Monument to Murder (28 page)

Mitzi turned to Smith. “I’ve had quite enough, Mac,” she said. “I’ve been gracious enough to meet with your friend and to listen to his theories. This is all so—” She muttered something that the others in the room couldn’t hear. She leaned forward in Brixton’s direction. “I’m going to ask you, Mr. Brixton, to apply some common sense. I respect the fact that you’re working for this girl’s mother, who wants to know the truth. But is the truth so important that you would bring down good, decent people who’ve lived exemplary lives since that one, unfortunate night twenty years ago? I’ve worked hard to establish my reputation here in Washington. I bring together important people who make life-and-death decisions for a nation,
your
nation. The first lady of this land and her husband, the president of the United States, have an agenda that could determine the fate of the free world. Is it money you’re after? I can see to it that whatever you lose by shelving this witch hunt will be more than compensated for. Don’t you see? Can’t you put things in perspective? Please, try to be reasonable.”

Brixton slammed his fist onto the arm of his chair and almost came to his feet. “Buy me off the way you and your father bought off Louise Watkins? You know, Ms. Cardell, I came here tonight without any intention of hurting you or your family. I didn’t vote for Fletcher Jamison but I’m not out to derail whatever the hell he intends to do with the country. I don’t know the first lady and I don’t want to know her. But I’ll tell you this.” He pointed a finger at Mitzi. “You and your kind make me sick. Keep your money. I’ve heard enough here to convince me that Louise Watkins’ mother was right. If the press wants to probe deeper, that’s their business.” He turned to Smith. “I hope I haven’t crossed the line, Mac, but frankly, this woman disgusts me.”

Brixton got up and stood with his back to the others.

“I need to call my driver,” Mitzi told Smith. She picked up a phone—“I’m ready to leave,” she said—and a minute later the Town Car appeared in front of the gallery.

Smith walked her to the door. “I know this has been upsetting, Mitzi, but I’m glad you had a chance to confront him.”

“Well, Mac, I am
not
pleased to have had to confront this … this, this vile man. I never should have listened to you.”

Smith held open the door and she disappeared into the chauffeured car, which drove away. He returned to the office, where Annabel was preparing to close up for the night.

“I’m sorry that it turned out this way,” Brixton said to them. “I lost my cool and—”

“It’s okay, Robert,” Smith said. “It’s obvious that what you’ve said is true. She didn’t admit to it in so many words, but there’s no doubt that she and her friend Jeanine were involved in the stabbing, and that her father paid off the girl.”

“There’s something else you should know,” Brixton said.

“What’s that?” Annabel asked.

“Her father’s right-hand man, a guy named Jack Felker, hired the gunman who killed Louise Watkins after she got out of prison.”

Mac and Annabel looked at him. “You’re certain of that?” Mac asked.

Brixton explained about the dying inmate who had confessed to having killed Louise Watkins and who had further claimed that he’d been paid by Felker.

“What are you going to do next?” Smith asked as they snapped off the office lights and passed through the gallery.

“I suppose I’ll go back, tell my client that her daughter didn’t stab anybody, and hope that’s sufficient for her.”

“But what will
she
do with that information?” Annabel asked.

Brixton shrugged as Annabel set the alarm and they exited to the street. “That’s up to her,” he said.

“How did you get here tonight?” Smith asked.

“Taxi.”

“We’ll drop you at the hotel,” Smith said. “Our car is in the lot across the street.”

Silva had been afraid that he’d doze off while waiting for something to happen. He saw them, snapped to attention, and turned on the engine.

Brockman saw the Porsche’s headlights come to life and exhaust coming from its rear. He hopscotched through traffic, reached his SUV, climbed in, and started the engine.

Smith pulled out of the small parking lot with Annabel in the front passenger seat and Brixton in the back. They turned right, the opposite direction from which Silva and Brockman were facing. Silva gunned the Porsche, made a U-turn that caused a driver to slam on his brakes, and followed Smith’s car. Brockman cursed the traffic. He knew he’d lose them but assumed they were going to Brixton’s hotel. He turned at the corner and headed for Sixteenth Street, hoping he was right.

CHAPTER   43

Smith pulled up in front of the Hotel Rouge.

“I really appreciate what you did for me tonight,” Brixton said.

“I’m not sure it accomplished anything,” Smith replied. “Knowing what you now know is one thing. Making use of it is another.”

