Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [43]
Ms. Cardell. Refusing to call her Mitzi was his way of establishing himself as a gatekeeper to be reckoned with. Screw you, Mitzi thought. “Thank you, Lance,” she said.
The click in her ear hurt.
• • •
Across town, Mackensie Smith sat with other members of the commission charged with gathering input from experts on the proposed new legislation on sentencing guidelines. He listened attentively as two witnesses, both retired federal judges, limned their views of what the legislation would mean in courtrooms across America. When they’d completed their testimony and had answered the panel’s questions, Smith and his colleagues retired to a private dining room where they were served lunch.
“So, Mac, what do you make of this Mutki flap?” Smith was asked by a lawyer with whom he’d butted heads in his previous life as a trial attorney.
“I only know what I’ve read,” Smith responded, “and we all know that that’s not a basis for coming to a conclusion.”
“You don’t distrust the media, do you?” his friend said sarcastically.
“On occasion. However, despite the media’s deteriorating reputation, it’s still the only true check-and-balance we have. But as far as this Mutki thing goes, I just don’t know. I remember when the Markov case broke. I avoided people with umbrellas for weeks.”
“If it did involve the use of some high-tech device and exotic poison like ricin, it was ordered from on high, that’s for certain. He was a thorn in the side of the Baghdad government.” When Smith didn’t respond, he continued. “I was talking to a source at MPD. He tells me that they’ve tracked down the driver and the tour guide of the bus that Mutki was on and have questioned them. From what I understand, it was during that trip that Mutki complained of something stinging him on the ankle.”
“Were the driver or guide any help?”
“I don’t know. The Bureau’s involved, too, and undoubtedly the CIA. It puts the president in a spot, doesn’t it?”
“One of many spots he’s in.”
“I hear that you were a guest last night at Mitzi Cardell’s home.”
“Yes. Lovely evening.”
“I always knew you were an A-list kind of guy.”
Smith chuckled. “A moment of fleeting fame.” He looked at his watch and sighed. “One more panel of witnesses and we can call it a day. I’m not sure we’re learning anything worthwhile.”
“Just business as usual, Mac. You know how the game is played. Going through the motions is de rigueur. Let’s set up dinner with our wives sometime soon.”
• • •
Emile Silva had taken his luggage with him, intending to go straight to the airport from his mother’s house. He drove home and deposited the large suitcase in a closet. The bag was seldom emptied; he never knew when he would be dispatched on a moment’s notice to some far-flung destination and didn’t want to be hampered by having to pack each time.
The visit with his mother had unsettled him more than it usually did. She smelled of death, a smell that caused him to come close to gagging at times. Silva was especially sensitive to odors and had been since he was a child, suffering headaches and nausea when confronted with an odor that no one else in the vicinity detected. As he grew older he found himself avoiding crowded, confined spaces. How many times had he changed seats on a bus to escape a woman wearing an offensive perfume? He hated cigarette smoke, yet he decided that the smoking ban in restaurants had only cleared the air for other equally obnoxious smells to permeate. And he was convinced that he could smell trouble. People who were about to cause trouble gave off an odor that only he could detect.
He drove to a post office in The District where he maintained one of several post office boxes. He withdrew an envelope from it and carried it to his car. Back home, he counted the cash in the envelope, $125,000 and a $30,000 check drawn upon an account titled MTE Enterprises and payable to Silva Consulting. Silva didn’t always agree with his “employer” but the payment was consistently on time and in full.
He placed the cash in a wall safe in which an additional $400,000 was secured,