Murder in the Smithsonian (14 page)

“Any dissenting votes?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was it a unanimous decision that it’s the real McCoy?”

“Yes.”

“How about Mr. Jones?”

“Walter? He concurred. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. Well, thanks for your time, Mr. Kazakis.”

“My pleasure, Captain. Any progress on the case?”

“I’m optimistic. Let’s leave it at that.”

Heather had told him to meet her and Killinworth at Le Lion d’Or on Connecticut Avenue. Hanrahan knew that the restaurant was as expensive as it was good from having celebrated a few special occasions there over the years with his wife. He stopped thinking about that when Killinworth, after being introduced, said in full voice, “What a pleasure to have an esteemed law enforcement officer to lunch.”

When they’d been seated Hanrahan ordered Gordon’s gin on the rocks. Heather and Killinworth had wine, a Robert Mondavi 1974 Cabernet Sauvignon Reserve. It was obvious to Hanrahan that Killinworth was well known and welcome at Le Lion d’Or.

“Before we get down to the unpleasant business of discussing the death of Dr. Lewis Tunney,” Killinworth announced, “allow me to suggest that we might order. If bear were in season I’d heartily endorse it, but since it isn’t, the lobster stew, anything in puff pastry, duck breast with black currant sauce or venison are guaranteed to please.” He looked at Heather and Hanrahan for their reactions. “The shrimp in basil sounds good to me,” Heather said.

Hanrahan was tempted to order anything except what this
Eve
lyn Killinworth had touted, but he remembered once having had a great striped bass in pastry. He ordered it. Killinworth insisted on their sharing an appetizer of hot rabbit pâté.

“Well,” Killinworth said to Hanrahan, “I don’t envy your trying to sort out this nightmarish business. Needles in proverbial haystacks, it appears.”

“Not quite that bad,” Hanrahan said. “Heather tells me you might be able to help.”

Killinworth, who’d tucked his napkin into his collar, delivered a modest laugh and shook his head in Heather’s direction, then said to Hanrahan, “Modesty precludes me from admitting that what you’ve said might be true, Captain. But the truth is, it could well be.”

Hanrahan was now wishing he’d declined the invitation. He found the whale of a man across from him to be a monumental bore. But he reminded himself that the reason he was there was to get a line on Killinworth’s relationship to Heather. He felt a rush of annoyance… possessiveness?… at her for trusting
Eve
lyn to the extent of moving in with him. All right so he was older, a friend of the family, but he’d come across a few of those that were also dangerous and dirty old men… “Go ahead, Mr. Killinworth,” he said, “I’m listening.”

“It’s Dr. Killinworth,” Heather said.

“Sorry… what do you think, doctor? What’s your diagnosis?”

“I don’t have one… thoughts, yes. Diagnosis, as you put it, no. I understand the Harsa has been returned.”

“That’s right.”

Killinworth raised heavy, bushy eyebrows. “And you are confident it is, in fact, the Legion of Harsa?”

“According to experts at the museum, it’s authentic, the same one stolen the night of Dr. Tunney’s murder.”

“You and your men are to be congratulated, Captain. Retrieving the Harsa is a major coup.”

“Minor compared to solving Dr. Tunney’s death.”

“Of course. What is a medal compared to a life?
Frankly, though, I would have assumed that the Harsa would never be seen again.”

“Why?”

“Priceless icons have a way of disappearing once they end up in the wrong hands.”

“Go on.”

Killinworth dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “Dessert?” he asked.

Heather and Hanrahan passed, Killinworth ordered a giant flaming orange soufflé. “Sorry, Captain, but I can’t pass up this soufflé. There’s just none better. You must taste it… Now, we were discussing how valuable works of art and historic treasures tend to disappear once in the hands of the less-than-honorable. Obviously, all stolen goods have their channels of disposition, but with works of art, these avenues of distribution are… how shall I say it?… well, more esoteric, more difficult to follow. The buyer hides it along with his other illegally obtained items.”

“I realize that fencing a precious jewel or historic medal is different than fencing a stolen TV set. Do you have any idea who might have bought the Harsa, if it had been fenced?”

Killinworth laughed, setting his corpulent body into motion like a giant jello mold. “Hypothetical, wouldn’t you say, Captain? No one, of course, bought the Harsa. It was stolen by an Hispanic dishwasher—”

“No, that’s not so.”

