Monument to Murder (27 page)

CHAPTER   42

Mac and Annabel Smith spent the late afternoon at her gallery, preparing for that evening’s cocktail reception. The guest list was small, only fourteen people—fifteen with the addition of Robert Brixton. Two women from Federal City Caterers arrived and helped set up a small bar. An assortment of finger foods would be passed by the women once guests arrived; the bar would be manned by a professional mixologist, the Smiths were told, prompting Mac to quip to his wife, “I wish they’d just say he’s a bartender. Mixologist indeed!”

Annabel smiled and continued what she was doing. Her husband liked to call things what they were, and refused to order a Grande Latte at Starbucks, preferring to ask for a
medium
latte.

They took a break at five and sat in Annabel’s office at the rear of the gallery. Mac had prepared a checklist, which they went over. That chore completed, Annabel said, “So, tell me again how it’s supposed to go with Mitzi and Brixton.”

“I have no idea how it will go, Annie,” he replied. “What I wanted was for the two of them to get together and have Brixton tell her about the case he’s working on.”

“I’m surprised that she agreed to sit down with him,” Annabel said.

“I was, too. He must have been pretty persuasive when he spoke with her on the phone. She sounded stressed when she called me about it.”

“Do you really think that what he says is true, that she stabbed that man twenty years ago and paid off a young black girl to take the rap?”

“You know, Annie, I
do
believe him. I hope he’s wrong, for Mitzi’s sake, but his story rings true. He doesn’t strike me as the sort of man who buys into fanciful conspiracy theories, or chases juicy gossip. Will Sayers doesn’t see him that way either. But we’ll see how it goes tonight. I promised Mitzi that I’d be the buffer between them. If I think he’s going down the wrong path, I’ll end the conversation.”

“Well,” Annabel said, standing, “if it
is
true, it’s going to raise a lot of eyebrows in this town. Want to grab a bite before our guests arrive? I never get to eat the things we serve at our own parties.”

•  •  •

Silva sat in his Porsche a half block from the Hotel Rouge and waited for his prey to emerge again. Brockman was at the curb three car lengths behind. It was five o’clock. The rain had stopped but the sky continued to threaten. Silva considered calling Brixton’s room to be sure that he was still inside but thought better of it. Had he left the hotel during the time that Silva was at home? Possible.

He got out of the Porsche and walked in front of the hotel, glancing into the lobby for a sign of Brixton. Nothing. He reached a corner and retraced his steps. This time he saw Brixton, who stood at the reception desk talking with the clerk. Silva returned to the car. It wouldn’t do for Brixton to see him for the third time that day. He’d consider that more than a coincidence. He was a private detective who’d been a cop for more than twenty years. His antenna would be up. Better to stay out of his sight until it was time to follow through. He touched the knife through the fabric of the jacket, did the same with the gun on the other side. He was getting antsy. He wanted it over with. It was dragging on too long. The rain started again and he closed the window. The windshield fogged up, interfering with his view of the hotel’s entrance. He swore and wiped condensation off the windshield, turned on the engine and the AC. “Come on,” he said aloud, “go someplace.”

Brockman wasn’t antsy. He was plain bored. He thought of a movie he’d seen three times,
The French Connection,
in which the character Popeye Doyle, played by Gene Hackman, had to stand outside in the cold while staking out a suspect. It was only minutes on the screen but it was obvious that cops spent hours doing that sort of thing. A waste of time as far as Brockman was concerned. If it hadn’t been for Dexter’s orders—and he would follow those orders because he’d never had such a lucrative job before—he would just walk up to that silly sports car and shoot this guy Silva in the head. But he was told to get close to him and wait for the go-ahead from Dexter. “The sale is on,” he said a few times to make sure he’d remember it.

Brixton exited the hotel, causing Silva to sit up straight and to lean closer to the windshield. The rain shower had been brief. Brixton stood among the statues, a tan raincoat over his arm. He lit a cigarette and seemed in no rush to go anywhere. Silva glanced in his rearview mirror and saw a taxi turn onto Sixteenth Street. It pulled up in front of the hotel. Brixton carried his cigarette to the curb and ground it out in the gutter, opened the cab door, and climbed in. He must have called for the taxi, Silva decided. The cab pulled away. Silva slipped the Porsche into gear and followed. The blue SUV driven by James Brockman was next in line.

