Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [116]
Silva almost lost the taxi a few times but managed to stay behind it when the driver drove into Georgetown and came to a stop in front of Annabel’s gallery. He watched Brixton get out, pay the driver, and enter the gallery. Interesting, Silva thought. It was where he’d first encountered the beautiful woman with the auburn hair, and her husband. What was the connection? He was tempted to find a parking space and go inside, too, but knew that would be foolhardy. Georgetown was busy, lots of pedestrians and cars. He decided to circle a few times in the hope that a space would open up close to the gallery entrance. It took three passes before he backed into a vacant slot. He turned off the ignition and trained his eyes on the door and the sign above: PRE-COLUMBIAN GALLERY—A. LEE SMITH PROPRIETOR.
Brockman double-parked while waiting for a space of his own, flipping the bird at other drivers who beeped their horns at him. A car parked directly behind Silva’s Porsche eventually pulled away from the curb and Brockman moved his SUV into the vacant spot. Silva glanced in his rearview window and saw the SUV’s driver, a man with sandy hair. Brockman saw Silva’s eyes in the mirror and decided he’d better get out and observe from a distance.
He crossed the street and stood beneath the overhang of a store that sold movie memorabilia, where he had an unobstructed view of the Porsche and the gallery. He thought again of Popeye Doyle and wondered how long he’d have to wait. Brockman was a gun fanatic and had a large stash of weapons from which to choose. This day he carried a “Baby” Glock 9 mm subcompact handgun in a shoulder holster beneath his kelly-green windbreaker; he’d left a Heckler & Koch PSG1 sniper’s rifle with a telescopic sight in the SUV.
And so the waiting game began.
Guests began to arrive a little before seven. Mac and Annabel greeted them as they came through the door. The gallery’s stereo system shuffled six jazz CDs that emphasized piano and guitar cuts. Mac kept his eye out for Mitzi Cardell and began to wonder whether she’d had second thoughts and would be a no-show. That concern vanished when a gray Lincoln Town Car pulled up and Mitzi got out. She paused at the door as though uncertain whether to enter. As the Town Car pulled away, she pulled on the door and stepped through. Mac was the first to extend a hand. “Great seeing you, Mitzi,” he said.
“I wasn’t sure whether—”
“Come on in, have a drink and something to eat,” he said, leading her to the bar.
Brixton watched her entrance from a far corner of the gallery and wondered when Smith would bring her to him for an introduction. When it appeared that it would not happen soon, he moved to where Annabel was chatting with a husband and wife. She introduced Brixton to them. The wife asked whether he was a connoisseur of pre-Columbian art.
“Afraid not,” he said through a grin. “I’m here because I’m friends with Mac and Annabel.” He glanced at Annabel to see whether by claiming friendship he’d stepped over the line. Her wide smile and hand on his arm said that he hadn’t.
It was a lively party; the bouncy jazz music, top-shelf liquor, myriad tasty finger foods, and spirited conversation ensured that it would be. There were lots of oohs and ahs about Fernando Botero Angulo’s works that were the reason for the gathering. One of the guests, a wealthy D.C. real estate man, offered to buy them on the spot. Annabel suggested that they talk in the morning, to which he agreed, with the caveat, “Don’t you dare sell them out from under me, Annabel.”
She assured him that she wouldn’t.
As the party wound down and some guests left, Mac brought Brixton over to meet Mitzi.
“Hello, Ms. Cardell,” Brixton said.
“Hello,” she