Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [84]
“Where is she?”
The doctor gave him the information.
“I’ll be there right away.”
“Yes, I would suggest that, Mr. Silva.”
He clicked off his cordless phone and sat at his desk. “Poor Ma-ma,” he said. But his words didn’t reflect what he was feeling. A pervasive feeling of glee consumed him and he started to laugh. It began with a series of giggles that grew into helpless hysterical laughter as though he’d just heard the funniest comedian tell the funniest joke. It racked his body until his ribs hurt and he began to cough. He rubbed his eyes and sniffled, sliding down in the chair until he’d fallen off and was now sitting on the floor, arms wrapped tightly about him, his eyes pressed closed.
Two hours later, he stood at her bedside. Tubes protruded from every area of her frail body.
“Ma-ma?” he said. Her eyelids fluttered. She smiled and softly said his name.
“Goodbye, Ma-ma,” he said as a nurse entered the room and asked him to leave while she initiated a procedure.
“She won’t be in pain, will she?” he asked.
“No, she isn’t feeling any pain. She’s heavily sedated. I’ll tell you when you can come back in. I know you want to be with her every possible second.”
“She’s my mother,” he said, impressed with how bereft he could sound.
“And a wonderful one, I’m sure,” said the nurse. “Please. I won’t be long.”
After leaving the hospital, Silva stopped in to see his attorney and told him of his mother’s condition.
“Doesn’t sound good,” the attorney said.
“No, it doesn’t. You have her will.”
“That’s right. She leaves everything to you.”
“I’ll want to sell her house, of course.” Had he followed his true instincts, he would have had the place bulldozed.
“I can handle that,” the attorney said. “I work with good real estate agents.”
“I want to put my house up for sale, too,” said Silva.
“Oh? Thinking of moving out of the area?”
“Yes, to someplace warm and quiet.”
The attorney laughed. “I wouldn’t mind doing that myself.”
“You’ll handle it?”
“Sure. You want me to start the process now?”
“Yes, start it now,” Silva said, the conversation with Dexter about possibly outliving his usefulness fresh in his mind.
• • •
Mackensie Smith and his wife, Annabel Lee Smith, worked together in the kitchen of their apartment in Washington’s infamous Watergate complex. The apartment was large and airy, with a sizable balcony that afforded them unobstructed views of the Potomac River and Georgetown beyond. They’d bought the apartment shortly after marrying in a small, private service at the National Cathedral, officiated by Mac’s friend, a young Episcopal priest. To say that they were happy was to state the overtly obvious.
“What do you know about this fellow?” Annabel asked while washing lettuce. Mac was busy whipping up a mustard sauce to go with the swordfish that they would grill on the balcony.
“Not a lot, Annie, aside from what Will Sayers told me. He’s a private detective in Savannah who’s working on a case that has a Washington connection. He used to be a D.C. cop. Will says he’s a stand-up guy, a straight talker.”
“How will someone like that ever deal with people in this town?” she said with a meaningful laugh.
“It isn’t that bad,” he said.
“Seems to me it’s getting worse, nothing but double-talk and spin coming out of Congress and the White House.” Of the two, Annabel tended to be more direct in her evaluation of politicians and the nation’s political climate. Her views had hardened since Fletcher Jamison took office. To be blunt, as she was capable of being, she considered him an unintelligent man void of convictions and easily manipulated by those around him.
Mac didn’t pursue the discussion, not because he disagreed but because he didn’t want to get the evening off on the heavy, depressing subject of politics. “Will says that this case Brixton is working on goes back twenty years. Not easy digging up information about a case that old.”
“What does he want from you?” she asked after putting the salad ingredients into a spin colander and giving