Monument to Murder (10 page)

CHAPTER   14

Dexter called Silva’s cell phone to inform him that his overseas mission had been scrapped. Silva took the call at his mother’s house in suburban Virginia, where he’d arrived earlier that afternoon. He regularly visited her, sometimes as often as four or five times a week. She wasn’t well. She suffered from congestive heart failure, emphysema, and diabetes; a portable oxygen tank was kept close to her side. Emile was her only child. She’d given birth to him at the age of forty-three, a year before her husband died in a hunting accident.

“Who was that?” she asked from her favorite living room chair after he’d ended his call.

“The office.”

“Where is your office?” she asked.

He smiled, sat on a hassock at her feet, and patted her gnarled hand. “You always ask me that, Ma-ma, and I always tell you that I have many offices. I’m a consultant. I go from office to office. I was supposed to fly somewhere tonight but that trip has been postponed.” He gave her his widest smile. “That’s good news because it means I can spend more time with you.”

“That will be nice,” she said in a weak voice. “You never come and stay long.”

“Now don’t say that, Ma-ma. Sometimes my business takes me away from home but I always rush back to see you. I brought you your favorite soup.”

“What kind?”

“Oh, Ma-ma, you know what your favorite soup is, crab chowder. I’ll heat it up for you now.”

He emptied the container of soup into a saucepan and heated it on the stove, taking tastes as he did so. The smile that seemed pasted on his square, dusky face when he was with her had disappeared the moment he entered the kitchen. It took resolve to feign pleasure at being there. The house smelled as though an old person lived in it, sour and oppressive, dusty and depressing, the drapes always closed, a TV on twenty-four hours a day. And there was the smell of the cigarettes she smoked despite her frail health. A large ashtray next to her chair was always filled with foul-smelling butts. She was visited each day by a nurse, and twice a week by a cleaning woman, but that was inadequate for the task. The nurse had recently told him that it might be time for his mother to be admitted to a nursing facility, but he wouldn’t hear of it, nor would he consider moving in with her. He’d rather see her die than allow either of those things to happen.

When the soup was ready he ladled it into a large bowl, carried it to the living room, and he placed it on a special wooden table that brought it close to his mother.

“Where’s the crackers?” she whined. “I like crackers with it.”

He returned to the kitchen and brought back two packages of saltines. “There you go,” he said. “Enjoy.”

“Aren’t you eating, Emile?”

“I had lunch before I came,” he said as he tucked a napkin beneath her chin. “You go ahead.”

“Will you play music for me later?” she asked.

“If you wish.”

He left her to enjoy her soup and went upstairs to what had been his boyhood bedroom. It was exactly as it had been when he left home to join the marines, all the toy bears and dogs lined up where they belonged, the bed made with his favorite sheets, which featured tanks and combat airplanes, the wallpaper, now faded from sunlight, picturing the planets. The mural on the ceiling depicted the heavens. Lined up on top of a dresser were framed photographs of him—his high school graduation, wearing his marine uniform on the day of his completion of basic training, shots with his mother when he returned home on leave, and of him with his dog, a small, mixed breed he’d named Lucky who turned out to not be as lucky as his name. Emile never allowed the dog to be loose outside the house. But one day his mother left the door open and Lucky ran outside and was hit by a passing car. Emile was devastated by the loss of his best friend, a pain that had stayed with him to this day. He couldn’t watch a TV show or motion picture showing animals in distress; his only charitable donations each year went to various shelters and animal-rights groups.

“Emile,” he heard his mother call.

He went to the head of the stairs and said, “I’m here, Ma-ma.”

“I finished my soup.”

“I’ll be down in a second.”

“Remember we’re going to have music.”

“I remember, Ma-ma.”

He returned to his bedroom, opened the closet door, picked up a case from the floor that contained a clarinet, and carried it downstairs. She’d lit up again, despite another freshly lit cigarette in the ashtray. The blue smoke stung his eyes.

“Was the soup good?” he asked as he took the empty bowl and napkin from her.

“It wasn’t hot enough.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll heat it better next time.”

He washed the bowl in the kitchen sink and put it in the dish drainer.

“Emile!” she commanded.

He went to her. “Yes, Ma-ma?”

“You said you would play music for me.”

