Monument to Murder

by Margaret Truman

  “It’s important, Lance, that I speak with her today,” Mitzi said.

  “I’ll make her aware that you called, Ms. Cardell.”

  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, and drove to his local bank, where he deposited the check into his Silva Consulting checking account. In a few months he would charter a private jet in Miami to fly to an offshore island where the safe’s contents would be added to an account already holding almost $2 million, no questions asked.

  He spent the afternoon swimming in the pool he’d had installed shortly after purchasing the house and lolled poolside reading Sun Tzu and the Art of Modern Warfare by Mark McNeilly. A pile of books on military tactics and practices was beside his bed, and his collection of war films on DVD was extensive.

  He napped late in the afternoon. After spending a few hours going through his CD collection, he got into the Porsche and drove to the 701 Restaurant on Pennsylvania Avenue, where he enjoyed his favorite dishes there, its renowned clam chowder and steak tartare.

  He was home by nine. At ten his driveway alarm signaled that a car had arrived. Dressed in his red kimono and flip-flops, he went to the door and greeted his visitor, a tall, statuesque blonde with slightly oversized facial features and wearing a miniskirt, knee-length black boots, and a scoop-neck yellow T-shirt. She followed him to the bedroom, where he put a CD of operatic arias on the sound system, and sat in an overstuffed chair. Without any instruction she removed her clothing and stood naked.

  “Go on,” he said, “walk around.”

  She paraded about the large room until he told her to stop directly in front of him.

  “I told you not to wear perfume,” he said.

  “I’m not, sugar. I never do when I’m with you.”

  “I smell it.”

  “Maybe it’s the soap I used,” she said, sensing a rising anger in his voice. “I bought a new soap and used it just before I came. I thought—”

  “I don’t pay you to think,” he said. “I don’t like that soap.”

  “Sorry, sugar,” she said. “I won’t use it again.”

  “Go on, walk,” he said as he opened his kimono.

  Fifteen minutes later, after she’d sashayed around the room and struck a series of provocative poses, he relieved himself.

  “Feel better?” she asked.

  “I always do when you’re here,” he said. “Go on, get dressed, I have things to do.”

  She went downstairs and found the usual envelope containing five hundred dollars on a table near the door.

  CHAPTER 16

  The man known as Dexter pulled into the parking lot of his favorite McDonald’s and went inside. He ordered what he always ordered, a cheeseburger, fries, and a soft drink. He’d just settled at a table and removed the wrapping from his burger when the man he was to meet walked in and joined him. This particular McDonald’s had been the chosen scene of their infrequent clandestine meetings for the past six months. Was it time for a change? Probably.

  “Aren’t you eating?” Dexter asked.

  “I’m not in the mood. I just came from a meeting at the White House.”

  “The president?”

  “No. Some of his intelligence people. They say the old man is furious at how things went down with Mutki.”

  Dexter had just raised the burger to his lips. He paused, lowered it, and said, “Why would he feel that way? It went smoothly.”

  “It isn’t a matter of how it went, Dexter. It’s a matter of where it happened.”

  Dexter took a bite, chewed, and said, “We chose the ideal place for it to happen. We researched it thoroughly before he came.”

  “It shouldn’t have happened here in the States, not in Washington, D.C.”

  “You should get something to eat,” Dexter said. “It looks strange for you to be sitting here without eating.”

  His luncheon companion drummed his fingertips on the table.

  “You were well aware,”
Dexter said, “that the method, timing, and location were our choice, just as it’s always been. It can be no other way.”

  “It may be necessary to reevaluate that, Dexter.”

  Dexter shrugged, finished his burger, and dipped a fry into ketchup. “That, of course, is up to you and your people,” he said in a casual tone that mirrored his lack of concern. “But I remind you that the process put in place by the highest echelons of your agency has served you well.” His smile was thin. “Get something to eat. I’m uncomfortable sitting with you.”

  His companion leaned across the table and said in almost a whisper, “I don’t appreciate being on the receiving end of the president’s wrath. Surely you can understand that.”

  “Of course I do, but it really can’t be a concern of mine or my people. We do what we do, and we do it well. Political ramifications or administrations don’t interest us.”

  His visitor stood and Dexter assumed he was going to the counter to order. Instead, he left and disappeared into the parking lot.

  • • •

  Fletcher Jamison, president of the United States, was in a foul mood. Foul moods were not the exception for this president. His temper was, as those close to him had experienced, volcanic. Jamison was a tall, angular man with a heavy five-o’clock shadow that seemed to match his frame of mind, a black, grainy beard line that accentuated his jowls, which were prominent, and his scowls, which were numerous. There were those who thought he looked something like former President Nixon, although he was considerably taller than the thirty-seventh president of the United States. Others said he was “Lincolnesque” because of his height and prominent nose. Physical comparisons failed to define Jamison, the nation’s forty-fifth president. It was his style, his demeanor that characterized him for those with whom he interacted in the White House and in Congress. “He has a mean streak,” some whispered after an especially brutal session with him. “He has a nasty gene,” others said.

  Voters seldom saw that side of him, although his tough talk on a variety of issues, domestic and international, promised them a man who wouldn’t kowtow to anyone, friend or foe, just the sort of president the country needed in hard times. His hair-trigger smile and large hand that landed on the shoulders of thousands of voters endeared him to them, a stern father figure who would undo all the mistakes of the past administration, who would reestablish America as the best and most powerful nation in the world, calling the shots around the globe and putting home-grown laggards on notice that they’d better get their act together. Although it was never played—the separation of church and state was still sacrosanct—you could almost hear “Onward Christian Soldiers” played each time he left the White House and mingled with the masses.

