Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [85]
Crowley dismissed his friend’s characterization of D.C. Truth was, he liked Washington, and enjoyed strolling its wide avenues and seeking out unusual shops on its side streets. He also found the hotel very much to his liking, particularly its restaurant, Poste, with its pleasant outdoor terrace, where he enjoyed sitting, a single-malt Scotch and crab cocktail with papaya on the table, along with an ashtray. Crowley was a smoker—a discreet one, to be sure, but genuinely fond of the pleasure it gave him, the crusading fanatics be damned.
This day, after checking in with the British Embassy, he decided to spend a portion of the day leisurely strolling the National Gallery of Art’s West Building. He’d visited the museum on earlier trips to Washington, marveling at its size and the scope of its collections; truly, the entire history of Western art from the 12th century to the present was contained in the building’s half-million square feet of interior space, one of the world’s largest marble structures. He was particularly fond of the Italian collection, which included Ginevra de’ Benci, the only work of Leonardo da Vinci’s on permanent display in the Americas. During his last visit, Crowley stood in front of that portrait of a young merchant’s wife and wept. He saw in the woman’s face the face of his own wife, Cora, who’d died a dozen years ago of cancer. It had been a childless marriage, which had suited them fine. Now Crowley sometimes wondered what it would be like to have a son or daughter bearing his name and carrying his blood. He’d never remarried, nor had he seriously pursued a new mate. His work became his mistress and spouse, but that, too, had provided less compensation in recent years. Whoever had invented the concept of retirement had done so with Milton Crowley in mind.
Soon.
Rather than begin in the Italian gallery, he stopped first in the East Hall, off the Rotunda, where 17th and 18th century French paintings were displayed. Renoir’s A Girl with a Watering Can captivated him, and he spent many minutes taking pleasure from it and recalling what Renoir had said about the work: “A painting should be a lovable thing, gay and pretty; yes, pretty. There are enough things to bore us in life without our making more of them.” How true, Crowley thought as he moved from Fragonard to Manet, Cézanne to Monet, and Renoir to Seurat before exiting that space and going to the West Hall, home of Italian art, of Ginevra de’ Benci, which he now almost considered a portrait of his beloved Cora.
His cell phone rang. A guard gave him a stern look.
“Sorry,” Crowley muttered, cupping his hand over the phone and speaking in whispered tones. “Now?” he said. “Can’t it wait?” He was told it could not. “All right,” he said. “I’ll come immediately
Sour over having been deprived of spending time with Cora, he replaced the phone in his pocket and abandoned his leisurely pace for a faster one in the direction of the main entrance, where taxis would be waiting. He grimaced against a stabbing pain in his hip and leaned against a wall for a moment to allow it to pass. He squeezed into the back of a cab and gave the address of the British Embassy on Massachusetts Avenue—Embassy Row, as it is known.
He closed his eyes as the driver lurched from the curb and executed a tight U-turn. What could be so important that he had to be there immediately? he wondered. They knew he’d elected to take a few days off before heading back to his post at the British Foreign Service’s Baghdad office. He’d discharged his responsibilities by briefing Browning at Homeland Security. He was now sorry that he’d decided to extend his stay. Better to be on an