Murder on Embassy Row Read Online Free Page A

community in the District of Columbia, said, “The British Embassy. We’ve got a possible death of the ambassador, but I don’t have confirmation yet.”
    “Geoffrey James? What happened?”
    “Sounds like a heart attack. Nobody’s saying for sure over there.”
    “They had a party for him tonight.”
    “I know. We covered it. Want me to call when we firm it up?”
    “No, no need. I think I’ll… Sure, call me.”
    Morizio hung up and looked out the window. The view of the nation’s capital across the Potomac River always pleased him, especially at night. It was the view that had tipped the scales in favor of his purchasing this condo instead of others he’d seen. It wasn’t as spacious as he’d wanted and the sales agent had been a surly ignoramus, but there was the view, especially at night.
    He returned to the couch and looked down at the chessboard. The timer had run out. He reset it, thought for a moment, then made his move. Almost instantly the computer countered with a move that would put Morizio’s king in check down the road. “You bastard,” Morizio said. “It was the phone. I lost my concentration.” He often beat the computer, which he’d named Rasputin, in the first six levels of play, but had never been a winner at level seven.
    Jake Feinstein called again. He’d confirmed that Geoffrey James, British ambassador to the United States, was dead, the apparent victim of a coronary.
    “Too bad,” Morizio said.
    “Yeah. He wasn’t the warmest guy we deal with, but he was okay. His wife’s nice. Know her?”
    “I’ve met her.”
    “Well, just wanted to let you know.”
    “No question of cause?”
    “Evidently not. What are you doing up so late? You’re an early-to-bed type.”
    “I was playing chess.”
    “Really? Who is she?”
    “It’s a he, Jake. His name is Rasputin.”
    Feinstein laughed. “Whatever you say, Sal. See you at the meeting.”
    Morizio slept soundly, was up at seven, and watched “The CBS Morning News” while eating a breakfast of melon, eggs, and an English muffin. Ambassador James’s death was mentioned only in passing. He was sixty-one, Diane Sawyer said. Funeral arrangements had not been announced.
    Morizio dressed in gray slacks, a gray Harris tweed jacket, white button-down shirt, and black knit tie, used a shoehorn to slip into penny loafers, and went to the living room and checked himself in a mirror. Five feet eleven inches tall, thick, close-cropped black hair with gray at the temples, dark skin and fine features. He was slender, no thanks to his life-style. He seldom exercised and ate what he wanted. Metabolism, he’d been told, insides always churning that kept him thin and gave him an ulcer at thirty, now in remission. He looked out the window. It was a sunny, clear November day and the forecast promised that the fair-weather pattern would hold for at least another two days.
    He picked up the phone and dialed. “Good morning, sunshine,” he said.
    “Hi, Sal,” Constance Lake said through a yawn.
    “Up and at ’em, kid,” he said. “It’s a fat morning out there.”
    “I am up. I just finished working out.”
    “I’m jealous.
    “Of what?”
    “Of Richard Simmons. You spend every morning naked with him.”
    Lake laughed. “He inspires me.”
    “And I don’t.”
    “Different inspiration. You’re on your way out?”
    “Yeah. Don’t forget the meeting at eleven.”
    “I have it down. See you there.”
    “Right. Just remember, Richard Simmons doesn’t love you. I do.”
    “I’ll keep it in mind, Sal.”
    He checked his pockets to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything and went to a basement garage where he kept his car, a Chevy Cavalier he’d taken delivery on two weeks earlier. He pressed a button on the wall that opened the overhead doors and headed for the Rochambeau Memorial Bridge. Twenty minutes later he pulled into a reserved parking spot behind MPD Headquarters at Third and C streets. Having his name on a parking slot