Monument to Murder

by Margaret Truman

  Smith had been making notes during their conversation, a habit honed during his years as a practicing criminal attorney. He focused on one line he’d written and put quote marks around it and underlined it: “… any young black woman.”

  • • •

  Mitzi, too, did something after ending her conversation. She called the White House.

  “It’s Mitzi Cardell,” she told Lance Millius. “Please put me through to the first lady.” She’d taken a few minutes before placing the call to try to calm down, to bring her breathing under control.

  “She’s not available, Ms. Cardell.”

  “This is urgent. I need to speak with her now!”

  “I’ll pass along your message, Ms. Cardell.”

  “No, that’s not good enough. Find her!”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Cardell, but that is quite impossible. I’ll tell her of your call and mention that it’s important.”

  “Yes, you do that.”

  She slammed down the phone and was sorry that she had. Getting tough with Millius wouldn’t accomplish anything.

  She waited anxiously for Jeanine to return the call, pacing rooms, curtly fending off questions by the household staff, and ignoring demands on her by outsiders. It was an hour later when the first lady returned her call.

  “Jeanine, thank God it’s you.”

  “What’s going on, Mitzi? You sound panicked.”

  “Because I am, and you will be, too.”

  “Do you think you can pull yourself together and tell me what this is all about?”

  “Brixton, that private detective from Savannah.”

  “Him again? What is it this time?”

  “Yes, it’s him again, and it’s about the same thing.”

  “This is ridiculous, Mitzi. What can he possibly know?”

  “It’s obvious that he knows plenty, Jeanine. He had a friend call—Mackensie Smith—to try and set up a meeting with me.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A lawyer. He teaches at GW.”

  “He’s gotten a lawyer involved?”

  “Yes. Jeanine, we have to do something and do it now! If this were ever to boil over and become public it would mean—well, you know what it will mean.”

  “Mitzi, you’ve got to calm down. We can think this through. Where is he now?”

  “Brixton? He’s here in D.C. at the Hotel Rouge on Sixteenth Street.”

  “Have you talked to your father?”

  “No.”

  “Call him and see if he knows anything more about this aside from what he told you previously. Get back to me after you do.”

  “All right, but tell that bastard Millius to put me through the minute I call.”

  “Just do what I suggested,” Jeanine said and hung up.

  Ward Cardell had just come in from a swim when his daughter called.

  “Hello, honeybunch, how are ya?”

  “Terrible.”

  Her father laughed. “What’s the matter, had a foul-up at one of your dinner parties, some drunk congressman fell asleep at the table with his face in the vichyssoise?”

  “I’d welcome that, Daddy, after what I’ve just gone through.”

  “Hold on now, honey, while I get me into a robe. Ah’ve been swimmin’. Hot as Hades here.”

  He listened to her recount the call from Mac Smith. When she was finished, his voice assumed gravitas. “Let me make a few calls about this Brixton character,” he said. “Sounds like he’s a hard man to get a message through to. Don’t you worry. I’ll take care of it.”

  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 fro
m 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.”