The Market Inn, located beneath the Southwest Freeway, was a Washington institution unto itself, a popular spot for locals seeking straight-ahead American food and round-the-clock jazz. Steve Jordan met Annabel at the door and led her to a booth in a secluded corner. Drinks ordered, she asked for his reaction to the murders of Peter Lafroing and Father Giocondi.
“Giocondi is simple enough. An Italian Mafia hit. Why? No details, except it’s reasonable to assume it’s connected with Grottesca.”
“Peter Lafroing?”
“A guy I went to school with heads up San Fran’s art squad. We’re pretty close. He told me just before I came to meet you that the Lafroing case looks like a professional hit, too.”
“The same people?”
“I don’t think so. But there’s that damn Caravaggio again, maybe linking them—and maybe not. Giliberti. Mason. Giocondi. Lafroing. What do you hear from Mrs. Aprile?”
“She’s shaken, of course. Besides seeing four people murdered, she’s pivotal in trying to dissuade the Italians from closing the Caravaggio exhibition. And maybe some of our air bases by now.”
“And?”
“So far just saber rattling. It’s good they’re nonnuclear. Where do you think Grottesca is?”
“Until he took his fall, I’d say it was with Luther Mason. The question is whether he had it with him that night. If he did, and if somebody pushed him down those steps, that same person might have it. Unless he had already sold it, which is unlikely. Did Luther have any contact with Peter Lafroing after the exhibition opened?”
“Not that I know of,” Annabel replied.
“Lafroing was in Washington the night Mason died. We have his flight records. He flew in the day before, then back to San Francisco first thing next morning.”
“Any idea what he did while in Washington?”
“A few leads. Nothing the night of Mason’s death. The flight crew that worked his flight back to California is San Francisco based. My friend interviewed flight attendants who worked it. One remembers Lafroing carrying a package onboard the size of a painting. Kept it close to him all the way.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Yeah. But he didn’t have any painting with him when they found his body. Wallet missing, leading you to believe it was robbery. But the Caravaggio link is just too strong, robbery too simple—though as I’ve learned, sometimes the complex is really simple. I don’t know how this all comes together, Annabel, but I’ll bet it does.”
Just as Annabel started to speak, Jordan’s beeper went off. “Excuse me,” he said, heading for a phone. He returned a minute later. “Have to run. Or maybe you’d like to come with me.”
“Why?”
“Your friend, Carole Aprile, received a call at her office from some guy claiming to know where the original Grottesca is.”
“Oh.”
“Secret Service called my leader, the commish. They consider the call threatening.”
Annabel followed him to the door. “Based upon what’s already happened,” she said, “Secret Service made a good move.”
After a stringent check of credentials at the security gate, and phone calls to the inside, Annabel and Jordan were escorted to Carole Aprile’s office in the West Wing. Darkness had begun to fall. Annabel had told Mac she was meeting Jordan but wanted to let him know where she was now. She used a phone in Carole’s outer office and got his machine, told him she was at the White House and would check in later.
With Carole were two Secret Service agents, two plainclothes detectives from MPD, an administrative aide, and a woman from State who’d been meeting with Carole when the call came in. The Veep’s wife provided a capsule account of what transpired.
“What did he say specifically?” Jordan asked.
“This,” she replied. “All calls to the office are recorded.”
The aide punched buttons on an elaborate tape recorder, and voices came through separate enhanced speakers:
“Mrs. Aprile’s office,” an aide’s voice said.
“I would like to speak with Mrs. Aprile.” The voice was male, deep and resonant.
“Who’s calling?”
“I would prefer not to identify myself. But Mrs. Aprile will want to speak with me, I’m sure.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but it is our policy not to take calls where the caller—”
“Please tell Mrs. Aprile I know where the original Grottesca can be found.”
Carole’s aide paused, obviously processing what the caller had said. One of the detectives spoke, but Jordan waved him off, leaning closer to the speakers.
“It’s very important that Mrs. Aprile speak with me,” the caller said.
“Please hold on.”
There was a lull until Carole Aprile picked up her extension. “Who is this?” she said.
“A friend, Mrs. Aprile. Grottesca is very important to you. I know where it is.”
“Where?”
He laughed. “I can’t make it that easy.”
“Why not? If you motivation is to see the painting returned to its rightful owner, I’d think you’d want to—”
“I’ve said enough for today, Mrs. Aprile. I’ll contact you again.”
