Murder on Embassy Row Read Online Free PDF

prompted an urgent review of congressional security. There was to be a special meeting that afternoon on the subject and Morizio assigned Lake to represent MPD. He had lunch in his office after the eleven o’clock meeting and spent most of the afternoon disposing of paperwork that had accumulated, including six weeks of expense accounts. It was days like this that he periodically closed his eyes and second-guessed leaving the mainstream of the MPD for what was basically a political job. He was always awash in paperwork and in attending social functions with politicians and bureaucrats. When he was with the street-crime unit, there’d been daily action that was real—cops-and-robbers, white hats and black hats. It was what a cop was supposed to be.
    But those self-doubts seldom lasted long because he would remind himself of the prestige of his present job. He was known to officials in Congress, the Supreme Court, the diplomatic corps, and even the White House as
the
person on the Metropolitan Police Department to turn to when security was at stake. His father would have burst with pride—and Morizio often thought about his father. His mother was happy about his position, too, although for other reasons. She’d constantly worried about his being out on the street dealing with “scum” and she liked the fact he was finally back in a “dull job,” which was the way she’d viewed his years with the CIA.
    Paul Pringle called at four-thirty. “Sal, the kitchenrumors might be true,” he said. He sounded out of breath.
    “Poisoned?”
    “Perhaps. Have they contacted you about an autopsy?”
    “Who?”
    “The arrangements are being handled by our head of chancery, Nigel Barnsworth. He’s working through the Home Office.”
    “Nobody’s contacted me.”
    Another button on Morizio’s phone lighted up. “I’ve got another call, Paul.”
    “I’ll call you at home tonight.”
    “Right.” He pushed the other button. “Captain Morizio.”
    “Please hold for Dr. Gibronski,” a female voice said.
    “Werner Gibronski?” Morizio asked himself.
    “Captain Morizio?”
    “Yes.”
    “This is Dr. Werner Gibronski at the White House.” The heavy Slavic accent left little doubt he was who he said he was.
    “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”
    “I would like to discuss an urgent matter concerning the death of Ambassador James.”
    “I’m afraid I don’t know much about it, sir, except what I’ve seen on TV.”
    “Perhaps you will know more after we meet. Could you be at my office within the hour?”
    “Sure. Yes, sir, of course.”
    “Please hold.”
    A woman came back on the line and asked, “What is your date and place of birth, Captain Morizio?”
    He was momentarily taken aback, then said,“June 22…” Before he could finish, she asked where he was born. “Boston, Massachusetts.”
    “Thank you. Dr. Gibronski expects you within the hour. Please use the West Entrance.”
    All four buttons on his phone came to life. He started left to right; “Captain, Aiken in Communications. UPI is carrying a story about reports from the British Embassy that the ambassador might have been poisoned.” MPD’s communications center monitored both AP and UPI, as well as all four local television channels.
    “Thanks,” Morizio said, pushing the next button. It was the senior Washington correspondent for Reuters, the British wire service. He asked what Morizio knew about the embassy reports. “Nothing,” Morizio said. The reporter pressed, but Morizio excused himself and took the next two calls, neither of which were about Geoffrey James.
    He checked his watch, got up, went to the bullpen, and said to his secretary, “Ginnie, I’m on my way to the White House.” She gave him her “I’m impressed” look. “Take all the calls until I get back. If Lake arrives, tell her to wait here for me. Refer all press inquiries to public affairs. I’ll pop in there on my way out.”
    “Do I have to wait around until you