Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [115]
Annabel smiled and continued what she was doing. Her husband liked to call things what they were, and refused to order a Grande Latte at Starbucks, preferring to ask for a medium latte.
They took a break at five and sat in Annabel’s office at the rear of the gallery. Mac had prepared a checklist, which they went over. That chore completed, Annabel said, “So, tell me again how it’s supposed to go with Mitzi and Brixton.”
“I have no idea how it will go, Annie,” he replied. “What I wanted was for the two of them to get together and have Brixton tell her about the case he’s working on.”
“I’m surprised that she agreed to sit down with him,” Annabel said.
“I was, too. He must have been pretty persuasive when he spoke with her on the phone. She sounded stressed when she called me about it.”
“Do you really think that what he says is true, that she stabbed that man twenty years ago and paid off a young black girl to take the rap?”
“You know, Annie, I do believe him. I hope he’s wrong, for Mitzi’s sake, but his story rings true. He doesn’t strike me as the sort of man who buys into fanciful conspiracy theories, or chases juicy gossip. Will Sayers doesn’t see him that way either. But we’ll see how it goes tonight. I promised Mitzi that I’d be the buffer between them. If I think he’s going down the wrong path, I’ll end the conversation.”
“Well,” Annabel said, standing, “if it is true, it’s going to raise a lot of eyebrows in this town. Want to grab a bite before our guests arrive? I never get to eat the things we serve at our own parties.”
• • •
Silva sat in his Porsche a half block from the Hotel Rouge and waited for his prey to emerge again. Brockman was at the curb three car lengths behind. It was five o’clock. The rain had stopped but the sky continued to threaten. Silva considered calling Brixton’s room to be sure that he was still inside but thought better of it. Had he left the hotel during the time that Silva was at home? Possible.
He got out of the Porsche and walked in front of the hotel, glancing into the lobby for a sign of Brixton. Nothing. He reached a corner and retraced his steps. This time he saw Brixton, who stood at the reception desk talking with the clerk. Silva returned to the car. It wouldn’t do for Brixton to see him for the third time that day. He’d consider that more than a coincidence. He was a private detective who’d been a cop for more than twenty years. His antenna would be up. Better to stay out of his sight until it was time to follow through. He touched the knife through the fabric of the jacket, did the same with the gun on the other side. He was getting antsy. He wanted it over with. It was dragging on too long. The rain started again and he closed the window. The windshield fogged up, interfering with his view of the hotel’s entrance. He swore and wiped condensation off the windshield, turned on the engine and the AC. “Come on,” he said aloud, “go someplace.”
Brockman wasn’t antsy. He was plain bored. He thought of a movie he’d seen three times, The French Connection, in which the character Popeye Doyle, played by Gene Hackman, had to stand outside in the cold while staking out a suspect. It was only minutes on the screen but it was obvious that cops spent hours doing that sort of thing. A waste of time as far as Brockman was concerned. If it hadn’t been for Dexter’s orders—and he would follow those orders because he’d never had such a lucrative job before—he would just walk up to that silly sports car and shoot this guy Silva in the head. But he was told to get close to him and wait for the go-ahead from Dexter. “The sale is on,” he said a few times to make sure he’d remember it.
Brixton exited the hotel, causing Silva to sit up straight and to lean closer to the windshield. The rain shower had been brief. Brixton stood among the statues, a tan raincoat over his arm. He lit a cigarette and seemed in no rush to go anywhere. Silva glanced in his rearview mirror and saw