“I’ll leave that up to my client, Mrs. Watkins,” Brixton said.

“What about Will Sayers?” Mac asked. “He’ll want to learn what
you
learned.”

“I know,” Brixton said wearily. “I meant it when I said that I didn’t want to turn this into a media event.”

“Hard to keep things like this under wraps,” Annabel commented, “especially in this town.”

Brixton’s laugh was sardonic. “You know what?” he said. “I think I won’t worry about what goes down after I report back to my client. Will has been helpful—I wouldn’t have benefited from meeting you if it weren’t for him. I’ll fill him in on what transpired tonight and let him make his own decision about pursuing it. Thanks again for everything.” He reached over the back of the seat and patted them on their shoulders. “If you’re ever in Savannah give me a call. I’ll show you the sights.”

“That’s a deal,” Annabel said. “We’ll stay in touch.”

Brixton got out of the car, waved, and watched them drive away. He debated going inside to the hotel bar but decided he first needed a cigarette. He lit up, inhaled, then exhaled and watched the smoke as it slowly drifted up into the night. Emile Silva watched it, too. He’d parked his Porche around the corner and was slowly walking to the hotel.

It was quiet on Sixteenth Street. Brixton stood among the nude female statues and smiled at one of them. He thought of Flo and that he’d soon be back with her in Savannah. He was engaged in that pleasant contemplation when his cell phone rang.

“Robert,” said the familiar voice of Wayne St. Pierre.

“Hello, Wayne.”

“Hope I’m not disturbing anything important.”

“Just enjoying a cigarette. What’s up?”

“You ought to give them up, Robert. Thought you’d want to know that the ME’s report on Mr. Jack Felker came back late this afternoon. Poor fella died of natural causes. He was one sick puppy, Robert. ME says his body was riddled with the cancer.”

Brixton’s first thought was that the ME was either an idiot or had come up with his finding to suit someone else’s agenda. But he was in no mood to argue it while standing on the street. “Is that so?” he said.

“Just thought you’d want to know,” said St. Pierre.

“Yeah, well, thanks for the news, Wayne.”

“Things goin’ well there in D.C.?”

“Very well.”

“Come on now, my friend, don’t be coy with Uncle Wayne. What’s happening with your case? What did Ms. Cardell have to say?”

“How did you know I spoke with her?”

The patrician detective laughed. “I know everything, my friend.”

“I’ll fill you in when I get back. You do know that the man who killed Louise Watkins has fessed up to it and fingered Jack Felker as the one who paid for the hit.”

“Of course I’ve heard it, Robert. No credence to it, however. The man’s lyin’ through his teeth.”

“Why would he do that? From what I hear he’s terminal. What’s he got to gain?”

“Oh, you know how these jailhouse types think, Robert. He figures he’ll cleanse his soul for when he gets to the Pearly Gates. No basis at all for what he claims. When are you coming home?”

“In a day or two.”

Brixton lit another cigarette, wedging the cell phone between his ear and shoulder.

Silva was now only a dozen feet from him. He pulled the switchblade from his jacket pocket and came closer.

“You there, Robert?” St. Pierre asked.

“Yes, I’m here. I’m going to cut this short, Wayne. I’ll call you when I get back.”

As Brixton pushed the Off button, Silva came up from behind. “Hey,” he said.

Brixton turned.

“It’s me,” Silva said through a crooked grin as he lunged with the knife at Brixton’s chest. Brixton’s reflexive move turned him sideways to his attacker. The blade tore through his jacket sleeve and plunged deep into his biceps. Silva pulled the knife out and cursed. As he did so, Brixton squared and brought his knee up into Silva’s groin, causing him to double over and fall to his knees. Brixton took steps back, bumping into one of the statues. As he reached down and fumbled to draw his gun from his ankle holster, Mac and Annabel pulled up, their car’s headlights casting harsh light on the scene.

Silva got to his feet and was caught in the headlights. Brixton hadn’t felt the knife’s penetration but was now blinded by searing pain. He felt warm blood running down his arm and saw it spread onto his hand.

Mac Smith jumped out of his car. He hesitated; Brixton was on his knees, his left hand grasping at his right arm. The man holding the knife looked panicked. Smith braced for an attack, but Silva took off, sprinting up the street and around the corner. Annabel exited the car and went to Brixton, who now had his weapon in his good hand. “Oh my God,” she said as she helped him to his feet. “You left your raincoat in the car and we were returning it,” she said.