Silva almost lost the taxi a few times but managed to stay behind it when the driver drove into Georgetown and came to a stop in front of Annabel’s gallery. He watched Brixton get out, pay the driver, and enter the gallery.
Interesting,
Silva thought. It was where he’d first encountered the beautiful woman with the auburn hair, and her husband. What was the connection? He was tempted to find a parking space and go inside, too, but knew that would be foolhardy. Georgetown was busy, lots of pedestrians and cars. He decided to circle a few times in the hope that a space would open up close to the gallery entrance. It took three passes before he backed into a vacant slot. He turned off the ignition and trained his eyes on the door and the sign above:
PRE-COLUMBIAN GALLERY—A. LEE SMITH PROPRIETOR
.

Brockman double-parked while waiting for a space of his own, flipping the bird at other drivers who beeped their horns at him. A car parked directly behind Silva’s Porsche eventually pulled away from the curb and Brockman moved his SUV into the vacant spot. Silva glanced in his rearview window and saw the SUV’s driver, a man with sandy hair. Brockman saw Silva’s eyes in the mirror and decided he’d better get out and observe from a distance.

He crossed the street and stood beneath the overhang of a store that sold movie memorabilia, where he had an unobstructed view of the Porsche and the gallery. He thought again of Popeye Doyle and wondered how long he’d have to wait. Brockman was a gun fanatic and had a large stash of weapons from which to choose. This day he carried a “Baby” Glock 9 mm subcompact handgun in a shoulder holster beneath his kelly-green windbreaker; he’d left a Heckler & Koch PSG1 sniper’s rifle with a telescopic sight in the SUV.

And so the waiting game began.

Guests began to arrive a little before seven. Mac and Annabel greeted them as they came through the door. The gallery’s stereo system shuffled six jazz CDs that emphasized piano and guitar cuts. Mac kept his eye out for Mitzi Cardell and began to wonder whether she’d had second thoughts and would be a no-show. That concern vanished when a gray Lincoln Town Car pulled up and Mitzi got out. She paused at the door as though uncertain whether to enter. As the Town Car pulled away, she pulled on the door and stepped through. Mac was the first to extend a hand. “Great seeing you, Mitzi,” he said.

“I wasn’t sure whether—”

“Come on in, have a drink and something to eat,” he said, leading her to the bar.

Brixton watched her entrance from a far corner of the gallery and wondered when Smith would bring her to him for an introduction. When it appeared that it would not happen soon, he moved to where Annabel was chatting with a husband and wife. She introduced Brixton to them. The wife asked whether he was a connoisseur of pre-Columbian art.

“Afraid not,” he said through a grin. “I’m here because I’m friends with Mac and Annabel.” He glanced at Annabel to see whether by claiming friendship he’d stepped over the line. Her wide smile and hand on his arm said that he hadn’t.

It was a lively party; the bouncy jazz music, top-shelf liquor, myriad tasty finger foods, and spirited conversation ensured that it would be. There were lots of oohs and ahs about Fernando Botero Angulo’s works that were the reason for the gathering. One of the guests, a wealthy D.C. real estate man, offered to buy them on the spot. Annabel suggested that they talk in the morning, to which he agreed, with the caveat, “Don’t you dare sell them out from under me, Annabel.”

She assured him that she wouldn’t.

As the party wound down and some guests left, Mac brought Brixton over to meet Mitzi.

“Hello, Ms. Cardell,” Brixton said.

“Hello,” she said, frost on her words.

“I really appreciate having a chance to speak with you,” he said.

“I wouldn’t have agreed to do it if it weren’t for Mac Smith,” she said.

Brixton nodded his thanks in Smith’s direction as Mitzi walked away.