“The papers…”

Hanrahan leaned close to Killinworth. “I really enjoyed the lunch, Dr. Killinworth, and I’ve enjoyed meeting you, but I have a notorious short attention span. My ex-boss used to preach that any lunch not resulting in progress in a case was a wasted lunch.” He looked at Heather to see whether she was offended. She didn’t seem to be, maybe a little uncomfortable…

Killinworth, too, checked Heather for a reaction, then sat back, removed the napkin from beneath his chin, pursed his lips. He looked to Hanrahan rather like a large, pouting baby. His feelings had, Hanrahan realized, obviously been hurt, and Hanrahan was almost sorry for what he’d said. Almost.

Killinworth leaned the elbow patches of his gray tweed jacket on the table. He spread the fingers of his right hand across his lips. Hanrahan noticed that his fingernails were lacquered.

“Look, Dr. Killinworth, I didn’t mean to offend you but—”

The fingers left Killinworth’s lips and he waved them in front of Hanrahan. “No apologies necessary, Captain. I was, I confess, a bit overbearing. Apologies should come from me.”

“Forget it.”

“Absolutely not. We’ve been fencing. You’re here to scrutinize this stranger who’s suddenly entered the picture, especially where Miss McBean is concerned. I assure you that I am Miss McBean’s friend. As I was her uncle’s. My intentions are honorable, my motives familial. I hope that reassures you…”

Hanrahan thanked him for lunch. He stood up and looked at Heather. “Glad to see you’re in good hands, Miss McBean. Keep in touch.”

***

Later that afternoon, Hanrahan received a call from Heather. She hoped he hadn’t been offended at Killinworth’s manner… “He’s overbearing, I know, but brilliant and well meaning. He was very impressed with you. And it’s true, he’s like family to me. He—”

“I don’t know why you’re going through all this”—he didn’t like the churlish sound of his own voice—“Killinworth doesn’t seem to have anything to offer the investigation. I’ve no interest in him. But if
you’re
comfortable with him, that’s what counts. Like I said, keep in touch.”

After hanging up, and telling himself he’d sounded like a jerk, Hanrahan called Joe Pearl into his office. “A Doctor Evelyn Killinworth,” he said, “I want to know everything there is to know about him, down to the color of his oversized shorts and whether he has holes in his socks.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because I don’t like him. He’s too fat, pompous, arrogant, knows too much about stolen art, has conned the McBean girl into moving in with him and, on top of all that, manicures his fingernails, for Christ’s sake. I
hate
men who have manicures. Color me prejudiced.”

“Well, Mac, there’s no arguing with cool, professional logic. Especially if it comes from one’s boss.”

“Got anything on Killinworth?” Hanrahan asked Joe Pearl, who’d just entered his office carrying an armful of purple file folders.

“Working on it, Mac. We do know he taught at Oxford, then at Georgetown U. He—”

“Yeah, yeah, I
know
all that.”

“Testy. Bad night?”

Hanrahan looked up, ran his hand over his beard. He had stopped to have it trimmed on the way to the office and had gotten the usual line from his Italian barber of many years… “I charge you for the beard, not the haircut. There’s more hair on your face than on your head.” Hanrahan had laughed, as usual, but his heart wasn’t in it. For some reason his creeping baldness seemed more pronounced this morning than on other days. And it bothered him more.

“No, Joe, I did not have a bad night. In fact, I had a very good night. I made veal scaloppine in apple-lemon sauce.”

Pearl raised his eyebrows. “That’s wonderful. Company?”

“My mother stopped over.”

“Oh.” No wonder he was testy. “Mac, two things.
First, a guy from San Francisco called after you left last night. He said it wasn’t important enough to bother you at home. He left his number.” He handed a slip of paper to Hanrahan. On it was a name, Arthur Detienne, and a San Francisco area code and number.

“What’d he want?”

“He’s an art dealer in Frisco, said he’d learned something that might interest you. He wants to speak with you directly.”

“What else?”

“This.” He pulled a sheet of lined yellow paper from one of the folders and put it on the desk. Hanrahan picked it up, squinted, looked up. “I can’t read your damn handwriting.”

“Sorry. I didn’t get a chance to type it up. It’s about Chloe Jones.” He said it almost casually.

“Chloe
who
?”

“Chloe Jones. Chloe Prentwhistle was married to one Walter Jones in Maryland twenty-nine years ago.”

