Murder in the Smithsonian (11 page)

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 her way through a knot of dancers fumbling through a vintage Sinatra recording. She kissed him on the cheek, nestled the small of her back into the bar and closed her eyes.

Kazakis placed his hand on her arm. “Tough day?”

She opened her eyes and smiled. “Yes, very. You?”

“Like any other day in Washington’s answer to Disneyland. Did you see the piece on the weighing of the Hope?”

“Yes. I looked for your name.”

He laughed. “I’m the silent force behind the scenes. What are you drinking?”

“White wine. Are we having dinner? I’m starved.”

“I’d planned on it.”

“Here?”

“Why not?”

She smiled. “Because I always feel like an extra in a Busby Berkeley movie in here.”

“Still watching old movies?”

“I like them. The new ones disappoint.”

She took her wine from the bar, tasted it, grimaced. “Bar wine.”

“We’re fresh out of Taittinger blanc de blanc…”

“Sorry, Connie,” she said. “I’m uptight—”

“About the other night?”

“Among other things.”

“I enjoyed it, watching the aging contingent of the Smithsonian hobble about on their canes.”

“Did you? Don’t answer, of course you did.”

“They do have their amusing sides.”

“There are also sides that are anything but amusing. Amusing… I hate that word. It’s too damn arch. Phony.”

“Pardon me, keeper of the language and all things pure. Look, if you’d rather go home. I’ll find something else to do.”

“Maybe you should. I’m not your typical date for the evening.”

“You’re not my date at all, Janis,” he said. “You
called me, remember? You suggested we get together and talk. Remember?”

“Let’s get a table.”

He ordered steak tartar, she had agnolotti in a rich cream sauce. They said little as they waited to be served. After the food arrived Constantine Kazakis said, “I have the impression that the cool and calm Miss Dewey might be on the verge of a collapse—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What’s bothering you, Janis? It was a pleasant get-together at Walter’s house. The pâté was good, the wine a cut above table variety and the conversation… well, the conversation was what it generally is, inside and competitive and—”

“You know I’m not referring to the usual chitchat, Connie. There are things Walter and Chloe said that bothered me.”

“Such as?”

“Do I have to repeat them? They applied to you, too.”

“You and I look at this whole thing differently, that’s all. Relax, it’ll blow over.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her lips together. He reached across the small table and took her hand. “Easy, Janis, you’re turning the molehill into a mountain.” Her beauty suddenly hit him—creamy skin, a mane of auburn-bordering-on-red hair reaching down her back, full, red lips and intense greenish eyes, a tall, lithe figure with full breasts.

She opened her eyes, pulled her hand free. “I’m
frightened
, Connie, and I think I have reason to be.”

“Frightened people make mistakes. All we have to do is not make mistakes and it’ll be a thing of the past… eat your pasta, it’ll get cold…

“Look Janis, you knew what you were getting into, and so did L Sometimes nice simple things get complicated,
and the key to handling them is to get back to basics… that’s what Walter was saying. Remember? Lord, you should see yourself. You look like you’ve seen your mother’s ghost. Relax, pull yourself together and let’s get on with it.”

“I may leave.”

“Leave the museum?”

“Yes.”

“Bad move. Only invites questions… do you want your pasta heated?”

“No, I want to go home. I’m sorry Connie…”

Kazakis returned to the bar after Janis left. The young oriental woman was now alone. “Hi,” he said.

“Hello.”

“I’m embarrassed, your name is…”

“Tina. Your name is funny. Greek. Connie, right?”

“Right, for Constantine. Where’s your date?”

“How’ve you been?”

“Terrific. You?”

“Great.”

“Where’s your date?”

“He wasn’t my date. He’s my boss. He went home to mama. Where’s yours?”

“Home to bed… Had dinner yet?”

“No.”

“Want to?”

“Didn’t I see you eating?”

“I nibbled. Come on, let’s get out of here. I feel like Chinese.”

He said it with a straight face.

