Murder on Embassy Row (9 page)

“Can we go to bed now?”

“I’d like to listen to the tape you made with Thorpe.”

They finished listening at one-thirty. Morizio found it boring, heard nothing on the tape that shed any light on things. He labeled the tape, stored it in a locked cassette rack, cleaned the tape heads and turned out the lights. They snuggled together in bed, bare bodies melding like Silly Putty. She knew he would fall asleep quickly. “Sal,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Do you know why I don’t like chasing this James thing?”

“Why?”

“Because we have little enough time together as it is. I was hoping we could grab the long weekend over Thanksgiving and get away, maybe to the shore, Seattle to see my folks, just hole up here for four days, be alone.”

“That’d be nice.”

“I
know
it would be nice. The question is whether we’ll do it.”

“I’m all for it.”

“Sal.”

“I love you, Lake. Just remember that.”

“I love you too, Morizio. Let’s think about it.”

“Absolutely. It sounds great. Uh, huh.”

They awoke early, made hasty love, and were at their desks by eight.

“Mr. Nordkild?”

“Yes.”

“Captain Salvatore Morizio, Metropolitan Police. We’ve met a few times.”

“Yes, I recall. What can I do for you?”

“You could give me some education on fancy foods.”

Nordkild laughed. “It would be my pleasure. Is this for personal or professional reasons?”

“Strictly personal. Could I visit you today?”

“Yah, that would be all right. This is the day I taste new foods. Would you like to join me?”

“I’d love it. You’re sure it’s not an inconvenience.”

“Not when a police captain is involved. Noon? You know where my offices are?”

“Yes.”

“Bring a healthy appetite.”

“I’ll skip the donuts this morning, Mr. Nordkild. See you at noon.”

Nordkild Importers and Catering occupied a handsome four-story Georgetown brownstone on Q Street,
N.W., off Wisconsin Avenue. Morizio knew the neighborhood; his favorite bookstore, the Francis Scott Key, was a few blocks away.

He was asked to wait downstairs by a striking brunette who spoke with the same accent as Nordkild, and who was very tall. He examined what hung on the walls: testimonial letters from government figures and entertainers, covers of gourmet food magazines on which Nordkild was featured, large color photographs of Nordkild standing behind sumptuous displays of food, and a black-and-white autographed picture of Washington’s top caterer presenting Jimmy Carter with an oversized peanut sculpted from chicken liver.

“Mr. Nordkild will see you now,” the receptionist said. Morizio followed her to a tiny elevator. She reached inside, pushed a button for the third floor and stepped back. “Enjoy,” she said.

“Right,” said Morizio. “
Skoal!
”

Nordkild met him on the third floor. “Welcome, Captain. You’re very prompt.”

“I try to be. Nice building you have.”

“Functional. Our kitchens are here on Floor Three. Floor Two has offices. My offices are on Floor Four. Come, we eat.”

The tasting room was directly off a large kitchen and was decorated in muted shades of blue and pink. An elaborately set table stood in the center of the room. Gleaming Bing-and-Grøndahl handpainted porcelain china and Georg Jensen silverware rested regally on a crisp white tablecloth. Two places were set. A Grieg cello sonata played softly from speakers in the room’s four corners.

“Sit, my friend,” Nordkild said. “We’ve received samples of some interesting new foods. I hope you enjoy them.”

“I’m sure I will.”

They settled into comfortable Finn Juhl armchairs and two young blonde women wearing starched white uniforms arrived with trays from the kitchen. One held a variety of herring, the other four porcelain bowls filled with varieties of caviar.

Nordkild took a bottle from an ice bucket and filled two small glasses. “Akvavit,” he said. “This has a dill base. Perhaps you would prefer coriander.”

“I’ve never tasted akvavit.”

“Good. I like introducing new things to new friends. Skoal!” He held his glass at eye level, nodded, smiled and tossed it down. Morizio did the same. “You like it?”

“It’s strong. Yes, I like it.”

“It gets better by the glass.” Nordkild lifted the edge of his napkin, which he’d tucked into his collar, and wiped his drooping, waxed mustache. “We start with herring,” he told Morizio. “We always start with herring. This brand is from Finland. I have not had it before. Tell me what you think.”

Morizio took tiny bites. He hated herring. When asked by Nordkild what he thought, he said, “Not bad.”

