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

recorder’s internal mechanism had been modified to allow five hours of recording on a single side of the cassette. The microphone had been custom made by a small Virginia electronics firm that supplied exotic listening devices to police departments across the country. It would pick up hushed conversations across a large room even when inside a closed attaché case. She inserted batteries and a cassette, attached the microphone, and did a test. It worked perfectly. She slipped recorder and microphone into a pocket of her raincoat, reminded herself to turn it on before entering the tavern, and headed for Timberlake’s, a popular D.C. neighborhood pub.
    Morizio and Thorpe were in a booth when she arrived. Morizio introduced Lake to the Englishman. “Ah, yes, Miss Lake,” Thorpe said, standing and extending his hand. “Or should I say
Officer
Lake?”
    “Are we on duty?” she asked.
    Morizio laughed, shook his head and said, “No, we’re not. Call her Connie, Mr. Thorpe.”
    “And George will do for me,” Thorpe said as he helped her off with her coat. “Check it for you?” he asked.
    “No, here is fine.” Thorpe hung it on the booth’supright nearest him. “Perfect placement,” Lake thought to herself as she sat next to Morizio, across from Thorpe.
    Thorpe had a draft bitter in front of him, Morizio a bottle of Miller Lite. Lake ordered a white wine. The place had begun to fill up and the long bar was two deep. Thorpe raised his glass and said, “To you, Miss Lake. When Sal told me he’d invited you to join us, I was delighted.”
    “To all of us,” she said, looking at Morizio.
    They clinked glasses. Morizio said, “George and I were just getting to know each other, Connie. We’ve been involved, sort of, in this Geoffrey James thing and figured it was about time we knew who we were.”
    Thorpe laughed, burped behind his hand, sipped his beer and said, “I was telling the captain a little about myself.”
    “You were in Africa?” Morizio said.
    “Yes, for six years, establishing trade agreements with African industrialists.”
    “Must have been fascinating,” Lake said.
    “More hot than fascinating, Connie. I’ve never been a fan of heat. It saps one. Don’t you agree?”
    “I’m from Seattle,” she said. “It never gets too hot or too cold there. I like moderation.”
    “In everything?”
    “Usually. How long have you been here in the United States?”
    Morizio sat back and drank his beer as Thorpe talked about his life as a trade representative for Great Britain. Twenty minutes later Thorpe said, “I’ve been going on forever, it seems. Time for another round and a little about you, Sal.”
    They ordered. Morizio said. “There’s not much to tell about me, George. I suspect you know a great deal anyway, based upon comments you made earlier.”
    “Earlier?”
    “When we first met. I’m just a cop, a civil servant.” He told a little of his Boston family, his college days and what had led to his joining MPD. Thorpe listened quietly, his only reaction an occasional raise of an eyebrow, or a smile at a humorous aside. When Morizio was through, he looked at his watch. “I have a dinner date. I really have to go.”
    Connie looked at him quizzically.
    “Chief Trottier’s house. The missus is making me dinner.”
    “Oh,” she said.
    “Have you had dinner, Miss Lake?” Thorpe asked.
    “No, I thought…”
    “I’d be delighted,” said Thorpe. “That is, if your captain doesn’t have objections.”
    “Why would he?” Lake asked.
    “George is aware that we have a relationship aside from the department,” said Morizio.
    She was surprised that he would have admitted such a thing, but knew this wasn’t the time to bring it up. She smiled at Thorpe and said, “I’d enjoy dinner and hearing more about Africa.”
    Now, it was Morizio’s turn to be perplexed. He was certain she’d turn down Thorpe’s offer.
    “The food here is surprisingly good for a pub,” Thorpe said,