Murder on Embassy Row by Margaret Truman Page A

back,” Connie said.
    “And I’d better get cracking on the reports. Connie, let’s just forget any conversations about the James mess, okay?”
    “Sure.”
    “We had the riot act read to us. This thing is under a big lock and key, and I get the feeling heads will roll if anybody tries to open it.”
    “I know, we’re under the same restrictions. That’s what worries me about Sal’s interest in it.”
    “Tell him to drop it.”
    “I have.”
    “Good. What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
    “No plans yet. I’m trying to convince Mr. Morizio to come away with me, but I’m not brimming with confidence. You?”
    “Working. I swapped last Christmas for this Thanksgiving.”
    “Sorry.”
    “Could be worse. Ross promised to have a turkey delivered for the slaves.”
    “That’s nice of him.”
    “Purely selfish, Connie. Gets his conscience off the hook, but we eat, so I suppose everyone wins.”
    “That’s the way Ayn Rand would have viewed it. Drive me back. I’m bushed.”
    Morizio called Lake at eleven. She’d taken a warm bath and had dozed off in a large leather recliner he’d given her last Christmas. It took her a few moments to come awake and to sound intelligent. “Are you home?” she managed.
    “Uh huh. What’s new with you?”
    She told him of her conversation with Jill Dougherty and about the borax in James’s caviar.
    “What does it mean?” he asked.
    “I don’t know, probably nothing, maybe something. I’m sleepy. I wish you were here.”
    “Yeah, I do…” His intercom buzzer sounded. “Hold on,” he said. He went to the kitchen and answered the doorman’s call, then returned to the living room. “George Thorpe’s downstairs,” he told Connie.
    “Were you expecting him?”
    “No.”
    “Why would he stop in unannounced at this hour?”
    “I’ll find out soon enough. Call you after he leaves.”
    Thorpe’s large body filled the doorway. He wore a faded brown tan corduroy suit jacket, baggy tan pants and a green turtleneck whose collar had been stretched into limpness by his huge neck. “Good evening, Captain,” he said. “You were about to leave?”
    Morizio hadn’t changed out of his suit. He looked down, then at Thorpe and said, “No, just got here. You want to come in?”
    “Thank you.” Thorpe stepped into the foyer and looked around. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
    Morizio knew he was really asking whether Conniewas there. He ignored the question and asked, “What can I do for you, Mr. Thorpe?”
    Thorpe ignored his question and walked across the living room to the window. “Splendid view. I enjoy good views.”
    “Yeah, so do I. Like a drink?”
    “That’s gracious of you.”
    “Scotch?”
    “Bourbon? I’ve developed a taste for it since being here.”
    Morizio knew Thorpe had already been drinking. There was a hitch to his speech, and unusually high color in his cheeks. Morizio went to the kitchen and filled a glass with ice and Ancient Age ten-year-old bourbon. He poured himself cognac and returned to the living room where Thorpe had settled into a leather club chair.
    “Thank you, sir,” Thorpe said. He downed half of what was in his glass, nodded his approval, and said, “I’m disappointed in you, Captain.”
    “Really? You came here to tell me that?”
    “I came here because we had agreed to meet at the end of each day. We haven’t been.”
    “I’ve been busy. Besides, there’s been nothing to talk about. The James…
project
… is over.”
    “Is it?”
    “That’s what I’m told.”
    “Being told is one thing, Captain, acting upon it is another.”
    “Get to the point, Mr. Thorpe. It’s late.”
    Thorpe took a tiny sip this time and focused on his glass. He ran a finger over the rim and belched. “We had been on a first name basis,” he said.
    “That’s right.”
    “But you seem hell-bent on keeping the situation official.”
    “How’d I do that?”
    “By ignoring the simple rules, Captain. Do nothing