Monument to Murder (20 page)

But he also knew where Wilson and his client, Shepard Justin, were coming from. Whoever had mugged him and stolen the camera realized after looking at the disk that the guy smooching in front of the motel room was Shepard Justin, future mayoral candidate, and approached Justin’s campaign people with an offer to sell them the shots.

Who were the two mugs who’d attacked him? He’d probably never know. Two things were certain. The first was that they’d let Justin’s people know that the camera had been wielded by Robert Brixton, private eye, and Justin wanted to tie up that loose end with a bribe. The second obvious truth was that the two goons who’d mugged him either were smart enough to examine the photos and link them to Justin—which he doubted—or knew someone else who could.

When Cynthia walked in later that morning, Brixton asked her if she’d told anyone about his having identified the man in the newspaper photo as the Don Juan at the motel.

“Just Jim and—”

“And?”

“I don’t know, I might have mentioned it to some friends at dinner last night. Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong, Cynthia. But don’t spread it around any further, okay?”

“Sure. Okay.”

He was glad she’d be leaving town.

He met later that day with the restaurant owner, collected an advance, and said he’d start the assignment when he returned from Washington.

“How long will that be?” he was asked.

“Just a couple of days,” he answered, without having a clue as to how long he’d be away.

He called Mac Smith at five and told him he’d be in Washington in two days. Smith invited him to dinner, which Brixton accepted. He booked a room online at the Hotel Rouge, on Sixteenth Street NW, where he’d stayed the last time he’d been in D.C. Flo had also stayed there on his recommendation and liked it. It wasn’t the cheapest hotel in the nation’s capital but it wasn’t one of those venerable Washington hotels where you paid through the nose for their vaunted reputation. He also called Jill and Janet to say he’d be in the Washington area and wanted to visit with them. Jill sounded pleased and suggested they meet at her mother’s house. That wasn’t what Brixton had in mind but he agreed. Janet was vague; “I’m real busy,” she said. “Let me know the day you’ll be here and I’ll try to find time.”

Find time
.
For her father
.
Maybe I had it coming,
he decided as he got ready to leave to meet Flo at Lazzara’s for dinner. He was almost out the door when Wayne St. Pierre called.

“Just leaving,” Brixton said.

“And Ah wouldn’t think of stopping you, Robert. I was just callin’ to see if you and Ms. Flo might like to join me and a few other guests for dinner tomorrow night, nothing fancy, just good booze, good food, and stimulating conversation.”

“Sounds nice, Wayne, but I’ll be out of town for a few days.”

“Oh? Going home to visit your Yankee friends up north?”

“No, Washington.”

“As in D.C.?”

“Right.”

“Goin’ there to give our esteemed president a piece of your mind, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, I might stop in and give him a few pointers. Wish we could make it, Wayne. Thanks for asking. Maybe when I get back.”

“You can count on it, Robert. Travel safe.”

“I will. Thanks again.”

He and Flo enjoyed dinner at a Lazzara’s and spent the rest of the night at his apartment. Contemplation of making the trip was bittersweet for him. On one hand, he was glad to be taking action instead of simply mulling things over. What did the shrinks say? Any action is better than no action. At the same time, he didn’t look forward to returning to the scene of his initial foray into his law enforcement career, and where his overactive male hormones had led him into a disastrous marriage. He would visit his daughters while there but hoped that it wouldn’t entail spending much time with Marylee and her mother. It wasn’t that he didn’t like them. It was more a matter of their not liking him and making it obvious.

The following morning he placed a small suitcase in the trunk of his car, kissed Flo goodbye, and headed for Washington, D.C. The reality of the situation into which he’d plopped himself hit him hard soon after he’d left Savannah’s city limits and was cruising on the highway.

He had a Savannah mayoral candidate angry at him and possibly after his head.

He was hoping to involve Washington, D.C.’s most influential hostess in a twenty-year-old murder.

And if he was successful, he might end up exposing the first lady of the United States as, if nothing else, an accomplice to murder.

Dale Carnegie, author of
How to Make Friends and Influence People,
could have taken a lesson from Robert Brixton.

PART
FOUR

CHAPTER   29

Emile Silva sat impatiently at a Wendy’s in suburban Washington. Dexter had said to be there at one and it was now twenty minutes past.

Silva had returned the day before from a visit to his offshore bank, where he’d deposited another large sum of cash. He’d intended to stay there for two weeks but had soon become bored. And there was the episode with the black prostitute that had angered him almost to the point of physical violence. She’d taken offense that he wanted only to watch her nude gyrations and refused to touch her. She’d considered it a personal affront. Was it because he didn’t like her body, or because she was dark-skinned? She’d cursed him, called him a faggot and a pervert. He’d dismissed her harshly, holding up a knife and threatening to kill her. The encounter had left him shaken and he’d decided to return to Washington despite Dexter’s order to stay away longer.

