Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [112]
When his marriage was breaking up and he was recuperating from the gunshot wound to his knee, he found the center the most welcoming and comforting of all the monuments to fallen heroes scattered throughout Washington. He would have a drink ( or two or three) in the Roof Terrace Restaurant and Bar, eat dinner there, catch a free show in the Millenium Theater at the far end of the 630-foot-long Grand Foyer, and enjoy a cigarette (or two or three) on the expansive open-air rooftop terrace accessible from the foyer and offering panoramic views of the Potomac River below; the Roslyn, Virginia, skyline to the west; Washington Harbour and the infamous Watergate complex to the north; and the Lincoln Memorial and George Washington University to the east. The flight path into Reagan National Airport ran along the river and was a source of complaints from many, but Brixton liked seeing the jets scream past, wondering who was on the planes and what their lives were like.
He got out of the taxi and looked up. The pristine blue sky was now pewter, and the wind had picked up. You didn’t have to be a meteorologist to forecast that rain was on its way.
He walked the length of the Hall of States, in which flags from every state in the union were colorfully displayed, reached the Grand Foyer, and went back down the Hall of Nations, which featured flags from every country recognized by the United States. The five-hundred-foot journey wreaked havoc with his knee and he found a seat in the foyer, close to the eight-foot-tall Robert Berks bronze bust of President John Kennedy. Sitting there flooded him with memories, not all of them pleasant. He was debating leaving and going back to the hotel when he saw the man with whom he’d had the brief encounter in Dupont Circle. He seemed to be admiring artwork in the Grand Foyer, standing close to a piece, then stepping back to gain a wider perspective. Brixton considered going over to him but decided against it. Instead, he went through doors leading to the huge rooftop terrace, pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and leaned on the railing. The Potomac flowed by below; a crew from one of the universities practiced its sport on the brown water while other small craft headed upstream and down. The wind had picked up in intensity, and he felt a wayward raindrop hit his cheek. No wonder the terrace was virtually empty. It wasn’t the sort of weather that enticed people outdoors.
“Well, hello there.”
Brixton turned to see the man from Dupont Circle.
“Hi. I see you decided to come here, too.”
“Thanks to your suggestion. Beautiful views, huh?” he said, joining Brixton at the railing.
“Yeah.”
A commercial jet heading for National Airport roared down the river and disappeared to their left.
“Those things are noisy,” Emile Silva said.
“That they are. I read that when they designed the Kennedy Center they made it a box within a box to soundproof the performances from the planes.”
“That so?”
“It’s what I read.”
Silva’s hand went to the switchblade in his pocket. He ran through a mental checklist. The jets were coming with regularity, their screaming engines providing the perfect cover for the sound of flicking open the blade and any sounds that might come from his victim. He glanced over at Brixton, whose exposed neck provided a vulnerable target for the blade. He’d ram it into the neck and twist, severing arteries. He looked at the jacket Brixton was wearing. It came down over the rear pockets in his slacks. Chances were that he kept his wallet in one of those pockets. He’d have to move fast to find the wallet and extract it from the pocket, pull out the cash and credit cards, run back inside, drop the wallet in the Grand Foyer,