Monument to Murder (22 page)

If his words had been intended to comfort and assuage her concerns, they hadn’t. She’d no sooner ended that call when she dialed Jeanine Jamison’s private number again. Millius answered. “It’s Mitzi again. Is she there?”

“Hold on, Ms. Cardell.”

Jeanine came on the line. “You talked to your father?”

“Yes. He says not to worry, but I
am
worried. Can you talk where you are?”

“I’m in my office.”

“Why does Millius answer your private line?”

“Because I’ve asked him to. Look, Mitzi, maybe we should get together.”

“Soon.”

“Tonight. Fletch is off on a trip, back late tonight. Come for dinner.”

“I have a dinner party tonight, the Brazilian ambassador and his wife.”

“Your choice.”

“I can’t cancel. Can I come after dinner? I don’t care what time it is.”

Jeanine’s sigh indicated what she thought of that suggestion, but she said, “All right. But make it as early as possible. Develop a headache before dessert. Goodbye.”

•  •  •

Brixton stayed for lunch at Marylee’s house but made his excuses as soon as it seemed acceptable. “I have to get back to D.C.,” he said.

“Business?” Miles Lashka asked.

The attorney, who sat next to Marylee at the table and made a habit of touching her hand and whispering in her ear, struck Brixton as a phony but probably a successful one. He’d spent a good deal of time discussing the trouble he was having with his backhand, and if Brixton heard “Miles says” or “Miles thinks” or “Miles knows a lot about that” from Marylee one more time he would’ve been tempted to tip the table over on them. Was Marylee about to marry this guy with a deficient backhand? If he cared, he would have taken her aside and advised her to dump him. But the truth was that he didn’t care, at least not about what she decided to do with her love life.

His daughter was more ebullient than he’d ever remembered, the pregnancy undoubtedly contributing to her bubbly conversation. As for his mother-in-law, she begged off lunch and went to take a nap.

“Hope you’re feeling better,” Brixton said as she left the room.

“Goodbye, Robert,” she said, her words trailing behind her.

Brixton bid goodbye to everyone, giving Jill an especially warm hug and kiss. “I think it’s great that you’re going to have a kid,” he said.

“If it’s a boy I’m going to name him Robert,” she said.

It touched him.

“Hope your backhand gets better,” he said to Lashka.

“Just a matter of practice,” said the attorney with a wide grin—he had perfect teeth—and a manly slap on Brixton’s arm.

He drove back toward The District but pulled off at a rest stop to make calls on his cell phone. The first was to Flo at her shop.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“Not so good. Mac Smith called Mitzi Cardell and got the brush-off. I just left Marylee’s house. Jill’s pregnant.”

“Congratulations, Grandpa.”

“I’ll forget you said that. What’s happening in sunny Savannah?”

“Hot. Wayne St. Pierre called. He said that he’d invited you to a party but since you’re out of town he wondered if I’d like to come stag.”

“Men go stag.”

“Whatever. I told him where you were staying in case he wanted to reach you.”

“Marylee has a boyfriend.”

“Good for her.”

“He’s a quarter-inch deep. A lawyer.”

“Your favorite people.

“I’m heading for Mac Smith’s place now. He said he wanted to talk more about the case.”

“Good. I’m not going to Wayne’s party.”

“Your call. I’ll stay in touch.”

His next call was to Cynthia at his office. She reported that nothing was new, no calls from potential clients or bill collectors. “Oh,” she said, “Will Sayers called from the newspaper. He wanted you to know that he’s heading for Washington a few days sooner than he expected. Here’s his phone number there.”

Brixton found a scrap of paper in the car and jotted down the number. After ending the call with Cynthia he got back on the road and continued toward the center of Washington. As he drove he had an idea. What if he could persuade Sayers, a member of the almighty press, to call Mitzi Cardell and ask for a statement from her about the Louise Watkins investigation? He wasn’t sure Sayers would do it based upon the little Brixton had as evidence, but it was worth a try.

