Murder in the Smithsonian (10 page)

“From the police?”

“From the museum. He said that they would pay a reward for something so precious.”

The detective came back with the list. Hanrahan looked it over. There was a section for kitchen personnel, and Carlos Montenez was on it.

“Did he tell you exactly when he found the medal,
Miss Rodriguez? Was it before or after the police questioned him?”

“I told you… he said he found it when he was leaving the museum. He said he walked out the back door and saw something shiny in a garbage can.”

“A
garbage
can?” one of the detectives muttered. “Doesn’t make sense, Mac. Why would somebody go to the trouble of stealing it, then toss it in the trash?”

Hanrahan ignored him. “Betty, you said that your husband—Mr. Montenez—brought the medal home and showed it to you. You also said that you told him to return it but that he wanted a reward. How did you end up with it?”

“When he left the apartment this morning to see the people at the museum, he told me to leave the medal where he hid it in our closet. I thought about it. It’s been there since the night the man was killed, and every night I could not sleep thinking about it. After he was gone this morning I cried. Carlos is a good man but sometimes he thinks in ways that are wrong. Like many men.”

“Who did Carlos plan to see?”

“I don’t know, someone very important at the museum.”

“The director?”

“He didn’t tell me. When he was gone I decided that the right thing was to bring it to the police. Carlos had done nothing. He only
found
it, in the garbage.”

“He withheld evidence and harbored stolen goods,” a detective said.

Hanrahan gave him a look… “Do you have something to do?”

“Me? Whatever you say, Mac.”

“How about going outside. Tell the desk to have my car brought around in front.”

“It’s right downstairs in the garage.”

“Yeah, I know, but my leg’s bothering me.”

“What’s wrong with your leg?”

“Get the car.”

“Sure.” He leaned close and whispered in Hanrahan’s ear, “I don’t buy her story, Mac.”

A regular Sherlock Holmes, Hanrahan thought, and sighed. When the detective was gone, Hanrahan got up and walked into the bullpen outside his office and put through a call to Commissioner Johnson. “Cal,” he said, “I think I’ve got a break in the Tunney case sitting in my office.”

“What is it?”

“That’s later. I want a lawyer here before I do any more questioning.”

“Who are you questioning?”

Hanrahan gave him a thumbnail sketch of Betty Rodriguez. When he was through Johnson said he’d send someone over in fifteen minutes.

“Would you mind waiting a few minutes?” Hanrahan asked Betty when he returned.

“I have to be to work.”

“Use my phone. Call them.”

“I don’t want to lose my job. I started only two weeks ago.”

“They’ll understand.”

Fifteen minutes later a young, short, pudgy and pasty attorney from Legal Aid arrived. He was introduced to Betty, who said, “I don’t need a lawyer. I didn’t do anything.”

“I know that, I believe that,” Hanrahan said, “but it’s better for everybody to have one here.” He was not about to blow a lead because of some legal technicality. He’d done it before…

The attorney’s name was Michael Petrella. “Have some Danish and coffee, counselor,” Hanrahan said,
then turned back to Betty Rodriguez. “Let’s continue, Miss—”

“No… I brought this to you because I did not want Carlos to be in trouble. He has never been in trouble before. He did not steal this thing.” She waved her hand at the medal on Hanrahan’s desk as though it were an evil talisman.

“I told you I believe you—”

“Is she being charged?” Petrella asked, his cheek bulging with cheese pastry.

“No,” Hanrahan said. “Get me Alfred Throckly at the museum on the phone,” he told the remaining detective.

“What’s his number?”

“Jesus.” Hanrahan found Throckly’s number in his files and dialed it himself.

“I was just about to call you, Captain,” Throckly said, having decided, in spite of Chloe, that he should tell the police. After all, he had
his
reputation to worry about too. “An incredible thing happened here this morning—”

“About Tunney?”

“Yes… a man walked into my office, said he knew where the Harsa was. He wanted a reward. I went with him to where he lives but the medal was missing. He claims—”

“That his wife took it.”

Thank God, Throckly thought, that he’d volunteered the information… “How did you know that?”

“She’s sitting with me. With the medal. Where’s Mr. Montenez?”

“We left him at his apartment.”

“How long ago was that?”

“About twenty minutes.”

“What address?”

Throckly gave it to him.

“You should have called me, Mr. Throckly.”

“Yes… I see that now… but his story seemed so farfetched, we didn’t want to seem foolish, bring more bad publicity on the museum—”

“Stay near the phone.”

Hanrahan hung up and told the detective to go with a tactical unit to Montenez’s address.

“To arrest him?” his wife asked.

“To bring him in for questioning.”

“He found it, I swear.”

“I’m sure he did. Does your husband have a gun?”

She shook her head. “He’s never hurt anyone.”

“Bring him in,” Hanrahan repeated to the detective, “but go
easy
.”

***

“Coffee, Mr. Montenez?” Hanrahan asked.

“No, no coffee.” Montenez sat next to his wife Betty. She’d put her hand on top of his.

“This is Mr. Petrella, Mr. Montenez. He’s a public defender and is here to act as your attorney.”

“I don’t need a lawyer, I did nothing.”

