Multiple Exposure A Sophie Medina Mystery (31 page)

I walked to the corner of 17th and Q, where you could get breakfast all day at the Trio Restaurant and ate while reading the Sunday newspapers. There were no new developments in the investigation of Ali’s death and the autopsy was still pending. What if they never found out who did it?

How would I live with that?

As soon as I got home I called Grace. An unsolved murder surely weighed on someone’s conscience at the MPD: You always hear stories about cops who keep folders and notebooks and have sleepless nights about the victims whose killers were never brought to justice. Was there someone like that who still cared about what happened to Jenna Paradise, the girl who caused the rift between Scott Hathaway and Taras Attar?

If I asked Grace to call in one more favor she’d want a full explanation, but maybe she would do it, even if it was far-fetched and a long shot. Her phone went to voice mail and I left a message, asking her to call me.

Half an hour later my phone rang. The display said “unknown caller.” Not Grace. The only unknown caller I knew was Napoleon Duval. Maybe he wanted to meet yet again and ply me with more questions I couldn’t answer about Nick’s whereabouts. Reluctantly I answered.

“Sophie, love. It’s Baz. Sorry I’m just now getting around to returning your call.”

A pang of nostalgia shot through me. I closed my eyes and suddenly I was back in London and Baz was calling to invite me to high tea or sherry at the House of Lords or to make sure Nick and I were coming to some fabulous dinner party he and Lady Isabella were hosting at their lavish home on Eaton Square.

“Baz,” I said, “I miss you so much. It’s good to hear you.”

“Darling, are you all right? It’s not . . . Nick, is it? Some news?”

“I’m okay and unfortunately there’s no news about Nick. I’m just terribly homesick for London . . . and you.”

“That can be easily remedied. I’m in town and I absolutely must see you. I hope you’re free for a drink this afternoon? We could meet at my club.”

“You’re in Washington?” I walked outside to the balcony. “When did you get here? How long are you staying?”

“I arrived a few days ago. I meant to ring you sooner, love, but I’ve been devilishly tied up,” he said. “And I’m scheduled to fly back tomorrow night, if all goes well.”

I stood at the railing looking out on Max Katzer’s garden and India’s carriage house, surprised and a little hurt Baz hadn’t found a moment to at least call and say he was in town. But he’d just said he was run-off-his-feet busy, probably in marathon meetings that started early and ended late.

“It’s okay.” I tried to hide my disappointment. “I’d love to meet you for a drink. Where are you staying?”

“The G. Washington Club on 16th Street near the White House. Do you know it?”

A private club that had been men-only for over a century until they finally broke down and admitted women in the late 1990s. That enlightened decision ended the practice of nude sunbathing on the roof and swimming in your altogether in the lap pool. Harry had been a member for decades and often dined there when he was in town.

“My stepfather belongs to that club. I walked by it yesterday.”

“Did you really? What an odd coincidence,” he said. “I’m sorry it’s only drinks, darling. If I weren’t tied up for dinner again tonight, I’d take you out on the town and spoil you rotten. I promise next time.”

I smiled. “I’ll hold you to it. And at least I get to see you on this trip. What time do you want to meet?”

“Let’s say half three in the library,” he said. “It’s on the first floor. Ask at the reception. The place is rather quiet this weekend, so we might even have it to ourselves.”

“Three thirty,” I said. “I’ll see you then.”

*

The library at the G. Washington Club was more a meeting room for socializing than a place to sit and read or do research. Though the room was lined with bookshelves, the collection that made up the library was an ad hoc assortment of donations over the years that ran the gamut from highbrow literary fiction and serious nonfiction to lowbrow trashy beach reads. A large bookcase near the door had been designated as a showcase for signed editions written by club members.

They’d redecorated since the last time I’d been here with Harry: hunter green walls, matching moiré silk curtains with swagged jabots and heavy gold tassels, glossy white bookshelves that contrasted with the strong dark green. The furniture, arranged in small seated groupings, had been reupholstered in muted shades of sage and raspberry. Large bamboo palms in terra-cotta urns screened several of the seating areas so they had more privacy, and it was behind a large potted plant that I found Baz. He was sitting in a wing chair, impeccably dressed in a three-piece bespoke charcoal gray suit, subtle red-and-gray paisley tie, red silk pocket handkerchief, his glasses slipped down on the bridge of his nose as he frowned at something in the London Sunday
Times
crossword puzzle. A glass of sherry sat on a marble-topped table next to him.