A half hour later he parked in the Watergate’s garage and was on his way up in the elevator to the Smiths’ apartment.

CHAPTER   32

A meeting took place that afternoon in the windowless basement room of the two-story modern office building south of the Pentagon. Dexter sat in one of four folding metal chairs at the folding metal table.

Across from him was a man of medium height. His hair was the color of beach sand after a rainstorm. His cheeks were slightly pockmarked, his ears larger than his face called for. He wore a light green T-shirt, jeans, and white sneakers. Although he was slender, the muscles of his arms were nicely defined and his chest strained against the shirt’s fabric.

“You realize, James, that your work will be spasmodic,” Dexter said in his pinched voice. “You’ll be on call at all times and are to take orders only from me. We will meet at various locations chosen by me. You are also aware that while your assignments will be generously compensated, the duration of your employment can end at any time. Is this all understood?”

“Sure, I understand,” James Brockman said.

He’d been recruited over the course of months, carefully vetted including a psychological evaluation, and meticulously informed of his responsibilities should he be called upon to undertake an assignment for his employer.

“You’ve impressed us, James. Your sense of duty and patriotism is exemplary. So few of us have the privilege and honor of serving this great nation in such a direct way in its time of need.”

“I’m happy to serve.”

“I know that you are. I suggest that you fall into your normal lifestyle, doing nothing to attract attention. I believe that the advance you’ve been given is sufficient for you to enjoy a financially sound lifestyle until you’re needed.”

“No problem.”

“Fine. You’ll hear from me soon.”

Dexter ignored Brockman’s extended hand and his newest hire left.

•  •  •

Bob Brixton sat with Mac Smith in Smith’s home office.

“And she mentioned a young black girl without you having said it?” Brixton said after Smith had filled him in on his call to Mitzi Cardell.

“Yes, which says to me that she’s obviously aware of what occurred in that parking lot twenty years ago.”

“I had an idea while driving,” Brixton said. “Willis Sayers is here reopening the
Savannah Morning News
bureau. I was wondering whether he’d be willing to call her and ask some questions. If she thinks the media is on to it she might decide to open up a little.”

“It’s worth a try, I suppose,” Smith replied, “although it could backfire, cause her to stonewall even further.”

“You’re right, but I’d still like to give it a try.”

Smith pointed to his phone. “Be my guest,” he said.

Brixton dialed the number given him by Cynthia. Sayers picked up immediately.

“It’s Bob Brixton.”

“Hey, pal, how goes it?”

“Okay. I’m sitting here with Mac Smith.”

“Say hello.”

“Shall do.” He filled Sayers in on what had transpired and suggested that he call Mitzi.

“Yeah, I think it’s a good idea. If what you told me back in Savannah is true, I might get this bureau off to a hell of a good start. Where are you staying?”

“The Hotel Rouge on Sixteenth Street. Here’s the number.”

“You’ll hear from me.”

•  •  •

Sayers didn’t waste any time in calling Mitzi Cardell. Before Brixton even left Smith’s apartment in the Watergate, the rotund reporter was on the phone. Mitzi’s social secretary answered.

“This is Willis Sayers, Washington bureau chief for the
Savannah Morning News.
I’d like to speak with Ms. Cardell.”

“What is it in reference to?”

“A story I’m working on about a crime that occurred in Savannah twenty years ago.”

“Please hold.”

She went to where Mitzi was reviewing the menu for that night’s dinner party for the Brazilian ambassador and his wife. “There’s a reporter from the Savannah paper on the line. He wants to speak with you.”

“About what?”

“Something to do with a twenty-year-old crime in Savannah.”

Mitzi sat heavily in her chair.

“You okay?” her secretary asked.

“Yes, I’m fine. Tell him I’m not available.”

The secretary told Sayers what she’d been instructed to say.

“Here’s my number. Please have her call me as soon as she’s free.”

