Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [103]
They ended the call and Brixton clicked off his phone.
“You look like you just won the lottery,” Sayers said.
Brixton recounted the conversation for the reporter.
“That’s intriguing,” Sayers said after Brixton had finished.
“Yeah, it sure is.”
“Felker, who just happens to be one of Ward Cardell’s close associates, puts out a contract for a hit on the girl who he paid off to falsely confess to a crime that Cardell’s daughter actually did.”
“That may be going too far at this point,” Brixton said.
“Maybe, but it’s delicious to contemplate.”
“Know what I think, Will?”
“What?”
“I think I will take a shot at reaching Mitzi Cardell.”
CHAPTER 38
Emile Silva received two calls in quick succession.
The first was from Dr. Rahmi, the physician in charge of his mother’s care at the hospital. “We’ll be sending your mother home today. She’s made a remarkable recovery.”
“I know. It’s—it’s wonderful.” The words stuck in his throat. He knew that she’d rallied to the point of being released. “That’s good news,” he said.
“She’s a feisty lady, Mr. Silva. Frankly, I didn’t think that she’d make it when she was brought in.”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to put you on with one of our social workers. Some decisions about her care will have to be made.”
“All right.”
The social worker came on the line. “Your mother will need continuing care,” she said. “It’s my recommendation—and the doctors agree—that she be placed in a nursing facility.”
“That sounds fine,” he said.
“But she refuses to go,” said the social worker. “She insists upon being in her own home. That will mean arranging for consistent nursing care, perhaps not round-the-clock but close to it.”
“She wants to go home?”
The social worker laughed. “She certainly does, Mr. Silva. Your mother has a mind of her own. She says that you’re a wonderful son and will do everything you can to make her transition from the hospital to home as smooth as possible.”
“Of course, whatever is necessary.” He began to shake and fought to keep it from his voice.
“I need to meet with you as soon as possible to discuss permanent care at home for her. Can you come in this afternoon, say, at three?”
“Yes. No, I have business meetings. I’ll call you when it’s convenient for me.”
Her silence told him that she wasn’t pleased with his reply. “I’ll make it soon,” he added, and the conversation ended.
He sat at his desk, stunned by the news. Anger overwhelmed him and he repeatedly brought his fist down on the desk. He had counted on her dying.
The ringing phone snapped him out of his despair. It was Dexter.
“Hello, Emile.”
“Hello.”
“How are you?”
“What do you want?”
“You sound angry.”
“What do you want?”
“I have an assignment for you. It must be done quickly. I assume that you’re available.”
Silva didn’t respond.
“Meet me at Number Two at noon,” Dexter said, and hung up.
Silva was tempted to decline the job. The plans he’d put into effect had begun to jell in his mind—bury his mother, sell both her house and his, and leave the country, go to that warm, idyllic island where he’d hidden the money he’d accumulated. He’d had enough of Dexter and his assignments. Dexter had been right: everyone’s usefulness came to an end at some point. That time had come, and he wanted to leave on his own terms.
But the side of him that took pleasure in ridding society of its scum butted heads with his other intentions. He would do this final job.
Meeting place Number Two on the list was a Wendy’s on Twenty-first Street, not far from the campus of George Washington University and the Foggy Bottom Metro stop. There would be many college students there, which annoyed him. He detested their immature chatter, their bravado, their smell.
Silva had already secured a table as far from the others as possible before Dexter arrived. His prediction was correct—most customers were from the university—and he sat with gritted teeth as their inane conversations and odors drifted his way. He took solace in the thought that they had no idea that the man seated among them could snuff out their useless lives at any moment.