He sat on the hassock and removed the clarinet parts from their case. He’d owned the instrument since high school, when he played in the school’s marching and swing bands. There had been a time when he dreamed of becoming a jazz musician, like Benny Goodman or Artie Shaw, and he had practiced a lot during that period. But his interest in a musical career soon faded and he turned to his other interest—stories of military conflicts and the weapons used in them.

With the clarinet’s parts securely joined, he removed a reed from the case and attached it to the mouthpiece, wetting it first with his saliva. He blew a few test notes before asking, “What would you like me to play?”

“You know what I like,” she said sternly.

He nodded. His mother’s first name was Rose, and one of her favorite songs was “Honeysuckle Rose.” He started the tune, establishing a tempo with which he was comfortable and tapping his foot loudly on the wooden floor to keep a steady rhythm. His playing was sloppy, he knew, and unintended squeaks erupted from time to time. But a glance at his mother told him that she was enjoying it, and so he continued until he’d finished the piece.

“Did you like that, Ma-ma?”

“It was very good, Emile, very good. Play something else for me.”

He knew what she wanted and started playing “Rose Room,” his foot now coming down on the floor even harder and louder.

“Stop!” she said. “You’ll hurt your foot. I don’t want you to hurt your foot.” She extracted a throw pillow from behind her and handed it to him. “Use this,” she instructed.

He placed the pillow beneath his foot and began the song again. His mother had closed her eyes and sang some of the lyrics in a voice so low that they were barely discernible. Emile finished the song. It appeared that she’d fallen asleep, but when he got up she stirred, opened her eyes, and said, “Play more for me, Emile.”

“I can’t, Ma-ma,” he said. “I have to go now.”

“You never stay.”

He didn’t argue with her this time. He bounded up the stairs, took apart the clarinet, put the pieces in the case, returned it to the closet, and looked at himself in the mirror. The anger on his face was almost palpable. After a series of deep breaths, he went downstairs. His mother had gotten up and had made it to the front door. As he kissed her on the cheek, the odor of talcum powder and stale cigarettes was almost overwhelming.

She ran her fingers through his hair and cooed, “My darling little Emile, my precious little boy.”

He kissed her again and made his escape, waiting until he was outside to allow the trembling to begin.

CHAPTER   15

Those in government who thought that the death of Afran Mutki and the suspicion surrounding it could be kept under wraps also believed that politicians made decisions based upon what was good for the country rather than what would help them perpetuate their positions of power.

A forensics team at GW Hospital launched a full-fledged autopsy on Afran Mutki, beginning with the removal of a tiny pellet from his ankle. It measured 1.52 mm in diameter, the size of a pin head, and was made of 90 percent platinum and 10 percent iridium. Two 0.35 mm holes had been drilled in the pellet, which created the cavity in which the ricin, a poison found naturally in castor beans, had been inserted. The small holes in the pellet had then been covered with a substance that had a melting point of 37 degrees Celsius, or 98.6 Fahrenheit—the temperature of the human body. Once inside Mutki, the coating had melted, opening the holes and allowing the ricin to be absorbed into his bloodstream. A written report was rushed to CIA headquarters, in Langley, Virginia, and to FBI headquarters, on Pennsylvania Avenue NW, and the pellet itself was delivered to a CIA lab at Langley. A strict media blackout was imposed on all involved.

Which didn’t keep the story from seeping out and quickly becoming front-page news and the lead-in to TV newscasts. It really took off when one of the young physicians who’d worked with Dr. Bennett told a reporter (off the record, of course, and without attribution) that ricin poisoning was being considered as the cause of the Kurdish journalist’s demise.

This young physician went on to educate the reporter about the Markov case thirty years ago as though he’d personally been there, and the Markov murder took on new life in the nation’s capital along with this latest
assassination
.

A spokesman for the Iraq embassy in Washington provided a statement to the inquisitive press denouncing rumors that its government had had any involvement in Mutki’s death, and offering condolences to his family. The spokesman took to task the media for speculating that the Iraqi government might have silenced Mutki because of his criticism of the Baghdad regime. “This is a deliberate smear of our democratic society,” he said, “and it is deeply resented.”

The State Department picked up on the Iraqi protest and asked in a written statement that the rumors circulating about the possible cause of Mutki’s death be discounted until a more definitive cause of his demise had been determined. “The Iraqi government has come a long way in establishing a democracy in which journalists are free to express their views,” said the statement. “We ask that the media wait until more facts have been established.”

