Monument to Murder (12 page)

“I’d have done the same thing,” the man said.

“There are people in this world who don’t deserve to live,” Silva said.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Their conversation flowed easily, with Silva’s drinking companion smoothly segueing from topic to topic until it settled on politics.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Silva said, “all this pantywaist diplomacy with these bastards around the world who hate us is a waste of time. We should just take ’em out, get rid of them.”

The man agreed with this, too. He’d agreed with every philosophy Silva had espoused.

“Same with some of the lefties in this country. What good are they? We’re too soft, that’s our problem. I think Jamison might finally put us on the right track. What do you think?”

“I like the new president. He’s tough, doesn’t take guff from anyone including our so-called allies.”

“If I were calling the shots I’d turn Iran and North Korea into parking lots, bomb ’em to oblivion.”

The man laughed gently. “I’m not sure I agree with that approach but I see your point. You say you work as a bouncer.”

“On and off.”

“I know someone who might be looking for a person with your skills and outlook,” the man said.

“Really? What kind of job is it?”

“It would be best if he described it to you. He has a small, privately held company that does contract work for the government. Very low-key, not on anyone’s radar screen.”

“What, like Blackwater, private security?”

“Similar. If you’re interested, I’ll pass along your name and contact information. No guarantees, of course, but it might be worth exploring. Nothing to lose, as they say.”

“Makes sense to me.”

Silva gave him his name and phone number before leaving the bar. Two days later he received a call. “My name is Dexter. A colleague of mine says you might be the sort of person we’re looking for.”

“Yeah, he said you might be calling.”

“I would like to meet with you.”

“Sure. Just tell me where and when.”

Silva met Dexter in a suite in the Hyatt Regency on Capitol Hill. He disliked the little man from their initial handshake, disliked his thick glasses and nasal voice and creviced bald head. He also disliked the little man’s careful choice of words, never anything concrete, just beating around the bush and talking in vagaries. After forty-five minutes, Silva asked him to get to the point about the job and whether he was being seriously considered for it.

“Have you ever killed a man?” was Dexter’s answer.

This sudden directness caught Silva off guard. He fumbled for an answer, which seemed to amuse Dexter. “It shouldn’t be hard to answer,” he said through his smile. “Either you did or you didn’t.”

“All right, I did.” Silva decided that he could make that admission without being specific, not incriminating himself with any particular crime.

“What were the circumstances?” Dexter asked.

“That’s my business,” Silva said.

“I appreciate discretion.”

“Yeah, well, it happened because I needed to right a wrong.”

“A noble motivation. Did you use a weapon?”

“Knife,” Silva said, realizing he was now revealing too much.

“And how did you feel after you’d righted this wrong?”

“I felt—I felt good. It was the right thing to do.”

“I’m sure it was. How would you feel about killing someone you don’t know?”

Silva held up his hands and said, “Whoa. What is this, some set-up?”

Dexter allowed the comment to pass. He said, “I’m talking about killing someone to right wrongs.”

“What, a hit? Hey, forget I was even here. I’m not into anything illegal.”

“Why do you assume it would be—illegal?”

“Because—”

“What if it were sanctioned by your own government?”

“Huh?”

“When the government decides to do something in the interest of national security, or because our way of life is being threatened, it’s hardly illegal. In fact, it’s for a common good, for the good of the citizens of this wonderful country.”

“Then that would make it all right I guess.”

“You would have killed the enemy when you were a marine, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Killed on behalf of your government.”

“Right.”

“Not all soldiers in the fight against tyranny and the destruction of our precious way of life wear uniforms, Mr. Silva. Some of our most patriotic citizens have been people exactly like you, men who treasure our democracy and who don’t hesitate to do what needs to be done to preserve it.”

“Sure, I agree with that,” said Silva. “But I thought I came up here to be interviewed for a job.”

“Oh, that is exactly what I’m doing, Mr. Silva. I happen to have a job opening for which you might be perfectly suited. I should add that it pays handsomely for very little work.”

Silva smiled for the first time that afternoon. “You’ve got my attention,” he said.

“Good.”

“What’s the name of your company?” Silva asked. “What’s your name? All I know is ‘Dexter.’”

“Best that it be left that way for the moment. I would like to meet with you again.”