“Wait. I—”
The line went dead.
“A nut,” a detective said.
“We’re taking him seriously,” a Secret Service agent said. “How many murders have there been over this painting?”
“Four,” Steve Jordan said. “At least three. We’re not sure about Mason’s cause of death.”
“We want to set up a trace on this line,” said a detective. “Any problem with that, Mrs. Aprile?”
She looked to the Secret Service agents. “Not if it’s okay with Mrs. Aprile,” one said.
“Do you recognize the voice, Carole?” Annabel asked.
“No.”
“He said he was a friend.”
“I took it to mean he was acting as a friend,” she said. “Not a friend in the true sense. What’s next?”
A Secret Service agent answered. “We’re going to increase security for you, Mrs. Aprile.”
She laughed. “I can’t imagine more security than I already have.”
“You won’t even notice,” he said.
Everyone left the room except for Annabel and Steve Jordan, at Carole’s request. “What do you think?” she asked.
“I think you should take the call seriously in two ways, Mrs. Aprile,” Jordan said. “Obviously, the safety of everyone involved with the Caravaggio exhibition is of concern. Second, the caller could be legit. He might really know the whereabouts of Grottesca.”
“That would be wonderful,” said Annabel. “If the painting is recovered, it would take the pressure off the exhibition.”
“Off all of us,” Carole said.
“What do we do?” Annabel asked Jordan.
“Sit tight, I suppose. He’ll call again. Or reach you another way. Maybe too canny to use the phone again. Maybe the trace will work. And you’ve got your recorder going, Mrs. Aprile. All we can do is wait.”
“My least favorite thing,” she said.
“First thing you learn as a cop, Mrs. Aprile. Patience. Especially in this type of situation.”
“Annabel,” Carole said as they prepared to leave her office.
“Yes?”
“Thanks for being here, for being along all the way.”
“Just taking the bitter with the sweet, as my father used to say. It’s been nothing but sweet fun, mostly. Now we’re into the bitter.”
“Has there been any progress in investigating the murders?” Annabel asked as Jordan drove her back to the Market Inn, where she’d left her car.
“Only what I told you earlier. We’ve been talking to anybody who was close to Mason. They all have an alibi for when he took his tumble. His son was at a bar with his girlfriend. The bartender isn’t certain what time they left, but he thinks it was past midnight.”
“Julian.”
“Yeah. Right after he was interviewed he went to Paris.”
“He was allowed to leave the country?”
“Homicide’s ruled him out.”
“I suppose that’s reasonable considering Luther’s death still hasn’t been ruled a homicide. Has it?”
“No, it hasn’t.”
“What about his girlfriend?” Annabel asked.
“She worked for the kid’s father at the National Gallery. Lynn Marshall.”
“Yes, I know her. I mean, I’ve met her on a few occasions.”
“The son, as I understand it, went to stay with his mother in Paris. He told us he had been planning to do that. Mason’s first wife, the kid’s mother. His second wife was visiting relatives in Florida when he died. I know what I didn’t tell you. The umbrella found at the scene belongs to that pretentious pant-load, Mr. Scott Pims.”
“It does? Was he with Luther that night?”
“Uh huh. He says he and Mason had an early dinner together at his apartment. Mason left around nine, according to Pims. Claims he doesn’t know where he went after that. Pims stayed home to work on a book he says he’s writing.
“Believe him?” Annabel asked.
“Yeah. He showed one of our people files logged on his computer with time-date stamps that have him there when Mason died.”
“Those things can be doctored,” Annabel offered.
“What are you saying, that you think Pims might have pushed his friend down the steps?”
“Just free-associating.”
“Everybody who knew Mason at the National Gallery has an alibi, some that check out, some that don’t.”
“What about the ones that don’t?”
“Lacking motive. But no one’s been ruled out completely. Look, I’m assigning people to keep an eye on you.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“My call, Annabel. You won’t even know they’re around. Thanks for the help.”
“Mac will. Know they’re around. Oh, by the way, you said after the Dumbarton incident you might want to use me again to recover stolen art.”
His laugh was easy. “As I remember, you accused me of considering that. I denied it.”
“And without conviction. I’ll help in any way I can, Steve. Please remember that. I’m beginning to hate anyone stealing or destroying art.”
“Yeah, except you don’t make a very believable hater, Mrs. Smith.”