A Kurdistan Regional Government representative demanded that the United States government launch an official investigation of Afran Mutki’s “murder” and bring those responsible to justice. “This esteemed journalist has been assassinated on U.S. soil”—yes, they used the word
assassinated
—“and it is incumbent upon the government of the United States to bring those behind it to swift justice.”

While Mutki’s death and the controversy surrounding it had joined other hot political topics being discussed across Washington—in day-care centers and on tennis courts, in the halls of Congress and in launderettes—it was of little interest to Mitzi Cardell. She found most topics debated at her dinner parties boring, even irrelevant. What mattered was her social calendar, who would be seated next to whom in her salon, and whether the purveyor of food for those occasions understood that the shrimp had to be firm, not flabby.

After showering and dressing on the morning following the dinner for the attorney general, she called Jeanine Jamison’s private number at the White House.

“This is Mitzi Cardell. May I speak with the first lady?”

“She’s unavailable at the moment, Ms. Cardell,” the man said.

“When would be a better time to call?”

“She has a very busy schedule today.”

Mitzi bottled her anger. She knew the man functioning as Jeanine Jamison’s buffer, Lance Millius. He’d been one of Fletcher Jamison’s closest confidants during the recent presidential campaign, a loyal and politically smart insider who was destined for a top White House job should Jamison win, as his chief of staff perhaps, or an equally powerful position. There was considerable buzz around Washington when Jamison named Millius the first lady’s chief of staff, lots of speculation that the new president didn’t trust his wife and wanted a strong hand making sure she didn’t stray from the party line or commit a verbal gaffe. That the post hadn’t gone to a woman also raised a few practiced eyebrows around D.C., including Mitzi’s.

But his gender wasn’t what really riled her. She considered him an arrogant, overly ambitious young man whose only true loyalty was to Lance Millius, someone Ayn Rand obviously had in mind when she championed a sense of self. Mitzi sometimes wondered whether the first lady was having an affair with Millius. Wouldn’t she love to be privy to
that
bit of juicy insider gossip.

She’d shared her dislike of him with her childhood friend, but Jeanine had dismissed her complaints: “Lance is an incredibly loyal and effective chief of staff, Mitzi. I think he’d lay down his life for me. Besides, the president has faith in him.”

Mitzi hadn’t pursued it, although she’d wanted to. If she had, she would have had to admit to her friend that what really irked her was having someone—anyone—stand between them. Had achieving the White House gone to her friend’s head? she sometimes wondered. Jamison’s win, albeit by an extremely narrow vote, represented a victory for Mitzi, too. Having her best friend in the White House was a dream come true because it solidified her position as the city’s most important and influential hostess. Access to power has always been paramount in Washington, and Mitzi had carefully cultivated relationships with the city’s leading figures. Jeanine was the prize in her black book of private phone numbers and e-mails. Having a snotty young twerp like Lance Millius loom between them was anathema.

“It’s important, Lance, that I speak with her today,” Mitzi said.

“I’ll make her aware that you called, Ms. Cardell.”

Ms. Cardell
. Refusing to call her Mitzi was his way of establishing himself as a gatekeeper to be reckoned with.
Screw you,
Mitzi thought. “Thank you, Lance,” she said.

The click in her ear hurt.

•  •  •

Across town, Mackensie Smith sat with other members of the commission charged with gathering input from experts on the proposed new legislation on sentencing guidelines. He listened attentively as two witnesses, both retired federal judges, limned their views of what the legislation would mean in courtrooms across America. When they’d completed their testimony and had answered the panel’s questions, Smith and his colleagues retired to a private dining room where they were served lunch.

“So, Mac, what do you make of this Mutki flap?” Smith was asked by a lawyer with whom he’d butted heads in his previous life as a trial attorney.

“I only know what I’ve read,” Smith responded, “and we all know that that’s not a basis for coming to a conclusion.”

“You don’t distrust the media, do you?” his friend said sarcastically.

“On occasion. However, despite the media’s deteriorating reputation, it’s still the only true check-and-balance we have. But as far as this Mutki thing goes, I just don’t know. I remember when the Markov case broke. I avoided people with umbrellas for weeks.”

