it, then spread it out, and dumped the contents of the caviar onto it. She found a nail file in her purse and used it to pry around the tin’s metal bottom. It came loose and fell to the floor. Lake held the can close to her face. “Sure,” she said as she visually examined a plastic pouch of white powder. She slit it open with the file, smelled it, removed some, and tasted it. Cocaine, just the way it tasted during her MPD narcotics training sessions.

She replaced the false bottom, managed to get most of the caviar back into the can, wadded up the tissue
and jammed it in her coat pocket. She carefully adjusted the rubber band over the top, talking for the tape all the while, put that can in her purse, and repeated the test on a can from a chest labeled simply—
Lindstrom
. The result was the same, cocaine beneath a false bottom. That can, too, went into her purse.

Should she check other shipments for signs of drug smuggling? She decided not to take the time. Her visit had paid off, and what seemed monumentally important now was to get back to the safety of the hotel, where Morizio would be waiting. Her heart beat faster; fear and excitement joined forces.

She hadn’t been aware of the musty cold of the refrigerator because she’d been busy. Now, she shivered, and her nostrils tightened against the smell. One final look around. Everything was in place.

“What?” she said. There had been a noise outside. She slowly turned and looked into the warehouse but saw nothing—until a shadow ten feet tall fell across the floor.

Then, the light in the refrigerator went out.

“Oh,” she said.

And the heavy steel door slammed shut.

Midnight.

Morizio prowled Room 102 at the d’Angleterre, checking his watch and going in and out the French doors to the roof. He went downstairs at 12:30 and told the desk he’d be in the bar in case there was a call for him. He thought a drink would relax him, but it didn’t. He gulped it down and returned to the room where he went through Connie’s belongings. Her tape recorder was gone, but there were tapes, each carefully labeled. He inserted one in his recorder and listened to her conversation with Inga Lindstrom. He found it interesting but it shed little light on Connie’s whereabouts.

Once the Lindstrom interview ended, there were a series of comments from Connie, notes and observations, and she recounted, in detail, her dinner with Mark Rosner, Erl Rekstad, and Aunt Eva. Although Lake didn’t specifically say it, it was clear to Morizio that she intended to go to the docks when the caviar shipment arrived. “Damn it, why didn’t you wait for me?” he said aloud. The answer was obvious. She
wasn’t sure when he’d arrive and didn’t want to miss the opportunity.

“Is that where you are?” he wondered as he got up, swiped a used Kleenex from a night table and tossed it in a basket. He looked at his watch. 1:15. He took a Copenhagen phone directory from beneath a Danish
Bibelen
in a night table drawer, found the listing for hospitals and called them all. No American woman had been admitted that night was the unanimous response.

He found a listing for Eva Nygaard and called the number. Eva answered. There was music and laughter in the background. Morizio introduced himself. “Ah, yes, Constance’s young man. How are you?”

“Worried,” said Morizio. “I can’t find Connie.”

“Really. Perhaps she’s out.”

“Of course she’s out, but where? We were supposed to meet here at eleven.”

“You’re at the hotel?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause. Eva then said, “Is there anything I can do?”

“Probably not. I was hoping she was with you.”

“I wish she were. I’m having a party. Why don’t you join us and we can wait for her together. Leave a message at the desk and…”

“No thanks. I’d rather stay here.”

“All right. I’m sure everything’s fine, just a mix-up. She’ll be there. She seems to be a responsible young woman.”

“Yeah.”

“She’s very fond of you, very loyal.”

“Yeah, I… thanks. Maybe we’ll get to meet.”

“Please call and let me know when she arrives. I stay up very late.”

“I will.”

At three, he called the desk and asked what room Mark Rosner was in. “Ring him,” he told the operator.

“Sir, it’s…”

“Just call him. He’s expecting the call.”

The phone in Rosner’s room rang ten times before he picked it up and mumbled, “Hello?”

“Mr. Rosner?”

“Yes.”

“My name’s Salvatore Morizio. My fiancée, Constance Lake, told me about you.”