A half hour later, after the caterers had performed the cleanup in what seemed a matter of minutes, only Mac, Annabel, Mitzi, and Brixton remained. Mac led them into Annabel’s office, where four chairs arranged in a tight semicircle awaited. Mitzi’s nervousness was apparent. She crossed one leg over the other and it was in constant motion. Her fingers kept going to her face when they weren’t tapping out a rhythm only she could hear on the arms of the chair.

“I suggest that Bob start,” Smith said to Mitzi, “by telling you what his investigation has led him to conclude. Let’s hear him out before asking questions or challenging what he has to say.”

Mitzi’s sigh was contemptuous, but she agreed.

Brixton had many times gone over how he intended to put it to Mitzi. He wanted to make it as easy as possible, to say it in a way that would acknowledge that he knew that his conclusions would be painful for her. On the other hand, he didn’t want to come off as being unsure of his findings, and hoped that he could find a comfortable middle ground.

He spoke for ten minutes. Mitzi tried to protest a few times but Mac kept things on track. When Brixton was done—he made it clear that he believed that it was Mitzi who’d stabbed the young man in Augie’s parking lot and that she (or her father) had arranged to pay off Louise Watkins to take responsibility—he sat back and waited for her reaction.

It was slow in coming. She squirmed in her chair as though to find a more comfortable position, and made a series of false starts. From her posture he assumed that she would issue a flat denial of everything he’d said. But to his surprise she suddenly smiled at him. He returned it.

“I assume you’ve already gone to the press with your suppositions,” she said, struggling to inject calm into her voice. “A reporter called me about it.”

“Yes, I’ve spoken with someone from the press,” Brixton acknowledged. “But it’s not my intention to turn this into a media story. I just want to be able to tell my client, Ms. Watkins’ mother, that her daughter didn’t stab the man at Augie’s. That’s important to her, which I’m sure you can understand.”

“Because I’m a mother?” Mitzi said. “I don’t have children.”

“As a human being,” Brixton said.

His comment caused her to draw a deep breath. She looked as though she might break down and cry. After a few more steadying breaths, she said, “I did not stab anyone, Mr. Brixton.”

Brixton looked at Mac and Annabel before saying, “Then did your friend, Jeanine Montgomery, now Jeanine Jamison, actually stab the man?” He started to explain how he’d come to that possible conclusion but she waved him off. “It was all an accident, Mr. Brixton. Good God, do you think Jeanine would do such a thing deliberately?”

“No,” Brixton said.

“We were foolish teenage girls, unsure of who we were. We came from good families. We were raised to respect life and to try to make this a better world. Jeanine’s parents had high hopes for her. So did mine. Is it so difficult to understand why our parents would do everything under heaven and earth to protect their daughters? Do you have daughters, Mr. Brixton?”

“Two.”

“Well?”

“Sure,” Brixton said, “I’d go to great lengths to protect them, but it wouldn’t include seeing an innocent young girl spend four years in prison for something she didn’t do. She was paid off to, as you say, ‘protect’ you and Jeanine. But nobody protected
her
. She was vulnerable. Ten thousand bucks was like hitting a mega-lottery for her. She was a hooker and a drug dealer, a disposable human being in the scheme of things.” He felt his anger level rise and fought to keep it under control.

“Is there anything else you wish to say?” Mitzi asked.

“Then you
are
confirming that Louise Watkins was paid to take the rap for you,” Brixton said.

Mitzi said nothing.

“Or take the rap for the first lady.”

Mitzi straightened in her chair and smiled at him again. “I’ve agreed to meet with you, Mr. Brixton, and have kept my promise. What I’ve said to you in this room will not be what I will say to any reporter who questions me about what happened in Savannah years ago. From what you’ve told me, you don’t have any proof to back up your allegations, just an assortment of theories. I have no obligation to be truthful with the press. This is not a matter of national security. The fate of the nation doesn’t hang in the balance. No one has died because of—”

“Whoa,” Brixton said. “Louise Watkins died right after she came out of prison, gunned down on a street corner. You—your father—wouldn’t know anything about
that
I suppose. This guy who was stabbed in the parking lot
died.
Don’t tell me that nobody died because of what happened in Savannah.”