Free Murder on Embassy Row by Margaret Truman Page B

exactly what I’ve outlined.”
    “But we are actively looking for the suspect in Washington. Is that right?”
    “An APB has been issued.”
    “What about the Iranian community in the city? Are we looking for leads there?”
    “We are looking for the suspect as we would any suspect, with one exception. If the averages hold, sixteen people will be murdered in the District this month. One will be a child below the age of twelve. One will be older than sixty. We now average an eighteen-percent solve-rate for all serious crimes in the District, which puts D.C. eleventh on a list of twelve area police departments. In other words, Captain Morizio, we have more pressing things to attend to than poking our noses into Great Britain’s criminal business. Does that answer your question?”
    “Not really, sir, but your point is well taken.”
    “Thank you. That will be all.”
    Morizio and Lake met up at six that evening. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll treat you to some mutton chops and a yard of beer at Piccadilly.”
    “I don’t like mutton chops, and I don’t drink beer.”
    “Maybe they’ll make you Cockney chop suey. I have to pick something up before we go home.”
    They drove up Pennsylvania Avenue, past the White House, then went north on Connecticut Avenue until reaching the Chevy Chase Circle where the Piccadilly Restaurant and Pub was located. Morizio had spent evenings there with Paul Pringle, who claimed it was the only restaurant in Washington with the ambiance of a London pub, even though it was owned by Germans.
    They found a legal parking space across the street from the pub’s gray-and-gold awning and lighted sign, approached the entrance on Astroturf and went through heavy black double doors. A German hostess greeted them.
    “Is Johnny on tonight?” Morizio asked.
    “No,” the hostess said. “Dinner?”
    “Yeah, thanks.”
    They settled at a table. “I’ll be right back,” Morizio told Lake. He headed for the bar, which was entered from the small dining room through an archway. A pair of swords hung over it. Morizio stopped to admire a collection of old books, an antique globe and ship models in a bookcase next to the archway. Paul Pringle had donated some of the books. He was an inveterate history buff, particularly military history, and when his book collection overflowed his shelves, he gave some to friends, and to his favorite pub.
    Morizio asked a barmaid whether a package had been left for him by Johnny. She rummaged through a drawer until finding an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven manila envelope with the initials S.M. written in red ink.
    Morizio took it to the table and handed it to Connie.
    “What’s this?” she asked.
    “Paul Pringle left it for me before he took off. Says it’s a token of his appreciation.” He mimicked a British accent.
    “That was thoughtful of him.”
    “Yeah. Nice guy. I’d sell Rasputin to know what really sent him back to jolly ol’ England.”
    Morizio ordered beer, and Lake had wine. Then, mutton chops for him, Dover sole for her. It wasn’t until they’d finished dinner and had ordered a trifle to share that they finished reading twenty pieces ofpaper, some fastened together with paper clips. There was a covering note from Pringle:
    Dear Sal—Sorry to vanish like this but duty calls. You’ve been a good friend, and I only wish I could repay what you’ve done for me as a stranger on your shores. But let us avoid the maudlin at all costs. What I leave you are various documents having to do with the death of the ambassador. He was a nasty sort, between you and me, and there were certainly enough people who won’t wear black at his passing, including his lovely and long-suffering wife, his deputy, Barnsworth, certain of the household staff and Lord knows who else around the globe. The point is, Nuri Hafez is being pointed to as the culprit, and perhaps he is, but I wouldn’t take it as Gospel. But then I know the astute detective, S. M., probably