“Oh.” There was a long silence. Finally, Rosner said, “Yes, she told me about you, too. I don’t really know her. We had a drink… a whole group… just a… I mean, I was with some friends and so was she and…”

“Jesus, calm down, I’m not calling about
that
. Look, Rosner, she was supposed to be here at the hotel at eleven. It’s three. She’s not here. Do you know where she is?”

“She’s not here. Three? Three in the morning? God, I…”

“Yeah, sorry to wake you and I wouldn’t have unless I was worried. I
am
worried.”

“Three. She’s not there. I don’t know what to tell you, I…”

“You haven’t seen her tonight?”

“No, I… well, yeah, I did, as a matter of fact. We had a fast dinner and then we…”

“Where’d you have dinner?”

“Where? A place called Els. It was quick, just a fast dinner before we went to the docks.”

“What docks? Where the caviar comes in?”

“You… yes, as a matter of fact. She told you?”

“That she was going? Yes. You did go?”

“Sure. I left her there.”

“On the docks? Alone?”

“Hold on, it was her decision. I asked her to come back here with me but… I mean, I just asked her out of courtesy, didn’t want to see her wandering around down there. I warned her. It’s pretty, Christianshavn, but there’s…”

“When did you leave her?”

“I don’t know, around ten-thirty, I guess. Can’t be sure.”

“Where
exactly
did you leave her?”

“Well, let’s see. It was on the corner of… of the street that crosses the canal… Torvegade, it’s called… at Torvegade and Overgaden neden Vandet. Sorry, my pronunciation’s not too good.”

“Spell them for me.”

Rosner did his best.

“How would you like to take a ride?”

“A ride? Now?

“Yeah, right now.”

“I can’t, I…”

“Mr. Rosner, I’m a cop, so’s Connie. We’re here on a murder case.”

“She said she was…”

“An interior designer.” Lake had mentioned that in her taped notes.

“That’s what she said. You’re both cops?”

“Right, and I have to find her,
now
. I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes.”

Morizio stood by the desk until a sleepy Rosner arrived. He extended his hand and said, “I’m Mark Rosner.”

“Sal Morizio. Let’s go.”

They took one of two cabs from in front of the d’Angleterre and went to where Rosner had left her. “Wait,” Morizio told the driver. He and Rosner stood
on the street and looked in the direction of where the caviar drop had been made. Rosner explained what had happened. “Let’s go,” Morizio said.

Rosner led him to where they’d taken delivery of the caviar. “What next?” Morizio asked.

Rosner shrugged, pulled up the collar of his Chesterfield coat against the cold, wet fog and said, “It goes to the warehouse.”

“Which warehouse?”

“Down there, at Lindstrom Foods.”

“Inga Lindstrom.”

“You know her, too.”

“Sure. Show me.”

Morizio checked the roll-up main door and the gate to the alleyway. Both were secured, although he was able to unlatch the gate. He looked into the alley, saw nothing. “What time does Inga get in in the morning?” he asked.

“Tomorrow… I mean this morning it’ll be early. We pick up.”

“Your caviar.”

“Yes. Listen, Mr. Morizio, none of this has to do with the caviar, does it?”

“Why should it? Is it illegal?”

Rosner laughed. “No, of course not, we cut a few corners but…”

“I don’t like caviar, and I don’t care who does or how they get it. I want my partner back.”

“Sure, I understand.
Partner
. Connie said you were engaged.”

“Right. Can you think of a better partnership?”

Another laugh from Rosner. “No, I guess not.”

Morizio pondered what to do next. He looked back at the waiting taxi and said to Rosner, “I appreciate you
coming with me like this. I really do. Why don’t you go back to the hotel and get some sleep.”

“I’m wide awake now. I have to be back here at eight.”

“Whatever. By the way, what was Connie wearing when you last saw her?”

Rosner had trouble recalling. “I think she had on a blue blazer, dark blue, and a turtleneck. Yeah, that’s right, a powder blue turtleneck. And a raincoat.”

“Skirt?”

“Yes.”

Morizio gave him a “you dummy” look.

“A skirt. Black, gray, something dark. And shoes, low shoes, I think.”

“Good. Did she tell you why she was going to hang around here after you left?”

“A friend, she said. She wanted to see a friend.”

“No names.”

“No.”