•  •  •

It was a busy day at Annabel Lee Smith’s gallery. There seemed to be more tourists than usual. Hordes of men and women deftly avoided bumping into one another on Georgetown’s congested Wisconsin Avenue and M Streets, the centers of this trendy albeit commercial section of the nation’s capital. Shops of every description lined the streets, a browser’s paradise. The attractive window display that Annabel had created stopped its share of admirers, many of whom decided to explore further inside—and to enjoy a refreshing dose of air-conditioning.

She was engaged in conversation with a visiting couple from Germany whose knowledge of pre-Columbian art was impressive, and Annabel thought she might have a potential paying customer. But they said they’d return another day, and Annabel walked them to the door. As she bid them farewell, she looked outside and saw Emile Silva staring at the gallery. It took a few seconds for her to recognize him. When she did, she realized that he was the man who’d been in the gallery a few mornings earlier, the man for whom Mac had developed an instant suspicion. She avoided his eyes and closed the door. A moment later the bell over the door sounded and he entered.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello.”

“I’ve been here before,” he said.

“Have you?”

“Yes. You don’t recognize me?”

“I’m sorry but I don’t. I’m getting ready to close.” They were alone.

Silva ignored her and slowly, deliberately went to each piece of art and stood before it before moving on to the next piece.

“Is there something specific I can help you with?” Annabel asked, moving close to the telephone on her desk.

“No, nothing specific.”

“Well, I’m sorry but I really have to close up now. Thank you for stopping by.”

He turned and stared at her. What was he thinking? she wondered. Was he angry? She now realized what it was that had set Mac on edge about him. His eyes were dull, dead, as though disconnected from his brain, separated from his emotional cortex.

What should I do?
she wondered.
Demand that he leave? Try to coax him out the door?

Before she could decide on a course of action, he smiled, turned, and was gone, carrying with him the visual image he’d created of her naked. He’d mentally stripped her of her clothing.

Annabel shuddered as though she were, indeed, naked, chilled. She went to the door, locked it, turned the sign so that it read
CLOSED
, and slumped against the wall.

CHAPTER   33

“… And so we’ve managed to pull ourselves out of our six-month recession far faster than more developed economies and are well on our way to solid financial footing. We predict a five-and-a-half-percent growth in our gross national product this year with little risk of inflation.”

Mitzi fought to continue feigning interest in what the Brazilian ambassador was saying. He was a charming man personally, but he enjoyed pontificating about his country’s more enlightened economic policies. Others at the table seemed interested in his prognostications, but all Mitzi could think about was leaving for the White House. She considered doing what Jeanine had suggested, pretend to fall ill and excuse herself. But that would have cast a pall over the party, something she was loath to do.

As they left the dinner table, her husband, John, asked if she was feeling well.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she said. “Just tired.”

“Maybe you ought to cut back on the parties,” he whispered, “take a breather. We can get away and—”

“Have you ever been to Brazil?” the ambassador interrupted.

“No, I’ve never had the pleasure,” Mitzi responded.

“I have business connections there,” her husband said, “and have spent many pleasurable weeks in Brasília.” He and the ambassador crossed the room to join others who were being served after-dinner drinks in the library.

Mitzi excused herself, went to a quiet room, and called Jeanine’s private number.

Lance Millius answered.

“It’s Mitzi Cardell.”

“She’s not available at the moment, Ms. Cardell. Can I leave a message?”

“No, no, I’ll call again later.”

It was another hour before the gathering broke up and guests scattered to wherever it was they were going. John Muszinski kissed his wife’s cheek and announced that he was going to bed. “Coming?” he asked.

“No, I’m wide awake. I told Jeanine that I might get together with her once the party broke up.”

“At
this
hour? Whatever for?”

“She, ah—she wanted to run a few ideas by me. She’s heading to Savannah for the school’s fund-raiser and wanted my input.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“Oh, God, no, John. My schedule is overflowing tomorrow. You run along and get a good night’s sleep. I won’t be long.”