“No kidding. I wonder why they keep it secret.”

“Who knows… it’s more fashionable to live together these days than to be married.”

“I’ll ask them. I’m going out to her house at eleven.”

“
Their
house.”

“Whatever. Got anything else?”

“I’ve got four undercover people on two-hour shifts at the museum, and I talked to the Smithsonian’s insurance company. The Harsa would have been covered under the Smithsonian’s umbrella policy even though it hadn’t been added to the rider as a piece on display.”

“Why hadn’t it?”

“They hadn’t gotten around to it. Evidently things grind slowly at the Smithsonian. It probably would have been on display for a week before the listing went to the insurance company.”

“I see. You said it would have been covered anyway. Why?”

“Because it
was
on public display.”

“Those are the only things covered?”

“No, but display items’ coverage is much larger. The stuff in the back is valued at considerably less.”

“So when the Harsa was in the back room, its insurance value was less than what it is right now?”

“True.”

“The insurance people must be damned happy it was returned.”

“You bet they are, but according to the guy I spoke to they never argue with the Smithsonian over claims. Its track record is solid.”

“For things on public display.”

“Right.”

“What about things stored backstage?”

Pearl shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Check it out for me. See how many things have been reported stolen from the back rooms and paid for by the insurance company.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

Pearl started to leave the office. Hanrahan said, “Joe, put top priority on the Killinworth background check.”

Before leaving the office, Hanrahan reviewed the Prentwhistle and Jones files. Jones’s address was different than that listed for Chloe Prentwhistle. A detective had interviewed Jones at the address listed for him.

As Hanrahan drove toward the Rivercrest section of Northwest Washington and crossed the Potomac on the Chain Bridge his thoughts lingered on Killinworth’s relationship with Heather and on why Chloe Prentwhistle and Walter Jones would marry but keep it a secret. He’d have a chance to answer the latter question
himself. He hoped Joe Pearl’s efforts would throw some light on Killinworth and Heather.

***

Chloe Prentwhistle lived in a modern, redwood-and-glass home set into a hillside, affording a view of the river, American University and the MacArthur Reservoir. As he drove into a circular driveway Hanrahan estimated it must be worth two hundred thousand dollars. Once he was inside he upped that by one hundred thousand.

Chloe greeted him at the door. She wore a madder-lake caftan and slippers with toes that curled up, and a pink bandana.

“Come in, Captain Hanrahan,” she said pleasantly.

“Thank you. Nice place you have here.”

“It’s comfortable.” She led them through a large foyer that was more an art gallery. Massive pieces of Calder, Haber, and Brancusi sculptures were pin spotted from the ceiling, and Matisse, Picasso, Braque and Hogarth paintings were handsomely displayed against white walls.

They went to a study at the east end of the house, where Walter Jones sat on a long, chocolate-colored corduroy couch. He was reading an art magazine, which he put down as Hanrahan entered the room.

“You’ve met Walter Jones,” Chloe said.

“Yes,” Hanrahan said. They shook hands.

Hanrahan looked at Chloe, who was straightening a small Graham Sutherland engraving. “Appreciate being able to see you on short notice, Miss Prentwhistle.”

She turned. Gray light coming through a window made her appear, for a split second, to be a statue herself, Hanrahan thought.

“What can I do for you?” Chloe asked, and glanced at Jones. “Walter was just leaving…”

“Yes, yes, I was…” Jones said. He crossed the room and kissed Chloe on the cheek. Hanrahan tried to look at them as man and wife. They were the same height, both thin, a matched pair of storks. Jones was immaculately dressed in beige slacks, brown herringbone sport jacket, blue oxford button-down shirt and brown knit tie. He’d allowed the hair on his temples to grow longish, which gave him the appearance of having horns. Judging from his mottled skin, alcohol was not exactly alien to his life-style.

“You don’t have to leave on my account,” Hanrahan said.

“I was planning to anyway, Captain. I just dropped by to catch up on a few things. Well, have a good chat. By the way, Captain, any progress in the case?”

“Some. Small victories.”

“Better than no victories.” He started for the door.

“Mr. Jones—”

Jones stopped, turned. “Yes?”

“Before you go, I’ve something to ask both of you. I hope you won’t mind.” When neither of them spoke, Hanrahan went on, “I understand you’re married, and have been for years.”