Murder on Embassy Row Read Online Free Page B

was his most prized perk since being named coordinator of intracity security, which involved liaison between MPD’s 4,000 cops, the 1,200 members of the U.S. Capitol Police, and Jake Feinstein’s 1,000 uniformed personnel.
    “Captain Morizio,” a sergeant said the minute he walked through the office door. “Urgent message.” He handed Morizio a slip of paper. Written on it was the name “Paul Pringle” and a phone number. Pringle was a security officer at the British Embassy. Morizio had done him a couple of favors, including a personal one that involved Pringle’s teenage daughter, Harriet, and they’d stayed in touch. Although it breached embassy rules, Pringle often filled Morizio in on embassy events that might be of interest to him.
    Morizio dialed the number which, he knew, was not an embassy extension. Pringle answered on the first ring. “Hello, Sal,” he said quickly. “Just arrive?”
    “Yeah. Where are you?”
    “A friend’s. Listen to me, Sal. You’ve heard about the ambassador?”
    “Sure. Sorry to hear it.
Was
it a heart attack?”
    “That’s what’s being put out, but some things have occurred that make me wonder, which is why I called.”
    “I appreciate it. Go ahead.” Morizio waved people away who started to enter his office, cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder, and poised a pen over a blank yellow legal pad.
    “First, Sal, the ambassador’s personal valet, a young Iranian named Nuri Hafez, has disappeared.”
    “When?”
    “Last night. He evidently drove off in the ambassador’s limo and hasn’t been heard from since.”
    “And?”
    Pringle told him about Hafez’s failure to show up to drive Marsha James and her guests home after the show.
    “You say he’s Iranian. Did the ambassador meet him over there?”
    “Yes, he arranged for him to leave Iran and to work for him as a valet and chauffeur in London. Then he brought him here.”
    “Any idea where he might be or why he took off?”
    “None whatsoever, unless it has to do with the other thing that prompted me to call.”
    “Which is?”
    “Kitchen scuttlebutt that the ambassador was poisoned.”
    “Who’s saying it?”
    “The chef’s wife. She claims somebody told somebody else that the embassy physician, Dr. Hardin, mumbled after he’d examined the corpse that it looked like cyanide to him, not a bloody coronary. It’s all seventh-hand, but I thought you’d want to know.”
    Morizio made a few notes, then said, “It sounds like the folks in the kitchen ought to be writing murdermysteries instead of peeling potatoes. Who did it, the butler?” He laughed.
    Pringle didn’t laugh. “The butler, Sal, or the valet.”
    “The Iranian?”
    “Yes. Why would he run?”
    “No idea. Want me to put out an APB on him?”
    “No. You’re not supposed to know any of this.”
    “I could do it unofficially, look for the limo.”
    “All right. That might clear the water a little. Thanks. I’ll get back to you later in the day.” He gave Morizio information about the limousine and hung up.
    There was a knock on his door. Before he could respond, it opened and Constance Lake poked her head in. “Good morning,” she said brightly.
    “Hi. Come in.”
    She tossed a large wine-colored leather shoulder bag on the desk and pulled up a chair. “Kiss?” she said, with lots of play in her voice.
    Morizio picked up the yellow legal pad from the desk and frowned.
    “Come on, Sal, just a peck. No one’s looking.”
    He peered over the pad and said, “We go through this act every morning. Not in the office.
Never
in the office.”
    Connie laughed, crossed one shapely stockinged leg over the other, and dangled a black pump from her foot. It was a morning ritual and she loved it. They’d started dating three years ago, two years after she joined MPD. Because she was a woman and because she had a master’s degree in psychology, she was assigned to the rape unit, where she dealt with victims of sexual assault. At