“You’re in America,” I said as he stood up to give me a kiss on the cheek and a hug. “You could at least be doing the
New York Times
puzzle.”

“Lord,” he said, “I finished that ages ago. In ink.”

“Showoff.” I sat in a leather club chair next to him.

“Penology repeater. Ten letters. There’s a v and at least two i’s.”

“Recidivist.”

“Excellent.” He filled in the word and set down the paper and his gold Montblanc fountain pen as a pretty redhead in a white jacket and black trousers appeared.

“Something for your guest, Lord Allingham?”

“What would you like, Sophie?” Baz asked.

“A glass of sparkling water, please.”

“No wine? No sherry?” he said.

“No thanks. I had a late night last night.”

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow.

“I filled in for my mother as my stepfather’s date at a fund-raiser.”

The waitress left and returned a moment later with my water and a bowl of mixed nuts. Baz picked up his sherry.

“To old friends in new places.”

“To old friends.”

We drank and he said, “You look rather tired, love. More than just one late night. How are you? How’s the new job?”

“The new job’s okay,” I said. “Interesting work . . . it’s a change from IPS.”

“How are you doing otherwise?”

“Fine. I just moved to a new place two days ago, so I’m slowly getting settled into life back in America.”

He drank more sherry and said, “Darling, I was referring to Nick.”

Our eyes met. This wasn’t just a social get-together. Baz had information to share, but first he wanted to know what I knew about my husband, just like he’d done that day at Westminster Abbey.

I set down my glass. “Everyone is looking for him and those damn well logs. If he even has them.”

Baz nodded. “What else?”

I told him about my meeting with Arkady Vasiliev at the National Gallery and what Napoleon Duval said yesterday about Nick being wanted for questioning in connection with the death of Nick’s CIA contact in Iskar.

“You know Nick’s with the agency,” I said. “So there’s no point pretending anymore. In fact, I figure you’ve known for a while.”

He nodded again, crossing one leg over the other. “What made you think I knew he was CIA?”

“I guessed that day at the Abbey, though I wasn’t sure. And, of course, I couldn’t say anything or ask you,” I said. “When did you find out?”

“One develops a sixth sense about these things,” he said. “Sometimes you’re wrong, but most times you can tell when someone’s part of the community. I’ve known for quite a while . . . a couple of years.”

“And you also know Nick isn’t capable of murder,” I said. “He didn’t kill Colin and he didn’t kill that agent in Abadistan, either.”

Baz wagged a finger at me. “I know, love, but there but for the grace of God go any of us. In the heat of the moment, under extreme provocation, anyone—and that includes you and me—is capable of doing something, committing some act, we’d never believe we’d do. Including murder. Neither of us knows what Nick’s been through, what he’s had to do to survive.”

“Do you
know
what happened in Iskar? Do you
know
Nick murdered his handler?” My voice rose.

“Darling, not so loud.” He signaled for the waitress. “I’ll have another sherry and Ms. Medina would like a glass of Chardonnay.” He glanced at me. “Or would you prefer something stronger, Sophie? A whiskey, perhaps?”

“Chardonnay is fine. Thank you.”

After the waitress left, Baz said, “You look like you could do with a drink after all. I hate to see you so distressed.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Baz.”

He steepled his fingers as though he were considering his reply. Outside in the corridor, a Westminster clock chimed the full hour and then struck four.

“I’m worried, darling. It looks bad for Nick from the CIA’s point of view. He was in Iskar the day that chap was killed and he was in Vienna the day Colin was found in the Danube.” He shrugged and his smile seemed tinged with regret. “What did Nick always say about coincidences?”

The waitress set down our drinks.

“In the intelligence world, there’s no such thing,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have been set up . . . that it couldn’t have been a conspiracy.”

Baz drank his sherry. “Why? For what purpose?”