Hanrahan stood at a podium in MPD’s main briefing room. In front of him were a dozen members of the Washington press corps. He read from a statement prepared by Commissioner Johnson, who stood next to him.

“A team of experts from the Smithsonian has examined the medal recently recovered by this department. The medal, known as the Legion of Harsa, was presumed to be the one stolen from the Museum of American History the night of Dr. Lewis Tunney’s murder. The Smithsonian team has reported that the recovered medal is, in fact, that same medal. The Legion of Harsa has been returned to the Museum of American History for public display. A police laboratory analysis of it has, however, failed to shed any evidential light on the Tunney case. Nonetheless, we consider the recovery of the Legion of Harsa to be a significant move forward in our investigation. The man who had the Legion of Harsa, Carlos Montenez, has been charged with possession of stolen goods. He’s free on bail. He is considered a material witness in the ongoing Tunney investigation.” He did not add that he
had ordered a twenty-four-hour surveillance on Montenez. What else could he do?

Questions came from the floor. Hanrahan held up his hands. “Sorry, I can’t answer questions at this time.” He looked to Johnson, who nodded. “The commissioner will take your questions.”

Hanrahan then pushed through the crowd to the hallway, where he motioned for Joe Pearl to follow him. They went to the basement garage, where Hanrahan’s car was parked. “Joe,” he said, “I want somebody to go undercover at the museum.”

“What capacity?”

“Capacity?… You mean disguise… well, somebody to fit into the kitchen.”

“I suppose we could work something out with the catering manager—”

“No, I don’t trust anybody over there.”

“That makes it tough.”

“Then get some undercover people working shifts as tourists. Have them keep an eye on the Harsa exhibition and rotate them.”

“Okay, Mac. Where are you going?”

“The museum. I want to see that medal again.”

Pearl smiled. “If this case goes on much longer you’ll get cultured, Mac. I mean, beyond your stomach.”

“I’m ready. Hell, I even own a tuxedo.”

***

A large crowd was waiting to get into the Harsa-Cincinnati exhibit. Hanrahan stood patiently in line and listened to comments around him. The theft of the Harsa and its return was good for business. Almost everyone he eavesdropped on was talking about it. One matronly woman told her husband, “I’ve heard it’s cursed, like the Hope Diamond. That’s why that man was killed.” A young man wearing jeans, rubber thongs and a T-shirt that read “No Nukes” told his girl friend,
“Maybe Thomas Jefferson got sore at the state of the union and came back to life.” She thought that was a
riot
.

Eventually Hanrahan arrived at the Harsa-Cincinnati display case, where the two medals shone brilliantly from behind glass. He looked closely and noticed a sliver of wire with a pressure-point against the lower right corner of the Harsa pane. He was glad to see it. The case was now, finally, electronically alarmed, which it should have been in the first place, never mind all the fancy rationalizations of the staff.

A museum security guard stood six feet away and surveyed the crowd. Hanrahan thought of the Smithson bomber and thought that he could be standing next to him. All the attention given the Harsa would probably stir up the bomber’s interest, maybe even prompt him to leave his next note there. Hanrahan at least felt good that he’d ordered undercover officers to keep an eye on things.

He strolled away from the exhibition and went to the railing that Tunney had fallen over. He looked down. The pendulum swung back and forth, slowly. A large group of people pressed against the first floor railing, waiting for the next red marker to be struck.

Hanrahan thought of the night Tunney was killed and of his tour of the darkened museum. He looked toward the archway leading to the First Ladies’ Gown exhibition, walked through it until he stood in front of the display room he had admired that night. He stared through the glass for several moments. “Damn it…”

He proceeded to Chloe Prentwhistle’s office. Her secretary, young, blond and almost attractive, nodded toward a closed door and told him that Miss Prentwhistle was in conference. “Would you like to speak to Mr. Saunders? He’s Miss Prentwhistle’s assistant.”

He nodded. A few minutes later Ford Saunders appeared from an inner office, decked out in royal blue velvet jacket, gray slacks, black Gucci loafers, a white silk shirt open at the neck and a crimson ascot.

