Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [119]
“What are you going to do next?” Smith asked as they snapped off the office lights and passed through the gallery.
“I suppose I’ll go back, tell my client that her daughter didn’t stab anybody, and hope that’s sufficient for her.”
“But what will she do with that information?” Annabel asked.
Brixton shrugged as Annabel set the alarm and they exited to the street. “That’s up to her,” he said.
“How did you get here tonight?” Smith asked.
“Taxi.”
“We’ll drop you at the hotel,” Smith said. “Our car is in the lot across the street.”
Silva had been afraid that he’d doze off while waiting for something to happen. He saw them, snapped to attention, and turned on the engine.
Brockman saw the Porsche’s headlights come to life and exhaust coming from its rear. He hopscotched through traffic, reached his SUV, climbed in, and started the engine.
Smith pulled out of the small parking lot with Annabel in the front passenger seat and Brixton in the back. They turned right, the opposite direction from which Silva and Brockman were facing. Silva gunned the Porsche, made a U-turn that caused a driver to slam on his brakes, and followed Smith’s car. Brockman cursed the traffic. He knew he’d lose them but assumed they were going to Brixton’s hotel. He turned at the corner and headed for Sixteenth Street, hoping he was right.
CHAPTER 43
Smith pulled up in front of the Hotel Rouge.
“I really appreciate what you did for me tonight,” Brixton said.
“I’m not sure it accomplished anything,” Smith replied. “Knowing what you now know is one thing. Making use of it is another.”
“I’ll leave that up to my client, Mrs. Watkins,” Brixton said.
“What about Will Sayers?” Mac asked. “He’ll want to learn what you learned.”
“I know,” Brixton said wearily. “I meant it when I said that I didn’t want to turn this into a media event.”
“Hard to keep things like this under wraps,” Annabel commented, “especially in this town.”
Brixton’s laugh was sardonic. “You know what?” he said. “I think I won’t worry about what goes down after I report back to my client. Will has been helpful—I wouldn’t have benefited from meeting you if it weren’t for him. I’ll fill him in on what transpired tonight and let him make his own decision about pursuing it. Thanks again for everything.” He reached over the back of the seat and patted them on their shoulders. “If you’re ever in Savannah give me a call. I’ll show you the sights.”
“That’s a deal,” Annabel said. “We’ll stay in touch.”
Brixton got out of the car, waved, and watched them drive away. He debated going inside to the hotel bar but decided he first needed a cigarette. He lit up, inhaled, then exhaled and watched the smoke as it slowly drifted up into the night. Emile Silva watched it, too. He’d parked his Porche around the corner and was slowly walking to the hotel.
It was quiet on Sixteenth Street. Brixton stood among the nude female statues and smiled at one of them. He thought of Flo and that he’d soon be back with her in Savannah. He was engaged in that pleasant contemplation when his cell phone rang.
“Robert,” said the familiar voice of Wayne St. Pierre.
“Hello, Wayne.”
“Hope I’m not disturbing anything important.”
“Just enjoying a cigarette. What’s up?”
“You ought to give them up, Robert. Thought you’d want to know that the ME’s report on Mr. Jack Felker came back late this afternoon. Poor fella died of natural causes. He was one sick puppy, Robert. ME says his body was riddled with the cancer.”
Brixton’s first thought was that the ME was either an idiot or had come up with his finding to suit someone else’s agenda. But he was in no mood to argue it while standing on the street. “Is that so?” he said.
“Just thought you’d want to know,” said St. Pierre.
“Yeah, well, thanks for the news, Wayne.”
“Things goin’ well there in D.C.?”
“Very well.”
“Come on now, my friend, don’t be coy with Uncle Wayne. What’s happening with your case? What did Ms. Cardell have to say?”
“How did you know I spoke with her?”
The patrician detective laughed. “I know everything, my friend.”
“I