He was about to leave the Wendy’s when Dexter walked in. He went directly to the counter and ordered a sandwich and soft drink, which he took to the table.

“You’re late,” Silva said.

“Get something to eat,” Dexter said. “It looks strange for you to be sitting here without eating.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Dexter’s expression was disdainful. Silva saw his reflection in the other man’s thick glasses and thought how much he would enjoy killing the arrogant little bastard.

“I was surprised when you called,” Dexter said. “You were supposed to be away for much longer.”

“I wasn’t happy. Is there another assignment for me?”

“Not at the moment but one is currently being discussed. The decision is being made at the highest level.”

Silva snickered. “I hope it comes through soon,” he said. “I don’t like to lose my edge.”

“I will let you know the minute I hear something. You do realize, Emile, that your service has a built-in expiration date.”

“What does that mean?”

“There comes a point when someone with your particular skills has outlived his usefulness. It has nothing to do with your performance, which has been outstanding. But there is a strategic need for new faces from time to time. The old faces can become a liability. You were informed of that when you joined us.”

What Dexter said was true, although Silva had dismissed it at the time. Was he now being told that he was being cut loose?
You’d better think twice about that,
he thought. He’d once asked Dexter about those who had preceded him as assassins but hadn’t received an answer. Were they “eliminated” once their service was terminated to ensure that they weren’t able to tell tales out of school? He knew that was a good possibility and pledged to himself that he wouldn’t allow it to happen. He’d kill them first. He would survive.

“I suggest that you maintain a low profile now that you’re back,” Dexter said as he finished his sandwich and swallowed what was left of his drink. “There is to be no contact until I need you. Understood?”

Silva’s noncommittal shrug annoyed Dexter but he said nothing. He got up and left without another word.

Silva exited the restaurant shortly after Dexter had departed, got into his Porsche, and drove home. He’d seldom thought about being dismissed, but the fact that Dexter had pointedly raised the issue was of concern. Were plans in the works to replace him? He couldn’t allow that to happen. He
wouldn’t
allow it to happen.

He changed into workout clothes and was about to mount the treadmill when the phone rang.

“Mr. Silva?”

“Yes.”

“This is Dr. Rahmi. I’m calling concerning your mother.” She spoke with an East Indian lilt.

“Mother? Is something wrong?”

“I’m afraid so, sir. Your mother was taken to the hospital earlier today. Your name is listed as her family contact.”

“Is she—?”

“We’re conducting tests to determine why she collapsed.”

“Is it terminal?”

“Oh no, sir, although she is in serious condition. The next twenty-four hours will determine the cause of her collapse and the prognosis for recovery.”

“Where is she?”

The doctor gave him the information.

“I’ll be there right away.”

“Yes, I would suggest that, Mr. Silva.”

He clicked off his cordless phone and sat at his desk. “Poor Ma-ma,” he said. But his words didn’t reflect what he was feeling. A pervasive feeling of glee consumed him and he started to laugh. It began with a series of giggles that grew into helpless hysterical laughter as though he’d just heard the funniest comedian tell the funniest joke. It racked his body until his ribs hurt and he began to cough. He rubbed his eyes and sniffled, sliding down in the chair until he’d fallen off and was now sitting on the floor, arms wrapped tightly about him, his eyes pressed closed.

Two hours later, he stood at her bedside. Tubes protruded from every area of her frail body.

“Ma-ma?” he said. Her eyelids fluttered. She smiled and softly said his name.

“Goodbye, Ma-ma,” he said as a nurse entered the room and asked him to leave while she initiated a procedure.

“She won’t be in pain, will she?” he asked.

“No, she isn’t feeling any pain. She’s heavily sedated. I’ll tell you when you can come back in. I know you want to be with her every possible second.”

“She’s my mother,” he said, impressed with how bereft he could sound.

“And a wonderful one, I’m sure,” said the nurse. “Please. I won’t be long.”

After leaving the hospital, Silva stopped in to see his attorney and told him of his mother’s condition.

“Doesn’t sound good,” the attorney said.

“No, it doesn’t. You have her will.”

“That’s right. She leaves everything to you.”

“I’ll want to sell her house, of course.” Had he followed his true instincts, he would have had the place bulldozed.

“I can handle that,” the attorney said. “I work with good real estate agents.”

“I want to put my house up for sale, too,” said Silva.

“Oh? Thinking of moving out of the area?”

“Yes, to someplace warm and quiet.”

The attorney laughed. “I wouldn’t mind doing that myself.”

“You’ll handle it?”

“Sure. You want me to start the process now?”

“Yes, start it now,” Silva said, the conversation with Dexter about possibly outliving his usefulness fresh in his mind.