  He’d conducted a meeting earlier that day with a member of his National Security staff whose primary responsibility was as liaison with the Central Intelligence Agency. The topic was the death of the Kurdish journalist Afran Mutki. Jamison had recently expressed his unhappiness with Mutki’s postings from Iraq in which he scorched the Iraqi central government for its treatment of the Kurds, and Jamison had made his feelings known to his staff.

  News of Mutki’s death had reached Jamison after he and his wife had retired for the evening to their private quarters on the second floor. The president took the call, smiled, hung up, and shot his fist into the air.

  “What was that about?” the first lady asked from where she sat browsing through Washingtonian Magazine.

  “That Kurdish journalist, Mutki, is dead,” Jamison answered.

  “That makes you happy?” she asked absently.

  “He was stirring up trouble for the Iraqi government, and that meant trouble for me. These writers who think they know so damn much give me a royal pain in the ass. They get it wrong most of the time. What the hell do they contribute except confusion?”

  She continued skimming the magazine.

  “How was your day?” he asked.

  “Busy, as usual. I got a call from Mitzi. She sounded upset.”

  Jamison snorted. “Your friend always seems upset. What’s the matter this time, her napkin supplier on strike?”

  She lowered the magazine to her lap and said, “That’s cruel.”

  “No, it’s accurate. She’s a hysteric, Jeanine.”

  “She is not. Anyway, we’re having lunch here tomorrow.”

  “What’s she upset about?”

  “I don’t know. She said she’d tell me at lunch.”

  “She’s so damn dramatic. Don’t forget we’re having the Israeli PM here tomorrow.”

  “That’s at four. Mitzi and I are meeting at noon.”

  “Are arrangements set for dinner with the PM?”

  “As far as I know. I’ll confirm everything in the morning with the staff.”

  Jamison sat in his favorite chair and looked out the window. “You happy?” he asked.

  His question surprised her. Of course she was happy. She was living in the White House with all the accompanying perks, the first lady of the land, the pinnacle of power for a woman. Happy? Was politics corrupt?

  “You didn’t answer me,” Jamison said.

  “I’m happy. I wish there was a little more time to escape, just escape, but yes, I am happy. Are you?”

  “I’m not sure I’d call it happy, Jeanine. Winning the election made me happy. Why shouldn’t it? This country needs a new direction and I’m the one to lead it there. I just never realized how many people there are who’d like to take me down.”

  “You knew that when you decided to run.”

  “I know, I know, but they’re warped, Jeanine, warped, vicious people. They look for every little thing to criticize. If it weren’t for the Secret Service I’d have taken a bullet like the Kennedys by now.”

  “Don’t talk that way, Fletch.”

  “It’s true, babe.

  She dropped the magazine to the floor, went to him, sat on his lap, and caressed his cheek. “We need some time away from here,” she said.

  “That’d be nice.”

  “I’m going to Savannah for that fund-raising event for CVA. Maybe we could—”

  “When’s that?”

  “Next week. Maybe we could spend a few days down on Tybee Island with the Warrens.”

  He shook his head. “Not a chance.”

  “Then I suppose we’ll just have to find an hour of escape right here.”

  She kissed him softly on the lips, then increased the pressure. They left the couch, slipped out of their bedclothes, and climbed into the king-size bed.

  “If that red phone rings I’ll scream,” she said with a playful giggle.

  “Don’t worry about that, babe,” he said. “If the world is about to blow up I’ll just suggest it be put off for an hour. Hell, I am the president of the United States.”

  She laughed again as she straddled him. “An hour?” she said. “Sure you can make it last that long?”

  CHAPTER 17

  Annabel Lee Smith arrived at her Georgetown gallery early the next morning. A shipment of four rare, painted baked clay Mayan plates had arrived the afternoon before and she wanted to create an appropriate display for them. She’d purchased them in Mexico the preceding month from a collector with whom she’d dealt before, and based upon her growing expertise in things pre-Columbian she was confident that she’d made a wise purchase, and one that conformed to U.S. regulations regarding the importation of antiquities.

  Walking into the gallery always filled Annabel with a sense of calm and pride. She’d developed her interest in pre-Columbian art while in undergraduate school and had devoured every book she could find on the subject. She continued her study of it during law school and after she’d gone into practice, always thinking of opening a gallery but unable to make the dramatic decision to abandon law to pursue her dream.

  Meeting and falling in love with Mac Smith had been the turning point. He’d encouraged her to take down her Esq. shingle, find the right location, and indulge her passion. The spa
ce in trendy Georgetown was charming and she loved being part of the neighborhood’s commercial community. Owning the gallery brought her into contact with pre-Columbian collectors around the world and she’d made numerous trips to seek out rare finds.

  She’d never looked back.

  By ten o’clock, she’d arranged the plates on a large, glass-covered pedestal in the center of the gallery, having taken a few minutes to circle it slowly and admire the presentation. She had then retreated to her office at the gallery’s rear to compile a list of area collectors who might be interested in the new arrivals, and was busy with that task when the chime sounded, indicating that someone had entered. She got up from her desk and went to greet her first potential customer of the day.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  “Good morning,” Emile Silva said. “Mind if I just browse?”

  “Please do. Do you have an interest in pre-Columbian?”

  “I’ve just begun to develop one,” he said.

  “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.”