Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [121]
CHAPTER 44
Silva had all he could do not to drive the Porsche flat out and possibly attract law enforcement attention. He kept close to the speed limit, his eyes constantly looking in the rearview mirror for signs of the police, an endless stream of invective flowing from his mouth, shouted at times. Every hit he’d accomplished for Dexter and his people had gone without a hitch. Now this. His target was alive and could identify him. So could the couple who’d arrived in their car, the woman with the auburn hair and her smug husband. “Damn you all!” he yelled above the engine noise.
When he wasn’t swearing at his bad luck, he was formulating his next step. Time to get away, out of the country, go where his money was stashed, sever all ties in D.C., make a clean escape and put it all behind him.
He pulled into the driveway of his mother’s home, where a strange car was parked. He got out and looked back at the street. A blue SUV slowly drove by but kept going. He entered the house and found his mother in her wheelchair in the living room. A black woman in a crisp white nurse’s uniform sat in a corner, reading the day’s paper.
“Who are you?” Silva demanded.
She stood and said she was one of the home-health-care aides assigned to care for Mrs. Silva.
“Get out!” Silva exploded.
“Who are you?” the woman asked.
“It’s my son, Emile,” his mother said in her little-girl voice.
“That’s right. I’m her son,” Silva said. “You can go home now. I’m here to take care of her.”
The nurse looked at Mrs. Silva, who smiled sweetly and nodded. “My son is home now,” she said. “You can go.”
It was obvious that the nurse wasn’t sure what to do.
“It’s okay,” Emile said in a more modulated voice. “You’ll get paid for your full shift. Go on now, please leave.”
She gathered her things and left. Silva looked out the window and saw her get into her car and pull away.
James Brockman, too, saw the aide leave. He’d turned around at the end of the street, parked, turned off the engine and lights, and waited. He’d spotted Silva’s black Porsche where he’d parked around the corner from the Hotel Rouge and had pulled in behind him. He’d seen Silva’s mad dash to the car, his screeching getaway from the curb, and had managed to follow him to this house.
“I’m so happy that you’re here, Emile. We can have dinner and you can play me some music.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
He ran up the stairs and went to the bedroom that had been his while growing up. He closed the door, sat on his bed, and attempted to force clarity into his thinking. As hard as he tried, every thought was fleeting, jumbled, nothing sticking long enough to make sense. He knew only that he had to do something and do it quickly.
He pulled his cell phone from his jacket and dialed a special, private number. Dexter answered. The little man was at home watching a TV cooking show.
“It’s Emile.”
Dexter immediately knew that something was wrong. “What is it?” he asked.
“The assignment went bad.”
“How so?”
“He’s alive. He saw me.”
“He can identify you?”
“Yeah, I think so. Two other people he was with saw me, too. I’m leaving.”
“Where are you going, Emile?” Dexter asked in a calm voice as he turned down the TV volume.
“I have a place. Look, I tried my best. Things just got fouled up, that’s all. I want my money for tonight.”
“I think that can be arranged, Emile. I’ll have it deposited in—”
“No, no. I want it in cash. Meet me someplace with it.”
“Emile, really, you don’t think I can put my hands on that much cash tonight, do you?”
Silva’s anger level rose. He was being talked to as though he were a child. He looked at his surroundings. A dozen unblinking, nonjudgmental stuffed animals peered up at him.
“Emile,” his mother called from downstairs. “Where are you?”
“I suggest, Emile, that we meet tomorrow after you’ve calmed down,” Dexter said soothingly. “We can have lunch at, say—”
“Listen, you miserable bastard,” Silva sputtered, “you listen to me. I know enough to put you and your friends away for life.”
“I will not