Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [92]
Smith pointed to his phone. “Be my guest,” he said.
Brixton dialed the number given him by Cynthia. Sayers picked up immediately.
“It’s Bob Brixton.”
“Hey, pal, how goes it?”
“Okay. I’m sitting here with Mac Smith.”
“Say hello.”
“Shall do.” He filled Sayers in on what had transpired and suggested that he call Mitzi.
“Yeah, I think it’s a good idea. If what you told me back in Savannah is true, I might get this bureau off to a hell of a good start. Where are you staying?”
“The Hotel Rouge on Sixteenth Street. Here’s the number.”
“You’ll hear from me.”
• • •
Sayers didn’t waste any time in calling Mitzi Cardell. Before Brixton even left Smith’s apartment in the Watergate, the rotund reporter was on the phone. Mitzi’s social secretary answered.
“This is Willis Sayers, Washington bureau chief for the Savannah Morning News. I’d like to speak with Ms. Cardell.”
“What is it in reference to?”
“A story I’m working on about a crime that occurred in Savannah twenty years ago.”
“Please hold.”
She went to where Mitzi was reviewing the menu for that night’s dinner party for the Brazilian ambassador and his wife. “There’s a reporter from the Savannah paper on the line. He wants to speak with you.”
“About what?”
“Something to do with a twenty-year-old crime in Savannah.”
Mitzi sat heavily in her chair.
“You okay?” her secretary asked.
“Yes, I’m fine. Tell him I’m not available.”
The secretary told Sayers what she’d been instructed to say.
“Here’s my number. Please have her call me as soon as she’s free.”
• • •
It was a busy day at Annabel Lee Smith’s gallery. There seemed to be more tourists than usual. Hordes of men and women deftly avoided bumping into one another on Georgetown’s congested Wisconsin Avenue and M Streets, the centers of this trendy albeit commercial section of the nation’s capital. Shops of every description lined the streets, a browser’s paradise. The attractive window display that Annabel had created stopped its share of admirers, many of whom decided to explore further inside—and to enjoy a refreshing dose of air-conditioning.
She was engaged in conversation with a visiting couple from Germany whose knowledge of pre-Columbian art was impressive, and Annabel thought she might have a potential paying customer. But they said they’d return another day, and Annabel walked them to the door. As she bid them farewell, she looked outside and saw Emile Silva staring at the gallery. It took a few seconds for her to recognize him. When she did, she realized that he was the man who’d been in the gallery a few mornings earlier, the man for whom Mac had developed an instant suspicion. She avoided his eyes and closed the door. A moment later the bell over the door sounded and he entered.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello.”
“I’ve been here before,” he said.
“Have you?”
“Yes. You don’t recognize me?”
“I’m sorry but I don’t. I’m getting ready to close.” They were alone.
Silva ignored her and slowly, deliberately went to each piece of art and stood before it before moving on to the next piece.
“Is there something specific I can help you with?” Annabel asked, moving close to the telephone on her desk.
“No, nothing specific.”
“Well, I’m sorry but I really have to close up now. Thank you for stopping by.”
He turned and stared at her. What was he thinking? she wondered. Was he angry? She now realized what it was that had set Mac on edge about him. His eyes were dull, dead, as though disconnected from his brain, separated from his emotional cortex.
What should I do? she wondered. Demand that he leave? Try to coax him out the door?
Before she could decide on a course of action, he smiled, turned, and was gone, carrying with him the visual image he’d created of her naked. He’d mentally stripped her of her clothing.
Annabel shuddered as though she were, indeed, naked, chilled. She went to the door, locked it, turned the sign so that it read CLOSED, and slumped against the wall.
CHAPTER 33
“… And so we’ve managed to pull ourselves out of our six-month recession far faster than more developed economies