“Okay, but we’d like to hear from you what did happen this morning. It could help us, and maybe you too.” He asked the detective if Montenez’s rights had been read to him. The detective said they had. Hanrahan looked at the stenographer, then at Montenez. “The officers read your rights to you, Mr. Montenez, when they came to your apartment?”

“Si.”

Petrella, who’d been perched on the edge of the table containing the food, pushed himself away. “Mr. Montenez, you don’t have to answer any questions if you don’t want to. Are you charging him?” he asked Hanrahan.

“Maybe.”

“For what?”

“Possession of stolen goods, maybe blackmail. I might hold him as a material witness, depending on what we find out here this morning.”

“As your attorney, Mr. Montenez, I again tell you that you’re not under any obligation to answer questions.”

“Okay, Mr. Montenez,” Hanrahan said, “please tell me as carefully as you can how you found this medal, what you did with it since finding it and what you planned to do with it this morning.”

When Montenez had finished his story, Hanrahan said, “You say you had no idea when you picked it out of the trash that it had been stolen or was valuable?”

“
Si
, that is
right
.”

“That was the same night Dr. Lewis Tunney was murdered. You didn’t know about that either?”

“I knew that. The cops questioned me in the kitchen, like the others, but I didn’t know about the medal.”

“Didn’t it seem strange that something with diamonds and rubies was in a garbage can?”

“Guess so…”

Betty Rodriguez put in, “I told him the next day that it was in the papers and that he should return it right away.”

“Why didn’t you, Mr. Montenez?”

“I wanted a reward. Why not?”

“And the people at the museum got the money for you this morning and went with you to get the medal?”

“Si.”

“Who went with you besides Mr. Throckly?”

“I don’t know their names.”

Hanrahan leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “Mr. Montenez, you may be telling the truth, but I’ve got to make sure.” And to Petrella, “We’ll hold Mr. Montenez as a material witness and for possession
of stolen goods—”

Joe Pearl came in. “Mr. Throckly from the museum is here, Mac. He’s in my office.”

“Good, I want to see him. Excuse me.” Hanrahan and Pearl left as Montenez was led away for booking.

“Captain Hanrahan,” Throckly said. He stood and enthusiastically extended his hand. “What wonderful news. The Harsa is here, safe?”

“That’s right, Mr. Throckly. No thanks, I might say, to you and your colleagues. Who was with you on your little junket to the Montenez apartment?”

Throckly hesitated.

“Who, Mr. Throckly?”

“Miss Prentwhistle and Ford Saunders.”

“And nobody called the police.”

“Please, Captain Hanrahan, try to understand—”

“I
do
, Mr. Throckly. Believe me, I
understand
…” He shook his head in disgust.

Throckly sighed and pressed his lips together. “Could I see the medal, Captain?”

“It’s on its way to the lab.”

“Lab?”

“Examination, prints.”

“When can we have it back?”

“When this case is solved.”

“But we must have it back sooner than that. The exhibition is built around it—”

“Forget it.”

“Can I at least see it?”

“Maybe in a few days.”

“That’s crucial, Captain. We must ascertain whether it’s the authentic Harsa—”

“It had
better
be, Mr. Throckly, or we’re all going to look like asses. I’d like to speak with Miss Prentwhistle and Mr. Saunders.”

“Oh? When?”

“This afternoon. Please arrange for the three of you to be at the museum at three o’clock.”

***

By one that afternoon MPD was crawling with press. Radio and television were reporting a major break in the case and had even identified poor Carlos Montenez as a prime suspect in the Tunney murder case.

***

Hanrahan and Joe Pearl interviewed Prentwhistle, Saunders and Throckly at three. Their stories were the same. They all agreed they’d made a foolish mistake in judgment because of the excitement over the chance to recover the Harsa and, as Chloe said, “having a chance to clean our own house.”

“I think they’re telling the truth, Mac,” Pearl said as they drove back to headquarters.

“You’re probably right, Joe,” Hanrahan said. “Damn it.”

At four that afternoon Calvin Johnson came into Hanrahan’s office. “The judge denied Montenez’s bail,” he said.

“Why?”

“The material witness aspect. I think it was right. I’d hate to lose Montenez too soon—”

“He didn’t kill Tunney. I don’t think he even stole anything. He’s just a poor—”

“It’s good to have
any
suspect around, at least for a few days. Takes some of the pressure off, and it won’t kill him. He correctly read Hanrahan’s expression. “It’ll take pressure off you, too, Mac.”

“What else can I do for you, Cal?”

“Two things. First, I just got off the phone with Vice President Oxenhauer. He wants the Harsa returned to the museum so that it can be placed on display again.”

“Impossible, we can’t pick—”

“Nothing’s impossible when the vice president requests it. The Fourth of July is coming up and Oxenhauer wants things back to normal at the Smithsonian. Once the lab has gone over it I don’t see anything wrong with giving it back. It’s probably safer there than it would be here. Make sure they beef up security, that’s all. It’ll look good for us, Mac. We’ve gotten it back, and the place will be crawling with people wanting to see it. By the way, what are you doing for dinner tonight? Julia is preparing something special, we thought you’d like a home-cooked meal.”

“What do you think I eat 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 the
British 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.