every night?”
“I know, Mac, you’re a gourmet cook, but you haven’t been over in a while. We’d love to have you.”
“Thanks, Cal, but I planned an early night. Rain check?”
“Sure. Think about the Harsa and the V.P.’s request, Mac. I’ll check in with you in the morning.”
“Okay. By the way, what do you tell the press when they ask why the jewel thieves would go to the trouble of stealing a valuable medal from a major museum, then toss it in the garbage?”
Johnson smiled and slapped him on the back. “The way we always answer those questions, Mac, by not answering. All we know is that through diligent, astute police work a major break has occurred in the Tunney case.”
Hanrahan didn’t smile in appreciation at such ingenious police p.r.
Ten minutes later Hanrahan received a call from Heather McBean. “Is it true,” she asked, “about the Harsa?”
“Yes.”
“That’s wonderful… but what does it mean… I mean, in terms of Lewis’s death?”
“Hard to say.”
“Could we meet? I’m anxious to hear all about it. May I see the Harsa?”
“No, not yet, at least for a few days. About getting together, well… tell you what. I planned a quiet evening alone with some good food, wine, peace and quiet. If that appeals to you, you’re invited. Do you like chicken?”
“Chicken? Is there a restaurant in Washington that specializes in chicken?”
“Yeah, my house. In all modesty, Miss McBean, there isn’t a better cook in Washington than yours truly, and when the going gets tough, as it is now, I cook. I guess it relaxes me, makes me think I’m something I’m not and puts decent food in my cop’s delicate stomach. Look, I’m not some lecherous old guy chasing pretty Scottish lassies. I’m a cop who likes to cook. What do you say?” Did he really mean all those disclaimers…?
“I say all right.”
“Seven. I’ll be at the hotel.”
Hanrahan decided the entree for the evening would be chicken with dill. What he’d told Heather was at least partly true. He did love to cook, had taken courses in some of the city’s best cooking schools and could lose himself in a kitchen the way some other people could in travel, movies, or museums. It also beat a sour-stomach marriage.
On the way home he picked up chicken breasts with the skin on, fresh dill and parsley, scallions and cherry tomatoes. He had the rest of the ingredients at home—half-and-half, mayonnaise, salt and white pepper. He arranged for everything in the kitchen, showered and headed for the Madison. It wasn’t until he pulled up in front that he had his first twinge of doubt about the evening. She was British, and everyone knew that theBritish were not exactly connoisseurs of gourmet food. She was a lovely young thing, and he felt for her, but… well, of the many things in life he couldn’t tolerate, high on the list were doctors, lawyers, politicians, sexually liberated women who couldn’t stop talking about it and insensitive palates. Put that last first.
Chapter 12
Constantine Kazakis stood against F. Scott’s black and chrome art-deco bar and sipped a Buck’s Dream—Kahlúa and Chambord blended with a scoop of French vanilla ice cream. He knew the young, attractive oriental girl next to him. She was with a well-dressed young man and was saying, “…and I’m really into love, romance. Did you read that article in
Esquire
on the death of sex? It was so right. Sexual liberation has destroyed love and romance.”
Kazakis smiled. Three months ago, after they’d become acquainted at the bar and had gone to his Watergate apartment, she’d quoted another magazine about how love was insipid and she was “into my body,” and so forth. What was it Emerson had said that he remembered from school? “…A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.” Ralph Waldo never met this lady…
Just then he spotted Janis Dewey coming through the front door, watched her look around, catch his eye and make
“I know, Mac, you’re a gourmet cook, but you haven’t been over in a while. We’d love to have you.”
“Thanks, Cal, but I planned an early night. Rain check?”
“Sure. Think about the Harsa and the V.P.’s request, Mac. I’ll check in with you in the morning.”
“Okay. By the way, what do you tell the press when they ask why the jewel thieves would go to the trouble of stealing a valuable medal from a major museum, then toss it in the garbage?”
Johnson smiled and slapped him on the back. “The way we always answer those questions, Mac, by not answering. All we know is that through diligent, astute police work a major break has occurred in the Tunney case.”
Hanrahan didn’t smile in appreciation at such ingenious police p.r.
Ten minutes later Hanrahan received a call from Heather McBean. “Is it true,” she asked, “about the Harsa?”
“Yes.”
“That’s wonderful… but what does it mean… I mean, in terms of Lewis’s death?”
“Hard to say.”
“Could we meet? I’m anxious to hear all about it. May I see the Harsa?”
“No, not yet, at least for a few days. About getting together, well… tell you what. I planned a quiet evening alone with some good food, wine, peace and quiet. If that appeals to you, you’re invited. Do you like chicken?”
“Chicken? Is there a restaurant in Washington that specializes in chicken?”
“Yeah, my house. In all modesty, Miss McBean, there isn’t a better cook in Washington than yours truly, and when the going gets tough, as it is now, I cook. I guess it relaxes me, makes me think I’m something I’m not and puts decent food in my cop’s delicate stomach. Look, I’m not some lecherous old guy chasing pretty Scottish lassies. I’m a cop who likes to cook. What do you say?” Did he really mean all those disclaimers…?
“I say all right.”
“Seven. I’ll be at the hotel.”
Hanrahan decided the entree for the evening would be chicken with dill. What he’d told Heather was at least partly true. He did love to cook, had taken courses in some of the city’s best cooking schools and could lose himself in a kitchen the way some other people could in travel, movies, or museums. It also beat a sour-stomach marriage.
On the way home he picked up chicken breasts with the skin on, fresh dill and parsley, scallions and cherry tomatoes. He had the rest of the ingredients at home—half-and-half, mayonnaise, salt and white pepper. He arranged for everything in the kitchen, showered and headed for the Madison. It wasn’t until he pulled up in front that he had his first twinge of doubt about the evening. She was British, and everyone knew that theBritish were not exactly connoisseurs of gourmet food. She was a lovely young thing, and he felt for her, but… well, of the many things in life he couldn’t tolerate, high on the list were doctors, lawyers, politicians, sexually liberated women who couldn’t stop talking about it and insensitive palates. Put that last first.
Chapter 12
Constantine Kazakis stood against F. Scott’s black and chrome art-deco bar and sipped a Buck’s Dream—Kahlúa and Chambord blended with a scoop of French vanilla ice cream. He knew the young, attractive oriental girl next to him. She was with a well-dressed young man and was saying, “…and I’m really into love, romance. Did you read that article in
Esquire
on the death of sex? It was so right. Sexual liberation has destroyed love and romance.”
Kazakis smiled. Three months ago, after they’d become acquainted at the bar and had gone to his Watergate apartment, she’d quoted another magazine about how love was insipid and she was “into my body,” and so forth. What was it Emerson had said that he remembered from school? “…A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.” Ralph Waldo never met this lady…
Just then he spotted Janis Dewey coming through the front door, watched her look around, catch his eye and make
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