“She mentioned Inga Lindstrom?”

“Sure.”

Morizio nodded. “Anything else you can tell me?”

“No. I’m sorry. I hope you find her. She’s very nice and, if you don’t mind my saying so, very loyal to you.”

“You put her to the test?”

Rosner grinned, sheepishly. “I wouldn’t put it that way,” he said. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Was that why she had dinner with me, to get closer to this case you’re on?”

“Could be. Then again, maybe she was just testing herself. You’re a nice looking guy.”

“Thanks.”

“One favor.”

“Sure.”

“Keep your mouth shut about this, at the hotel, back home, anywhere.”

“All right, I will.”

“Good. Go ahead and take the cab. I’m going to hang around.”

“Why don’t you come back with me and wait until it gets light. Maybe she’ll call.”

It dawned on Morizio that he had no other choice, although the idea of waiting impotently infuriated him.

He left Rosner at the d’Angleterre elevator, bounded up the stairs to his floor and went to the room. There hadn’t been any messages.

Fifteen minutes later, his recorder in his pocket, he took another cab back to Christianshavn. This time he had it stop on the other side of the canal, directly across from Inga Lindstrom’s warehouse and offices. He stood alone on the street. The only sounds were from metal spars and fittings clanking against boat masts in a moderate breeze, creating a dissonant metallic symphony. The temperature was dropping fast; Morizio shivered against it and stood in a doorway, his eyes trained across the canal. He decided to take a walk to keep warm, glancing every few minutes back at the warehouse.

A fisherman greeted him from his boat. “Any place I can get a cup of coffee?” Morizio asked.

The fisherman screwed up his face, said, “
Jeg taler ikke Engelsk
.”

“Oh,” Morizio said. “Coffee. Cafe.”

“
Kaffe
.”

“Yeah.”

“
Kaffe
.” The fisherman waved him on to his creaky, peeling boat and poured two cups from a large thermos. Morizio smiled, held up his cup, and said, “
Skal!
”

The fisherman laughed and returned the toast, then
went about his chores. Morizio sat on the gunwale and enjoyed the warmth the coffee provided. He wished he could have talked to the fisherman, asked about the area and the warehouse and the comings and goings of its employees. Morizio spoke, and could understand, a modicum of French and Spanish, but Danish was out of the question. He’d never heard anything like it. German might have helped but his knowledge of that was to count from one to ten.

He knew there couldn’t be a refill when he saw headlights turn down Overgaden neden Vandet and head for Lindstrom’s warehouse. Another vehicle quickly followed. They stopped, the overhead door was raised and they vanished inside.

“Thanks,” Morizio told the fisherman as he handed him his cup. The fisherman nodded and resumed splicing line. Morizio walked to Torvegade, crossed the canal and approached the warehouse. He heard a car behind him. He didn’t want to be noticed so he quickly turned and walked toward another building, as though he belonged there. The car sped by. Morizio looked over his shoulder, saw that the driver was a blonde who looked like Connie Lake. He moved into a position to see her park where the vans had been, get out, and quickly walk to the three-story glass building attached to the warehouse. “She gets an early start,” he muttered.

He waited until she’d disappeared inside, then quickened his step until reaching the building. Lights were on upstairs; the windows were pungent yellow squares against the surrounding darkness. He noticed that a faint orange streak was now on the eastern horizon. Daybreak in Copenhagen. “Thanksgiving,” he realized. Would he have something to give thanks for? “We’ll see,” he said as he reached into his coat pocket, activated the recorder, and went to the front door. It
was open. He stepped inside, read the lobby board, went up the stairs, and paused outside Lindstrom’s offices. Knock or walk in? Walk in, was the decision.

His sudden appearance startled Lindstrom, who stood in the reception area, the telephone in her hand. She placed her other hand over the mouthpiece and asked, “Yes, what do you want?”

“Inga Lindstrom?”

“Yes… wait…” Into the phone she said, “There is no argument. That is the way it will be done.” She put the phone down hard. “Who are you?” she asked. She was annoyed, and a little concerned.

“Salvatore Morizio, Miss Lindstrom, Washington, D.C. Police. I work with Constance Lake.”