“If it did involve the use of some high-tech device and exotic poison like ricin, it was ordered from on high, that’s for certain. He was a thorn in the side of the Baghdad government.” When Smith didn’t respond, he continued. “I was talking to a source at MPD. He tells me that they’ve tracked down the driver and the tour guide of the bus that Mutki was on and have questioned them. From what I understand, it was during that trip that Mutki complained of something stinging him on the ankle.”

“Were the driver or guide any help?”

“I don’t know. The Bureau’s involved, too, and undoubtedly the CIA. It puts the president in a spot, doesn’t it?”

“One of many spots he’s in.”

“I hear that you were a guest last night at Mitzi Cardell’s home.”

“Yes. Lovely evening.”

“I always knew you were an A-list kind of guy.”

Smith chuckled. “A moment of fleeting fame.” He looked at his watch and sighed. “One more panel of witnesses and we can call it a day. I’m not sure we’re learning anything worthwhile.”

“Just business as usual, Mac. You know how the game is played. Going through the motions is de rigueur. Let’s set up dinner with our wives sometime soon.”

•  •  •

Emile Silva had taken his luggage with him, intending to go straight to the airport from his mother’s house. He drove home and deposited the large suitcase in a closet. The bag was seldom emptied; he never knew when he would be dispatched on a moment’s notice to some far-flung destination and didn’t want to be hampered by having to pack each time.

The visit with his mother had unsettled him more than it usually did. She smelled of death, a smell that caused him to come close to gagging at times. Silva was especially sensitive to odors and had been since he was a child, suffering headaches and nausea when confronted with an odor that no one else in the vicinity detected. As he grew older he found himself avoiding crowded, confined spaces. How many times had he changed seats on a bus to escape a woman wearing an offensive perfume? He hated cigarette smoke, yet he decided that the smoking ban in restaurants had only cleared the air for other equally obnoxious smells to permeate. And he was convinced that he could smell trouble. People who were about to cause trouble gave off an odor that only he could detect.

He drove to a post office in The District where he maintained one of several post office boxes. He withdrew an envelope from it and carried it to his car. Back home, he counted the cash in the envelope, $125,000 and a $30,000 check drawn upon an account titled MTE Enterprises and payable to Silva Consulting. Silva didn’t always agree with his “employer” but the payment was consistently on time and in full.

He placed the cash in a wall safe in which an additional $400,000 was secured, and drove to his local bank, where he deposited the check into his Silva Consulting checking account. In a few months he would charter a private jet in Miami to fly to an offshore island where the safe’s contents would be added to an account already holding almost $2 million, no questions asked.

He spent the afternoon swimming in the pool he’d had installed shortly after purchasing the house and lolled poolside reading
Sun Tzu and the Art of Modern Warfare
by Mark McNeilly. A pile of books on military tactics and practices was beside his bed, and his collection of war films on DVD was extensive.

He napped late in the afternoon. After spending a few hours going through his CD collection, he got into the Porsche and drove to the 701 Restaurant on Pennsylvania Avenue, where he enjoyed his favorite dishes there, its renowned clam chowder and steak tartare.

He was home by nine. At ten his driveway alarm signaled that a car had arrived. Dressed in his red kimono and flip-flops, he went to the door and greeted his visitor, a tall, statuesque blonde with slightly oversized facial features and wearing a miniskirt, knee-length black boots, and a scoop-neck yellow T-shirt. She followed him to the bedroom, where he put a CD of operatic arias on the sound system, and sat in an overstuffed chair. Without any instruction she removed her clothing and stood naked.

“Go on,” he said, “walk around.”

She paraded about the large room until he told her to stop directly in front of him.

“I told you not to wear perfume,” he said.

“I’m not, sugar. I never do when I’m with you.”

“I smell it.”

“Maybe it’s the soap I used,” she said, sensing a rising anger in his voice. “I bought a new soap and used it just before I came. I thought—”

“I don’t pay you to think,” he said. “I don’t like that soap.”

“Sorry, sugar,” she said. “I won’t use it again.”

“Go on, walk,” he said as he opened his kimono.

Fifteen minutes later, after she’d sashayed around the room and struck a series of provocative poses, he relieved himself.

“Feel better?” she asked.

“I always do when you’re here,” he said. “Go on, get dressed, I have things to do.”

She went downstairs and found the usual envelope containing five hundred dollars on a table near the door.