Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [47]
“That’s wonderful. If you have any questions, please ask.”
Like any shop or gallery owner, Annabel took a moment to size up her visitor. He was of average height, and she estimated his age as mid-to-late thirties. Black hair cut short and fringed with a hint of gray at the temples framed a square, solid, dusky face. He wore blue jeans that looked to Annabel to be more expensive than run-of-the-mill ones, a pale blue button-down shirt, and alligator loafers sans socks; he was a good-looking man whose compact muscular build testified to regular workouts.
“It’s a very nice gallery,” he said as he perused items along one wall.
“Thank you,” she said.
She busied herself behind the counter while he browsed without comment. After ten minutes he said, “Thank you. The pieces are very nice.”
“Would you like to be on my e-mail and mailing list?” she asked.
“No, I don’t think so.”
The door opened and Annabel’s husband came through it.
“This is my husband, Mackensie,” Annabel told the visitor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name.”
Silva smiled, fixed Mac in a hard stare, shook his head, and left the gallery.
“A buyer?” Mac asked.
“Just browsing. See? I arranged the new plates.”
He admired the display along with his wife. “Looks great,” he said.
“I hope they sell.”
“You didn’t know him?” Mac asked.
“Who?”
“The man who just left.”
“No.”
“He wasn’t anxious to give his name.”
Annabel laughed. “He probably didn’t want to be inundated with e-mail and mailings from me. I don’t blame him.”
“Free for lunch?” Mac asked.
“Sure.”
“Founding Farmers by the World Bank, say twelve thirty?”
“See you there.”
They kissed, then Mac stepped out onto the sidewalk where Silva stood looking into an adjacent shop window in which expensive women’s shoes were displayed.
“Beauty of a different sort,” Mac commented as he came up beside him.
“What?”
“Women’s shoes and pre-Columbian art. Beautiful but different.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s right,” Silva said.
The men looked at each other without saying anything else before Silva walked away.
Mac watched him navigate shoppers and disappear into another shop. There was something about the man that bothered Mac. He’d become an astute judge of people, honed by dealing with every possible variety of criminal when practicing law. This man with whom he’d had only the briefest of contact triggered something visceral in the former attorney, nothing he could put his finger on but there nonetheless. It was in the eyes, he decided. There was a coldness there that Smith had seen too many times before, a lack of affect that he’d learned was characteristic of a certain type of man. He made a mental note to suggest to Annabel at lunch that, should the man come into the gallery again, she be on her toes.
Silva, too, had had a negative reaction to this man who was the gallery owner’s husband. This was someone to stay away from and Silva was sorry that he’d visited the gallery. He didn’t know why he felt that way but the presentiment itself was sufficient. Maybe it was the aftershave lotion this man named Mackensie wore, or an odor emanating from his pores. No matter. This was a man who could spell trouble for Silva—for anyone—someone to be avoided. Not that his reaction to Smith mattered. He would never visit the gallery again or have occasion to bump into Annabel’s husband anywhere else.
He was scheduled to meet with Dexter at noon and had decided to spend the latter part of the morning perusing Georgetown’s shops, which he enjoyed doing. Annabel’s gallery was just one of his stops. He had no interest in pre-Columbian art, or any art for that matter, but it had looked like an attractive space in which to kill time.
Emile had assumed that his meeting with Dexter would be at the office building near the Pentagon, but he was mistaken. Dexter had said something about the need to avoid going to that place and had suggested a Burger King on K Street, which amused Silva. Meetings not held at the office were always conducted in fast-food restaurants because Dexter, and those for whom he