Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [104]
“I’m not hungry,” Silva retorted.
Dexter glared at him, left the table, and returned minutes later with his meal. “I don’t appreciate your attitude,” he said as he removed the wrapper from his sandwich.
“How do you want it done?” Silva asked, ignoring the comment.
“A mugging, a robbery,” Dexter said, leaning close to Silva and lowering his voice. “Take his wallet, empty it of cash and credit cards, and drop it a block away.”
“When?”
“As soon as possible. When you report success, the fee will be deposited as usual.”
“All right.”
Silva started to get up but Dexter stopped him with, “Perhaps we should talk when this assignment is over.”
Silva straightened and looked down at him. “Yeah, maybe we should.”
He sat in his car and opened the envelope. Inside was the dossier on Robert Brixton, two photos of him, and some additional notes. Dexter said that it was to look like a mugging gone bad, and Silva decided to use a knife. He had a collection of them in various sizes. His favorite was a nine-inch black tactical stiletto switchblade with a black Teflon-coated blade and dark horn handle. But he took note that Brixton was a private detective, which meant that he might possibly be armed. That posed a dilemma. Never bring a knife to a gunfight, as Sean Connery sagely counseled in The Untouchables. Still, the use of a knife would more appropriately point to a street assault. He’d take a knife and a handgun.
He drove home and sat in his office, studying the materials and photos until he’d committed them to memory. Satisfied that he had, he followed the rules by taking the materials and photos to the garage and burning them over a metal trash can.
His anger at Dexter, and at his mother’s bounce back from death, had now dissipated. Having a definite assignment caused a rush of adrenaline, a sense of purpose. Brixton’s face was displayed before him as though on a screen and would remain there until it was over.
• • •
When Brixton left his breakfast with Will Sayers he went back to his hotel, where he reviewed what he would say should he actually reach Mitzi Cardell. Calling her was a long shot, but the message from Joe Cleland had regenerated his optimistic side. He reached for the phone a few times but didn’t pick it up. This is silly, he told himself as he finally grabbed it and dialed the number he’d been given. It rang a number of times until a woman answered.
“Ms. Cardell, please,” Brixton said.
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“Robert Brixton.”
“What is it in reference to?”
“She’ll know. Just tell her that it’s important that we speak.”
There were muffled female voices in the background. Finally, the same woman came on the line. “Ms. Cardell is occupied at the moment.”
“Look,” Brixton said, “you tell Ms. Cardell that if she doesn’t talk to me she can read about what I have to say in tomorrow’s paper.”
He heard the phone being put down on a hard surface and chewed his cheek as he waited, drumming his fingertips on the desktop.
“Mr. Brixton?” It was a different female voice.
“Ms. Cardell?”
“Yes. I want you to know how much I resent this intrusion.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t mean to intrude but I have some questions I need answered.”
“I’m sure I don’t have the answers to any questions you might have.”
“You’re wrong, Ms. Cardell. Look, I’m here in D.C. to get the answers I need and I’m not leaving until I do. I’m not out to hurt anybody, including you. I just need to find out what happened twenty years ago in Savannah when a guy was stabbed to death in a parking lot and a young black girl was paid to take the rap. That ring any bells?”
Her silence was thick.
“I also want to find out why a guy who worked for your father, Jack Felker, paid a hit