Nordkild laughed. “Not good, either, Captain. Hopefully, the caviar will be better.”

Vodka was served in iced glasses, and one of the servers placed a white plastic spoon in each bowl of caviar. “The caviar is from America,” said Nordkild. “The spoons are too, from McDonalds.”

Morizio laughed.

“Caviar should never be eaten with anything metal. Doctors’ tongue depressors are good. So are these little plastic spoons.”

“Yeah, coke addicts like ’em, too.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. Begin tasting, Captain. Tell me if you think the Americans are capable of producing decent caviar.”

They tasted from the four bowls, with Nordkild providing a running commentary. “At the turn of the century your Delaware River produced tons of sturgeon but you polluted yourselves out of business, and the only
real
caviar since then has come from the Caspian. Now, you have entrepreneurs from your west coast who claim to have caviar as good as the Caspian. Do you agree?”

“Don’t use me as a judge, Mr. Nordkild. The only caviar I can afford is in jars at the supermarket.”

Nordkild made a face. “Lumpfish or whitefish painted black. You do appreciate the difference in what you’re eating now. This is quite good.”

“As good as from the Caspian?”

“No.”

Nordkild continued spooning from the bowls. He was obviously enjoying it. His round cheeks were flushed, and he licked his lips like a cat after lapping milk. One thing was certain, Morizio thought, Nordkild was as fat as he was for good reason. He talked between mouthfuls. “Yes, Captain, there was a time when your rivers were teeming with sturgeon, so much so that barges loaded with them went up the Hudson River to be sold for a penny a pound in Albany as ‘Albany beef.’”

Morizio smiled. “Times have changed,” he said, reflecting on the current price of caviar.

Nordkild laughed. “Yes, indeed, Captain. In those days the roe was usually discarded. People only wanted the balik.”

“What’s that?”

“The sturgeon’s back. Smoked, it was considered a
delicacy, but not the roe. Sad. The rest of the fish ended up bait.”

“Supply and demand. What happened to the supply?”

“Pollution, neglect, stupidity.” He guffawed and finished what was in one of the bowls. “Of course, events sometimes occur to mitigate shortages.”

“Like what?”

“The vagaries of religion for one. Imagine the strain on the already limited supply of caviar if the Jews deemed it kosher.”

“They don’t?”

He shook his head. “Whether a sturgeon has scales or not is debatable, but Jewish leaders, after passing their piece of silk thread over a sturgeon’s body and not having it snag on a scale, decided to prohibit it from their dietary laws. That’s good news for the caviar-loving gentile world.” A hearty laugh.

Morizio sat back and watched Nordkild consume what was left of the caviar, lean back, smack his lips, and wipe his mouth.

“Well, what’s the verdict, Mr. Nordkild? Did they pass muster?”

“They’re adequate, but I haven’t built my reputation for settling for the adequate. No, I reject them both. Iran and Russia have little to worry about—yet.”

Morizio absently picked up a spoon and slowly turned it in his fingers. He didn’t look up as he said, “You were at Ambassador James’s party.”

“We now arrive at the obvious reason for your visit. Yes, I was there. I provided the food.”

“That’s what I heard. You knew him well?”

“The ambassador? As well as some, not as well as most.”

“Anything strange about him that night?”

Nordkild fanned a fat hand over his face and frowned.
“Strange? No, nothing strange. I think that…” The waitresses appeared with two plates of goose rillettes, glazed carrots, and dauphinois potatoes. “I took the liberty of choosing the menu for us, Captain. I trust it will be acceptable.”

“Looks good to me.”

“Fine.” A bottle of red wine was opened with care, sniffed, and tasted, then poured into their glasses. “Skoal.”

“Skoal.”

Morizio waited until they were well into the meal before returning to the subject of the James party. “Care to speculate on who might have poisoned the ambassador?” he asked.

Nordkild’s mouth was full. He chewed, holding up a hand to bid for time, then said, “His aide, of course.”

“Hafez, the Iranian?”

“Yes. Open and shut, isn’t it? He flees the night of the murder, steals a limousine, hides out, assaults a police officer, and continues to run. Obviously, only a guilty man does such things.”