“Call 911,” Mac said to his wife. To Brixton: “What happened?”

“The guy came up behind me and—”

“A stranger?”

“I’ve seen him before, maybe twice.”

Smith looked down at a puddle of blood that had formed at Brixton’s feet. Brixton sagged against Smith.

“Take it easy,” Mac said. “Annie’s called for an ambulance.”

By this time a few hotel staff members had come to see what had happened and were joined by a couple returning to the hotel from dinner. An ambulance arrived within minutes, accompanied by a patrol car driven by a uniformed officer. Brixton, whose loss of blood had rendered him too weak to stand and almost speechless, was placed in the rear of the ambulance, where a medical tech managed to stem the bleeding.

“Get him to the hospital,” the cop said. ‘We’ll get a statement there.” He turned to Smith. “You saw it?” he asked.

“We arrived while it was happening,” Smith offered, and explained why they’d returned to the hotel after having dropped Brixton off. “He said he’d seen his attacker a few times before.”

The officer took Smith’s name and contact information. As he did so, an older woman walking a large dog joined them. “Someone died?” she said.

“No, ma’am,” the officer said.

She saw the blood on the pavement. “I knew it,” she said, “I just knew it.”

“Knew what, ma’am?”

“I knew that that man who almost knocked me over was running away from something bad.”

“You saw him?” Smith asked.

“He ran right into me. Billy here—Billy’s my dog—snapped at him.”

“Did you see where he went?”

“Yes, I did. He got into his car and sped off like a madman.”

“What sort of car?” the officer asked.

“One of those little sports cars, like James Bond drives in the movies.”

“What color was it?”

“Black. All black. I saw the license plate.”

The cop and Smith looked at each other.

“He’s from Virginia. I didn’t get every number but I got most of them.”

CHAPTER   44

Silva had all he could do not to drive the Porsche flat out and possibly attract law enforcement attention. He kept close to the speed limit, his eyes constantly looking in the rearview mirror for signs of the police, an endless stream of invective flowing from his mouth, shouted at times. Every hit he’d accomplished for Dexter and his people had gone without a hitch.
Now this
. His target was alive and could identify him. So could the couple who’d arrived in their car, the woman with the auburn hair and her smug husband. “Damn you all!” he yelled above the engine noise.

When he wasn’t swearing at his bad luck, he was formulating his next step. Time to get away, out of the country, go where his money was stashed, sever all ties in D.C., make a clean escape and put it all behind him.

He pulled into the driveway of his mother’s home, where a strange car was parked. He got out and looked back at the street. A blue SUV slowly drove by but kept going. He entered the house and found his mother in her wheelchair in the living room. A black woman in a crisp white nurse’s uniform sat in a corner, reading the day’s paper.

“Who are you?” Silva demanded.

She stood and said she was one of the home-health-care aides assigned to care for Mrs. Silva.

“Get out!” Silva exploded.

“Who are
you
?” the woman asked.

“It’s my son, Emile,” his mother said in her little-girl voice.

“That’s right. I’m her son,” Silva said. “You can go home now. I’m here to take care of her.”

The nurse looked at Mrs. Silva, who smiled sweetly and nodded. “My son is home now,” she said. “You can go.”

It was obvious that the nurse wasn’t sure what to do.

“It’s okay,” Emile said in a more modulated voice. “You’ll get paid for your full shift. Go on now, please leave.”

She gathered her things and left. Silva looked out the window and saw her get into her car and pull away.

James Brockman, too, saw the aide leave. He’d turned around at the end of the street, parked, turned off the engine and lights, and waited. He’d spotted Silva’s black Porsche where he’d parked around the corner from the Hotel Rouge and had pulled in behind him. He’d seen Silva’s mad dash to the car, his screeching getaway from the curb, and had managed to follow him to this house.

“I’m so happy that you’re here, Emile. We can have dinner and you can play me some music.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

He ran up the stairs and went to the bedroom that had been his while growing up. He closed the door, sat on his bed, and attempted to force clarity into his thinking. As hard as he tried, every thought was fleeting, jumbled, nothing sticking long enough to make sense. He knew only that he had to do something and do it quickly.

He pulled his cell phone from his jacket and dialed a special, private number. Dexter answered. The little man was at home watching a TV cooking show.