•  •  •

Mackensie Smith and his wife, Annabel Lee Smith, worked together in the kitchen of their apartment in Washington’s infamous Watergate complex. The apartment was large and airy, with a sizable balcony that afforded them unobstructed views of the Potomac River and Georgetown beyond. They’d bought the apartment shortly after marrying in a small, private service at the National Cathedral, officiated by Mac’s friend, a young Episcopal priest. To say that they were happy was to state the overtly obvious.

“What do you know about this fellow?” Annabel asked while washing lettuce. Mac was busy whipping up a mustard sauce to go with the swordfish that they would grill on the balcony.

“Not a lot, Annie, aside from what Will Sayers told me. He’s a private detective in Savannah who’s working on a case that has a Washington connection. He used to be a D.C. cop. Will says he’s a stand-up guy, a straight talker.”

“How will someone like that ever deal with people in this town?” she said with a meaningful laugh.

“It isn’t
that
bad,” he said.

“Seems to me it’s getting worse, nothing but double-talk and spin coming out of Congress and the White House.” Of the two, Annabel tended to be more direct in her evaluation of politicians and the nation’s political climate. Her views had hardened since Fletcher Jamison took office. To be blunt, as she was capable of being, she considered him an unintelligent man void of convictions and easily manipulated by those around him.

Mac didn’t pursue the discussion, not because he disagreed but because he didn’t want to get the evening off on the heavy, depressing subject of politics. “Will says that this case Brixton is working on goes back twenty years. Not easy digging up information about a case that old.”

“What does he want from you?” she asked after putting the salad ingredients into a spin colander and giving it a whirl.

“I really don’t know, but we’ll find out soon enough.”

As the Smiths prepared dinner, Brixton was just getting out of the shower at the Hotel Rouge. He was glad he’d chosen to stay there. The room was spacious and nicely furnished, everything in various shades of red to reflect the hotel’s name. He also liked the location, on Washington Circle and close to DuPont Circle. He’d taken a walk shortly after checking in and was surprised at how much he enjoyed being back in Washington. It was a beautiful day, cooler than it had been in Savannah when he left. He’d never debated that the city was nice on the eyes. It was its people that he’d never been comfortable with, not the average citizen but those involved in government. And Washington, D.C., was a one-industry town—government and the politics that went with it.

Showered and dressed, he got into a taxi parked in front of the hotel and headed for the Watergate.

“It’s nice of you to invite me to dinner,” he said after drinks had been served on the balcony. The sun was beginning to go down, the red ball setting the waters of the Potomac on fire. “What a view!”

“That’s what sold us on the apartment,” Annabel said. “It changes hour by hour.”

“You were a police officer here in D.C.,” Mac said.

“A long time ago. I lasted four years. Got married, had two kids, got divorced, and headed for Savannah, where I’ve been for the past twenty-four years.”

“Why Savannah?” Annabel asked. “You said you were from New York.”

“Somebody told me they were looking for cops there. I heard it was a pretty nice city so I figured I’d give it a try. Twenty years on the Metro force. Took the retirement check and opened my agency.”

“How’s business?” Mac asked.

“Up and down. I catch enough cases to pay the rent. Right now I’m up to my neck in the case that brings me to D.C.”

He started to explain but Annabel said, “How about waiting until we’re through with dinner? I’m sure you’re hungry, Robert. I know I am.”

They fell into easy conversation during dinner—sports, politics-lite, television and movies—and Brixton felt very much at home, as though with old friends. It wasn’t until they’d returned to the balcony that he was asked to tell them about the case. He almost wished they could skip it. It had been a lovely evening and he didn’t want to ruin it by introducing what they might view as a wild-goose chase by an inept, naïve investigator.

He started from the beginning, recounting the visit from Eunice Watkins and her claim that her daughter, Louise, had been paid to plead guilty to a stabbing that she hadn’t committed. Mac and Annabel listened intently, hanging on his every word, nodding or asking for occasional clarification. He avoided mentioning Mitzi Cardell or Jeanine Jamison, referring to them only as two young white women who might possibly have been involved.

“Fascinating,” Smith said when Brixton had taken a pause for a coffee refill and to consider what to say next.

“You’re convinced that one of these girls was the one who stabbed the victim, and whose family paid off Louise to take the rap?”

“Yeah, I am,” Brixton said. “I was naturally skeptical at first, but things have happened that lead me to believe it.”

“What about these two other girls?” Smith asked. “Do you know their whereabouts?”

Brixton hesitated and sipped his coffee. Mac and Annabel waited for his response. Finally, Brixton said, “Yeah, I know where they are. They’re right here in Washington.”

“Oh?” Smith said. “Have you contacted them?”

“No. I was hoping you could help me do that.”

“Who are they?”

“One is Mitzi Cardell. The other is Jeanine Jamison.”