“There could be other reasons.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know what they might be at this moment, but I learned a long time ago not to jump to conclusions. All the facts might support the assumption that Hafez is guilty, but sometimes we process facts in the wrong way. It’s the old cockroach theory.”

Nordkild laughed. “I’ve not heard of such a theory.”

“Yeah, a psychiatrist friend explained it to me once. He said there was this scientist who worked for years trying to teach a cockroach to respond to verbal commands. He succeeded, and the roach would jump over his finger whenever he said, ‘Jump!’ He cut off the roach’s front legs and said, ‘Jump!’ It managed to get
over his finger. Off came the middle set of legs. It wasn’t easy, but that little roach crawled over the finger on command. The scientist finally took off the rear set of legs. The scientist said, ‘Jump!’ The roach just laid there. The scientist took out his notebook and observed that when a cockroach’s legs were removed, deafness occurs.”

“An amusing story, Captain.”

“Yeah, I always like it. Any other ideas about who might have done the ambassador in?”

“None whatsoever.”

“How do you figure he was poisoned?”

“The method? Surely your forensic experts would know that.”

“I haven’t heard. Could it have been the food?”

“That
I
provided?” He laughed and pulled his napkin from beneath his chin. “Caviar laced with ricin. A rich murderer’s weapon. A gun would have been cheaper.”

“I guess it would have been. What do you get these days for caviar?”

“Supermarket jars are about five dollars. The real thing costs a few hundred dollars for a fourteen-ounce pound.”

“That’s a lot of money for fish eggs.”

“Fortunately, there are still people with educated palates and the resources to indulge them. Would you like a doggie bag, Captain?”

“No, thanks.”

“A tin of caviar as a gift?”

“Wasted. This palate never got beyond the fourth grade.”

“You’re too modest. You will have coffee.”

“Sure.”

“And dessert. I assumed from your name that you are of Italian parentage. Cappuccino pie?”

“Remember the cockroach.”

“Yes, I shall never forget it.”

The pie was so rich and good that Morizio wondered whether it warranted a trip to the confessional. “Excellent,” he told his host. “By the way, do you happen to know someone named Inga Lindstrom?”

“Should I?”

“I made the assumption from her name that she was Scandinavian, and I assume you are, too.”

Nordkild’s laugh was hearty and genuine. “The cockroach, Captain.”

“Swedish?”

“Originally, but I spent most of my years in Copenhagen.”

“Inga Lindstrom?”

“Oh, yes. Of course I know her. She has what is undoubtedly the finest wholesale food business in Denmark. I buy a great deal from her.”

“Was she involved with the ambassador?”

Nordkild’s eyebrows went up and he puckered his lips. “Are you suggesting hanky-panky?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I just wondered whether there was a connection between James and her.”

“What causes you to raise her name?”

“Somebody mentioned it to me along the way, that’s all.” In fact, the name appeared on the materials Paul Pringle had left for Morizio at Piccadilly. According to Pringle’s notes, the central switchboard had noted an incoming call from Lindstrom during the party, and that James had called the Madison Hotel later that evening and asked to be connected with her room. Pringle had concluded the note with: “
The outgoing call was on the ambassador’s ‘private line,’ but there is no such thing
when it goes through a switchboard and the operator on duty is a devoted soap opera fan
.”

“Have you seen Ms. Lindstrom recently?” Morizio asked Nordkild.

“Yes. She was here only a few days ago.”

“Where is she now?”

Nordkild shrugged. “She was on a selling tour of the country. I believe she said she was next going to Los Angeles.”

“Well, Mr. Nordkild, this was terrific. The food was excellent.”

As they waited for the elevator, Morizio said, “Ambassador James was quite a gourmet, wasn’t he?”

“He appreciated fine food, including caviar without poison. He belonged to a rather exclusive diplomatic fraternity which meets twice a year to sample the best available.”

“Every interest has a fraternity.”

“I suppose so. Have a pleasant day, Captain.”

“At least you got a good meal out of it,” Connie Lake said to Morizio. They were in bed at her apartment. It was nine at night, and a made-for-TV movie about cops had just started. Lake had one foot out of the covers as she applied polish to her toes. Morizio leaned against the headboard and read
Esquire
’s massive 50th-Anniversary issue.

“I didn’t like the food,” he said.

“Sounded good to me.”

“Lots of fanciness and little substance.”