“It’s Emile.”

Dexter immediately knew that something was wrong. “What is it?” he asked.

“The assignment went bad.”

“How so?”

“He’s alive. He saw me.”

“He can identify you?”

“Yeah, I think so. Two other people he was with saw me, too. I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going, Emile?” Dexter asked in a calm voice as he turned down the TV volume.

“I have a place. Look, I tried my best. Things just got fouled up, that’s all. I want my money for tonight.”

“I think that can be arranged, Emile. I’ll have it deposited in—”

“No, no. I want it in cash. Meet me someplace with it.”

“Emile, really, you don’t think I can put my hands on that much cash tonight, do you?”

Silva’s anger level rose. He was being talked to as though he were a child. He looked at his surroundings. A dozen unblinking, nonjudgmental stuffed animals peered up at him.

“Emile,” his mother called from downstairs. “Where are you?”

“I suggest, Emile, that we meet tomorrow after you’ve calmed down,” Dexter said soothingly. “We can have lunch at, say—”

“Listen, you miserable bastard,” Silva sputtered, “you listen to me. I know enough to put you and your friends away for life.”

“I will not be spoken to this way,” Dexter said, and hung up.

Silva punched in the number twice more. The calls weren’t answered.

Panic had been replaced by anger. Now, panic had returned. While fleeing the scene at the Hotel Rouge he’d tried to decide what to do with his house and his other cars should he flee the country. But that no longer mattered. The only thing that was important was to escape, to avoid being hunted down and put away. He could never survive being locked up, not for even one day.

“Emile!” she called in a stronger voice.

“Shut up,” he said, not loud enough for her to hear. “Shut the hell up.” He shook, and wrapped his arms about himself.

“Emile!”

“Coming, Ma-ma.”

He slowly descended the stairs and stood before her.

“I’m hungry,” she said. “I’d like some soup, and some crackers, too.”

“Yes, Ma-ma.”

“That woman wanted to steal things,” she said after him as he went to the kitchen. “I could tell the way she was looking around. I’m so glad you came. You will stay, won’t you?”

“Yes, Ma-ma,” he called from the kitchen.

“Make the soup nice and hot.”

“I will.”

Instead, he quietly opened the door that led to the garage, went in, and picked up a five-gallon red plastic container of gasoline. He opened the overhead door, stepped outside, and poured some of the fuel around the foundation of the house. Then he returned to the kitchen, where he stood silently, the half-filled container in his hand.

“Emile! Is the soup ready yet? I’m hungry.”

He sprinkled some of the gas along one wall and went through a second door to the dining room, where he did the same.

“Emile!”

“Goodbye, Ma-ma,” he said as he tossed down a match. Flames shot up in the dining room, igniting the drapes and turning the white wall black. He ran into the living room and looked at her for a brief, horrified second before racing outside through the front door.

He reached the Porsche and turned to watch the frame house go up. He saw his mother through the front bay window. She tried to stand but fell back into her wheelchair as flames engulfed her, her agonizing cry the last thing he would ever hear from her.

Across the street, Brockman couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He’d received a terse call from Dexter—“The sale is on”—and had moved the SUV closer to the driveway and the Porsche. He’d taken the Heckler & Koch sniper’s rifle from the floor and leaned on the vehicle, the rifle propped on the hood, ready to be fired. He’d decided that if he could get off a clean shot he’d grab the opportunity and call it a day. That opportunity had arrived.

As Silva turned from observing the inferno and reached for the door handle of his car, Brockman centered the crosshairs of the telescopic sight on his chest and squeezed the trigger. His aim was dead-on. Silva screamed. His hands went to his chest as the force of the bullet knocked him backward to the ground. He was dead before he reached it.

The echo of the rifle’s powerful discharge mingled with the sudden wail of sirens. Brockman got back into the SUV, tossed the rifle on the backseat, and started the engine. But before he could slip the transmission into Drive, he was pinned in by three patrol cars, two carrying Virginia state policemen, the third a District of Columbia vehicle with two uniformed cops. Brockman pulled his handgun from its holster and waved it. The officers saw that he was armed and shouted a warning to drop the weapon, raise his hands, and slowly approach. He was tempted to try to ram them but knew it was futile. He followed their orders and stepped from the car, hands up, his face bathed in the hideous glow of orange-yellow flames that by now engulfed the house.