His face reflected his confusion but he knew not to press once she’d made up her mind. “As you wish,” he said and planted another kiss. “Don’t be too late.”

Mitzi spent a few minutes checking on the cleanup. Satisfied that it was going smoothly, she went to her study and called Jeanine. Again, it was Millius who picked up the phone. Mitzi announced herself. “Just a minute, Ms. Cardell.”

“Successful party?” Jeanine asked.

“I suppose so. I’m heading there now.”

“I’ve arranged with security.”

“Good.”

A half hour later, Mitzi sat with the first lady in her office.

“Does he have to be there?” Mitzi asked, referring to Millius, who worked at a computer in the anteroom.

“Forget him, Mitzi. Okay, so this Brixton character is in Washington and tried to reach you. That doesn’t mean he knows anything.”

“It’s worse, Jeanine. I got a call from a reporter for the Savannah paper, some guy named Sayers.”

“I’ve heard the name.”

“He told my secretary that he wanted to talk to me about a twenty-year-old crime that happened in Savannah. The stabbing! Jesus, the press is involved now.”

Jeanine sat back and rubbed her eyes. “That
is
cause for concern. How did he get onto it?”

“I don’t know. Probably this Brixton. This is all about to come tumbling down on you, Jeanine.”

Jeanine lowered her hands and leaned forward. “‘Tumbling down on
me
’?”

“Well, yes, of course. It was you who stabbed him and—”

“And it was your father who paid the Watkins girl to go to prison.”

They stared at each other, their eyes transmitting their conflicting thoughts.

“Look,” Jeanine finally said, “there’s nothing to be gained by deciding who’s more to blame. The important thing is to come up with a plan to head it off. Do you have any suggestions?”

“No.” Mitzi twisted her fingers; she was on the verge of tears.

After a thoughtful pause, Jeanine said, “There’s a lot more at stake here than having paid off Watkins. Do you realize what this will do to Fletch and his presidency?”

“I wasn’t thinking about that,” Mitzi said.

“Well, I think you’d better start thinking
about that,
Mitzi.”

“This is terrible,” Mitzi said.

“How did you leave it with the reporter?”

“I said I wasn’t available. He left his number.”

“You didn’t call him back.”

“Of course not.”

“We have to assume that whatever this reporter knows he got from Brixton, and what can Brixton have? Damn little. It’s not like it happened yesterday, for Christ’s sake. It happened over twenty years ago. What about this attorney friend of yours?”

“Mackensie Smith? I don’t know what Brixton has told him.”

The tears came.

“Stop it!” Jeanine said. “Crying isn’t going to solve a goddamn thing.”

“My reputation will be ruined,” Mitzi said as she fished a Kleenex from her purse.

“
Your
reputation!” Jeanine snapped.

“We can’t let this happen,” Mitzi said and blew her nose.

“No, we can’t.”

“Did you ever tell Fletcher about it?” Mitzi asked.

“Of course not.”

“Maybe—”

“Maybe I should have? You’re right. I can’t allow him to be surprised by this, wake up and read about it in the papers. Can this Brixton be bought off?”

“How would I know?”

“I’m sure the reporter can’t be. Your lawyer friend?”

Mitzi shook her head. “No. He’s—”

Jeanine got up and paced the room, her hand to her forehead. When she resumed her seat she said, “I’ll have to tell Fletch about this. He’s due back any minute now.”

“What do you think he’ll say?”

“He’ll blow his stack. Maybe you should tell John.”

Mitzi shuddered.

“I know this,” Jeanine said. “I’m not going to see my life or Fletch’s presidency ruined because of some dime-store, white-trash private detective looking to make a buck.”

Jeanine’s hard tone was palpable, and Mitzi recoiled from it.

“I’ll talk to Fletch tonight. You go on home. I’ll call you tomorrow. In the meantime don’t mention this to anyone. Got that? Not anyone!”