Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [123]
“I’d seen the guy twice before,” Brixton told them after he’d called Flo, and after the police had taken a formal statement and left. “He sat down on a bench with me in Dupont Circle, and ended up at the Kennedy Center when I went there. I never thought anything of it.”
“He’d obviously targeted you,” Annabel said.
“Looks that way,” Brixton agreed. “The question is, why?”
“Has to be the case you’ve been working,” Mac said flatly.
“But who would have sicced him on me?” Brixton mused. “The only person in D.C. with a stake in this is Ms. Cardell, and I somehow can’t picture her hiring a hit man.” After a silence, he added, “And the first lady.”
“You mentioned that a convict back in Savannah claimed that someone who worked for Mitzi’s father had ordered the hit on your client’s daughter,” Annabel said.
“Ward Cardell is a tough, hard-nosed businessman, and there are plenty of stories about people he’s screwed,” Brixton said. “I’m sure she kept her father in the loop about me and what I was after.” He shrugged, causing his bandaged biceps to ache.
“It hurts,” Annabel said.
“Not as much as letting the creep get away with stabbing me. I’m getting old. I’m not as cautious as I used to be. The reflexes aren’t what they were.”
“You had no reason to anticipate that someone was out to kill you, Robert,” Mac said. “I’m just glad you forgot your raincoat.”
Brixton laughed, which also caused him pain. “Flo’s coming tomorrow to drive me home. She’s my lady friend.”
“Like to meet her,” Mac said. “I have a suggestion. We’ll pick you up tomorrow when they discharge you and take you to our apartment. Your lady, Flo, can meet up with you there and the two of you can swing by the hotel later to collect your things.”
“I don’t want to intrude,” Brixton said.
“Robert,” Mac said, laying a hand on Brixton’s shoulder, “you’ve already intruded, and it’s been one of the more interesting intrusions I can ever remember. No arguments. We’ll call you tomorrow.”
• • •
The Smiths picked Brixton up the following morning and brought him to their Watergate apartment. Brixton had given Flo directions and she planned to meet him there at two. There was much to talk about before her arrival.
The Washington Post carried a lengthy story about the fire in Virginia and the man who’d been killed, Emile Silva. According to the reporters covering it, the authorities suspected that the man who had shot Silva, James Brockman, had also set the fire, for reasons unknown. A woman identified as Rose Silva, the dead man’s mother, had died in the blaze. The investigation was ongoing.
But it wasn’t the article’s words that commanded the attention of Brixton and the Smiths. It was the photo of Emile Silva.
“That’s the guy,” Brixton said.
“Looks like him, although we didn’t get much of a look,” Annabel said.
“But I did,” Brixton said. “That’s him! No question about it.”
“What’s the link between this gunman, Brockman, and Silva’s attack on you?” Smith mused aloud.
No one had an answer.
Smith had invited Willis Sayers to join them and he arrived in time for lunch.
“You sure you’re really hurt, Robert,” Sayers said pleasantly, “or are you just looking for attention?”
“Want to see my wound?” Brixton replied as he threatened to remove his shirt and the bandage.
“No, please no,” Sayers said, “I don’t need you to pull an LBJ on me. So, fill me in, buddy. Tell me what happened.”
Brixton ran through the events of the preceding evening, including his conversation with Mitzi Cardell.
“She admitted it?” Sayers said.
“She admitted that her teenage girlfriend, Jeanine Montgomery, did the stabbing, and that her father, Ward Cardell, arranged to pay off Louise Watkins to go to prison for it.”
“Whew!” Sayers said. “The first lady of the land a murderer.”
“Whoa,” said Smith. “I think we should back up a little. Robert is right. Mitzi’s comments and answers to his questions leave little doubt that what he’s been saying is true. But as an attorney I should warn you that none of it would stand up in court.”
“Even with someone like you corroborating Robert’s claim?