“Because maybe all the speculation and the rumors are true. Crowne Energy made a significant oil discovery where there was supposed to be nothing and someone leaked that information.” I frowned at Baz. “You know everyone in the industry. Can’t you find out?”

“If I could, I would. Believe me.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Sophie, I know what you told Agent Duval about not knowing where Nick might be, but this is me.
Do
you know where he is?”

I drank my wine and said, “No. Duval said he probably left Russia. He seems to think Nick will come to me.”

Baz nodded. “I agree. He’ll go someplace he knows. You’d be my first guess, too.”

“What about London?”

“A possibility. But he’s got to be running out of money,” he said. “Look, I can help. I can get Nick enough cash, whatever he needs, until this gets straightened out. Plus I’ve got friends who owe me favors. If I tell them to back off, they’ll back off.”

“You would do that for Nick?” I said.

“I would do it for both of you,” he said. “Just let me know when you hear from him and how to contact him and get him the funds. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Money. Baz was dangling a hell of a carrot. “You could get in a lot of trouble, Baz, if anyone finds out.”

“I’ll take that risk.” He stood. “I’m sorry, love, but I need to dash . . . paperwork to finish and then a business dinner. All work and no play. I’m becoming a very dull boy, I’m afraid.”

I finished my wine. “You’re leaving tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Next trip stay a little longer and we’ll visit the tourist sites in Washington together.”

“I’d like that,” he said. “I did manage to get in a quick visit to that Fabergé exhibit after reading your e-mail.”

“What did you think?” I asked as he walked me to the front door.

“You were right. It’s fabulous. Quite astonishing they actually found the little items that belonged to the Blue Constellation egg as well.”

I said, puzzled, “Do you mean the surprises? They turned up somewhere?”

“Why, yes,” he said. “Didn’t you know? A miniature clock made of the same blue glass and crystal as the egg, and a solid gold lion to represent Leo, the zodiac sign under which the little boy, Alexis, was born. Someone approached Arkady Vasiliev and told him he owned the items—it came quite out of nowhere. He paid a king’s ransom, but of course now he’ll be remembered for reuniting the last imperial Fabergé egg with its lost treasures.”

This had to be the new development Katya Gordon had hinted at during her talk at Hillwood on Friday.

“I didn’t know that information had been made public,” I said. “I was told Vasiliev was going to announce it at a press conference.”

Baz waved a hand. “Perhaps he is, but it’s an open secret at the National Gallery.”

Had Seth leaked the news? It didn’t sound right, given Vasiliev’s insistence on controlling everything that had to do with the exhibit and the imperial eggs, but Duval said Vasiliev was on his supersize yacht in the middle of the ocean so maybe there had been a communication slipup.

Baz’s mobile rang in his pocket. He pulled it out and checked the display. “Oh, blast. I’m sorry, darling, but I’ve got to take this. I’d better go. Be in touch . . . love and kisses.”

He blew me a kiss and turned away to answer his phone.

I walked back to S Street and thought about Baz’s unexpected offer to help Nick. He’d be taking, as I’d told him, a huge risk. Of course there was the other side of the coin, something I didn’t want to contemplate.

The money was bait, to lure Nick in.

And Baz had just extracted a promise from me that I would set the trap.

*

A note written in purple marker was taped to my front door when I got back to the house half an hour later.

Please drop by. Something arrived for you.

—India

I went next door and knocked on her front door. Today she wore flowing pink-and-purple harem pants, a matching embroidered tunic, silver bracelets that sounded like wind chimes when she moved her hands, and her trademark Chanel No. 5.

India smiled and said, “I believe you have an admirer.” I must have looked dumbfounded because she added, “Perhaps it’s that tall, good-looking gentleman I saw you with last night?”

“That would be my stepfather.”

It was her turn to look surprised. “Wait here.” A moment later she returned holding a bouquet of red roses. “You weren’t home so the delivery boy brought them here. I put them in water so, mind, the stems are wet. There doesn’t seem to be a card. He said you’d know who they’re from.”

I took the flowers. “When were they delivered?”

“About an hour ago.”

“On a Sunday?”

“Apparently those were the instructions.” She gave me a sly look and said, “So do you know who they’re from?”