“Sure. Anytime.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

He was, two days later. Silva met again with Dexter and the man who’d befriended him in the bar. That man’s name was never mentioned, nor was Dexter’s last name. But their intentions were clear to Silva.

He was now a paid assassin for the United States government.

CHAPTER   18

Mitzi Cardell woke with a headache and sour stomach. She’d had a series of nightmares that had caused her to toss and turn, and she’d awoken a few times with a gasp, her chest pounding. It was good that she and her husband slept in separate beds.

He’d gotten up early to catch a plane to attend a business meeting in London. She had pretended to be asleep when he kissed her on the forehead and said, “I’ll be back soon. I love you.”

With him gone, she got out of bed, went into her private bath, and viewed herself in a large theatrical mirror surrounded by bulbs. She didn’t like what she saw. “Calm down,” she told herself, using ineffective words.

She went downstairs dressed in a robe and slippers and went to the kitchen, where a member of the staff was cleaning up after John’s breakfast.

“Mr. Muszinski got off all right?” Mitzi asked.

“Oh, yes, ma’am. Would you like breakfast now?”

“What? No, no, thank you. Not yet.”

She went to her office and dialed her father’s number in Savannah.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” she said.

“I’ve been up for hours, sweetheart. John told you I called last night?”

“Yes. What is this all about?”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

She heard him shut a door and return to the phone. “Ah’ve done some checking on this private investigator who visited Waldine Farnsworth. He’s a former Savannah police officer, now retired.”

“You told John that he was asking Waldine about Louise. Louise
Watkins
?”

“Evidently. I’ve already had some of my people take a look at this detective and his interest in Ms. Watkins. Seems he’s working for the girl’s mother.”

“Working for her? What does that mean?”

“From what Ah gather—and Ah really don’t know that much yet—the mother hired this detective to find out who shot her daughter when she got out of prison.”

Mitzi had been wound as tight as a spring since getting out of bed and during the conversation with her father. Now, she drew a deep breath and leaned back in the chair.

“Mitzi, honey, you there?”

“Yes, Daddy, I’m here. That was so long ago. How could anyone think they can find out who shot her after all these years? It was some drug addict, a drug gang sort of thing. Happens all the time to them. We have plenty of that here in D.C.”

“You’re absolutely right about that,” he said. “Even Sherlock Holmes couldn’t solve that shooting.”

Tension gripped her again and she leaned forward. “Do you think he’s also prying into her stabbing that fellow outside the club?”

“That’s what I understand, but I need to check on it further. Like I said, I’ve already had some of my people look into it.”

She leaned back again and fell silent.

“Mitzi?”

“Yes, Daddy, I’m here. Please find out what this is all about.”

“That’s exactly what I intend to do. I’ve already taken steps to cut this private eye fellow off at the knees, so to speak. My suggestion is for you to put it out of your mind. Believe me, honeybunch, nothing will come to it. It’ll all blow over if it hasn’t already.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” she said, not at all convinced that he was. “What’s this detective’s name?”

“Brixton. Robert Brixton. He’s got himself an office in town, been a private investigator for a couple of years. The way I figure it, he’s just tryin’ to generate some business for himself. You know how these private eyes are, low-life, real low-life.”

“Of course. Is there anything else?”

“Not at the moment, sweetheart. Now you do what I suggested and put the whole silly thing out of your pretty little head, heah?”

“Yes, Daddy, I hear. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, and I’ll get back to you if I find out anything else.”

“Good, Daddy. Thanks again.”

She hung up and turned to face the window. At least the sun was shining, she thought. Wearily, she went upstairs, took a long, hot shower, dressed in the outfit she would wear to lunch with Jeanine Jamison, then went back downstairs to the dining room. One of the housekeepers made her an omelet; she picked at it and left most of it uneaten.

Had she been free to do what she wanted that morning, she would have climbed back into bed and pulled the covers up over her head. But people would be arriving in a half hour to discuss a fund-raising project and it was too late to call it off. And, she had her lunch date with Jeanine Jamison at the White House.

The meeting lasted until eleven. Mitzi thanked them for coming and called for her driver. After going through White House security, which had been tightened even more because of recent breaches of it, she was allowed to enter and was led by a member of the first lady’s staff to Jeanine’s office in the East Wing.

“Hi, Lance,” Mitzi said to Lance Millius, Jeanine’s chief of staff.

