Murder on Embassy Row by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online Page B

and indicated that Wisconsin Avenue was one kilometer in that direction. An arrow pointing into the park was followed by ROCK CREEK, 1k . He cast a final look at the British Embassy, then disappeared into the woods. A short time later he emerged on Rock Creek Drive, hailed a passing taxi, and told the driver, “Union Station.”

6
    Exterminators were at MPD when Morizio and Lake arrived that morning. Roaches had invaded the building weeks ago, but it had taken that long for money to be transferred from one fund to a new one whose file folder read: EMERGENCY FUMIGATION .
    “This place stinks,” Morizio said as he hung his blue suit jacket on a clothes tree in his office, slipped behind his desk, and glanced through a long memo.
    “I’ll give you a report on that meeting I went to on Capitol security,” Lake said.
    “Yeah, good,” Morizio said, not looking up.
    “Sal.”
    “What?” He looked at her.
    She blew him a kiss.
    “Do the report.”
    His phone rang and she picked it up. “Oh, hi, Jake,” she said. “Hold on.” She handed the phone to Morizio.
    “Hello, Jake. What can I do for you?”
    “We’ve had an incident at the Iranian Embassy on Massachusetts Avenue. One of our men, Willard Jones,was assaulted in a garage there. Somebody hit him with a tire iron. He’s critical at D.C. General.”
    “The Iranian Embassy? It’s been closed for years.”
    “There’s more. In the garage where we found him is a limo belonging to the British Embassy.”
    “Yeah.” Morizio sat back and sighed.
    “You don’t sound surprised, Sal.”
    “Sure I am, Jake, it’s just that…” He was guilty about not having shared with Feinstein what he’d learned earlier about the missing valet and limo. “Any idea why a British limo would be at the abandoned Iranian Embassy?”
    “None whatsoever.”
    “Any idea who hit your man?”
    “No. You have any thoughts?”
    Morizio shook his head, then realized Feinstein couldn’t see him. “Not off the top of my head, Jake.”
    “Well, it’s your problem now, Sal.”
    “Maybe.”
    “He’s loose in D.C. That’s MPD business.”
    “Let me do some checking. I’ll call you later.”
    He hung up and filled in Lake, whose first words were, “The valet? What’s his name?”
    “Hafez. Nuri Hafez.” Morizio dialed Chief Trottier’s number. “Captain Morizio here,” he told Trottier’s secretary. Trottier came right on the line. “Chief, I’ve got to see you right away.”
    “On the British matter?”
    “Right.”
    “Is anything wrong?”
    “Lots. Can I come up?”
    “Not now. Make it an hour.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Morizio told Lake, “Get over to the Iranian Embassy. Do it quietly, just be there.”
    “What should I do when I get there?”
    “Nothing, just don’t let anything disappear. If the press is around, keep your mouth shut. You’re there on routine business. Keep in touch.”
    An hour later Morizio sat across the desk from Donald J. Trottier, who was in dress uniform in anticipation of an awards luncheon. He was slightly shorter than Morizio and had recently put on weight, which caused his uniform to bulge. Bald, but with fringes of gray hair, he wore a thin black mustache which Morizio knew he touched up. Morizio started to tell him what had happened but was interrupted three times by telephone calls. “Can you kill that for ten minutes?” Morizio asked after the third call, pointing to the phone.
    Trottier didn’t like it but said, “All right, Sal.” He told his secretary to hold all calls. “Now, what’s so urgent?”
    Morizio, conscious of the need to be quick, said in a series of staccato sentences, “One of State’s security men was attacked last night at the Iranian Embassy… they found a British Embassy limo in a garage there… I know that Geoffrey James’s Iranian valet—a guy named Nuri Hafez—disappeared the night of the death, along with the limo… I also know that…”
    “How do you know about this valet and the