“Captain Mac Hanrahan, MPD,” Hanrahan said, offering his badge.
This
guy had culture? A damn fop, Hanrahan thought.

“What can I do for you, Captain?”

“Well, Mr. Saunders, I’m a little confused about one of the display rooms in the First Ladies’ exhibit.”

“What confuses you?”

Hanrahan glanced over at the blond secretary, who was obviously taking in every word. “Could we talk privately?”

Saunders’s office was, not surprisingly, a symphony in antiques. The carpet and drapes were crimson, the walls stark white. Saunders’s desk was an 1810 mahogany pier table with a skirt of crotch veneer and tapered, reeded legs. Against one wall was a Queen Anne slant-front desk on a turned frame, circa 1730. Its walnut, maple and pine sections were deeply burnished, and bat’s-wing brass pulls were polished to glittering perfection. Prints with brass frames adorned the walls. The desk was bare. Not even a fingerprint marred its surface.

Hanrahan openly admired the desk.

“A perk of the museum world,” Saunders said. “We have so many pieces
not
on display that we borrow them to decorate our offices. Please, sit down.” He pointed to two cherry Chippendale chairs. Hanrahan sat; Saunders remained standing behind his desk. “Well, Captain, what was it that confused you about the First Ladies’ exhibition?”

“The number of mannequins in it, Mr. Saunders.”

Saunders raised his eyebrows. “I don’t follow.”

“I counted seven today, Mr. Saunders, but the night of the murder I counted eight.”

“Very mysterious,” Saunders said, propping up his elbow and touching his mouth with the upraised hand, like the late Jack Benny, Hanrahan thought.

Hanrahan was put off by Saunders’s manner, but this was no time for character commentary. He pressed on… “Is it possible that there
were
eight mannequins the night of Dr. Tunney’s murder?”

“No, Captain, I’m really afraid not. No disrespect intended, but there have been seven First Ladies in that room for years, unless one of them had a visitor and didn’t tell us about it.” He laughed. “You just must have been mistaken. I’m sorry…”

“Could be… I’ve been wrong before. Still…”

“Did you actually count them? Forgive me again, Captain, but I’ve never heard of anyone actually standing there and counting the mannequins—”

“You have now.” He realized, though, that Saunders made sense… but he was a man conditioned by years of attention to detail. It was in his bones.

“I didn’t mean to—”

Hanrahan stood. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Saunders.”

“I don’t envy you, Captain.”

“For what?”

“For having to find a murderer in this, so to speak, haystack. Any leads, as I believe you call them?”

“A few.”

“Call me if I can be of help.”

“Sure. You bet.” God, he really did dislike this guy.

He left Saunders’s office and saw that Chloe Prentwhistle’s door was now open. And standing just inside it were Chloe and Heather McBean. Chloe was smiling and had her hand fondly on Heather’s shoulder.

Hanrahan waited in the hall until Heather came out. “Hi,” she said, “what a surprise.”

“Same here. I wanted to see Miss Prentwhistle, you seem to have gotten to her first.”

“Captain… I wouldn’t put it that way. Anyway, what
did
you want to see her about?”

“A couple of loose ends.”

As they walked toward the elevators Heather said, “I just gave her the Harsa papers I brought with me from England.”

Hanrahan stopped dead. “What papers?”

She told him about having found additional documents in her uncle’s files.

“Why didn’t you give them to me? Where are they?”

The elevator arrived, and they rode in silence to the main floor. As they stepped off, Heather said, “I had them in the hotel safe.”

He didn’t bother to point out that she’d only answered one of his questions. “Where are you going now?”

“I’d planned to see the Harsa, now that it’s back on display. Chloe gave me a special pass to avoid the crowds.”

“I just came from it, but I’ll go with you, if you don’t mind.”

She looked at him. “So formal, Captain. I like you better as a cook. And by the way, that meal was altogether as advertised.”

He shrugged, masquerading his pleasure. At least the lady had good taste.