“Hello, Ms. Cardell,” he replied, looking up only momentarily from something he was reading.

Mitzi forced a smile and took a seat along the wall. It was ten minutes before the first lady bounced in, looking fresh and alive. “Mitzi,” she said, “sorry to be late. I’ll just be a minute more.” To Millius: “Are things straightened out with the rabbi about tonight?”

“Everything’s worked out,” he said. “No problem.”

Mitzi and Jeanine were about to leave when the first lady’s assistant in charge of flower arrangements came into the office in a state of near hysteria. “I need to talk with you, Mrs. Jamison.”

Jeanine shrugged and made a gesture to Mitzi that said it was beyond her control. They disappeared into Jeanine’s private office. Fifteen minutes later Jeanine returned, grabbed Mitzi by the arm, and waltzed her out the door to a small, private dining room one floor above, where two members of the waitstaff stood at the ready. “Hope what I ordered for us is all right with you,” Jeanine said as they sat at the nicely set and adorned table.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Mitzi said.

“It’s great to find some time together,” Jeanine said. “My schedule is insane these days.”

“So I read,” Mitzi said. “You’re going back to CVA next week?”

“Yes. I didn’t know how I’d ever squeeze it in but it’s hard to say no to Waldine when it comes to raising money.”

“She’s lucky to have someone in your position willing to do it.”

“All for the old alma mater, huh?” Jeanine said with a laugh. “So, how are things at the Cardell residence? John okay?”

“John is fine. He’s off to London, some business meeting. Jeanine, there’s something we have to talk about.”

They’d just been served cups of vichyssoise. Jeanine sat back and adopted a concerned expression. “Oh?” she said. “Sounds as though it’s serious. Are you and John—?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Mitzi surveyed the room. “Is this room secure?”

“‘Secure?’ Of course it’s secure.”

“I mean there’s no tape recorder running, anything like that?”

“Mitzi, don’t be silly.”

“I know there’s always a tape running in the Oval Office. Nixon and the tapes. Lyndon Johnson.”

“Mitzi—”

“I know I’m being foolish. It’s just that—”

A waiter delivered their salads and conversation ceased. When he was gone and the door was closed behind him, Mitzi said in a low voice, “My father called last night. I didn’t take the call because I was in the middle of a dinner party. I called him this morning. He told me that a private detective named—” She consulted a scrap of paper she’d brought with her. “His name is Robert Brixton.”

“A private detective?”

“Yes.”

“What about him?”

“Daddy says he visited Waldine Farnsworth and asked her about a photo he had with him.”

“So?”

Mitzi drew a breath before continuing. “The picture was taken during one of those weekend retreats we used to have at the school. Remember?”

“Sure. But what does a photo have to do with anything?”

“I’m in the picture, Jeanine. So is Louise Watkins.”

The first lady’s dismissive tone changed now. Mitzi watched as her childhood friend processed what she’d just heard, lips pressed tightly together, eyes narrowed. Finally, she said, “Oh.”

“Daddy says this detective is working for Louise’s mother and trying to find out who shot her when she got out of prison.”

Jeanine guffawed. “Fat chance of that ever happening.”

Mitzi’s pained expression told Jeanine that her friend had more on her mind, so Jeanine asked.

“Daddy says he thinks this detective is also looking into why Louise went to prison. The stabbing of that guy.”

“I see.”

“I’m sure there’s nothing to it,” Mitzi said. “Daddy says not to worry. But—but I am worried, Jeanine.”

“Your father is right,” Jeanine said. “Go on, eat your soup before—” She laughed. “I was going to say before it gets cold, but it already is.”

For the rest of the meal the first lady kept the conversation away from the topic of Brixton and his visit to the headmistress of the Christian Vision Academy. Mitzi had visibly relaxed and they laughed at gossip each had to spread about Washington bigwigs, which included tales of sexual indiscretions. By the time Mitzi left the White House she was in considerably better spirits than when she’d arrived.

Jeanine attended a last-minute meeting in preparation for the dinner that night with the Israeli prime minister. Before heading to the family’s private quarters to change for the evening, she took Lance Millius aside. “Do me a favor, Lance, and have someone check out a private detective in Savannah named Robert Brixton. Just a favor for an old friend.”

She walked away, leaving him looking after her quizzically.