was examining and rubbing his ankle.
“Are you all right?” Silva asked.
“A bite maybe,” the husband said. He straightened up and smiled at Silva. “Clumsy woman,” he said.
“But pretty,” Silva said, which made the wife laugh.
“Yes, pretty,” the husband agreed. “But clumsy.”
Silva looked back to where the sightseeing bus was parked. “I think the driver is about to leave,” he told the couple.
“Yes, we had better go,” said the wife.
They started to walk away but stopped. “Are you coming?” the husband asked.
“No,” Silva said, a broad smile crossing his face. “I think I’ll stay here and have lunch at one of the restaurants, get on a later bus. Go, enjoy yourselves. It’s a beautiful day for it.”
He waited until everyone had boarded and the bus had disappeared from view before getting into a taxi, which took him to the garage near Union Station in which he’d parked his car, a black Lexus sedan. He drove to his home across the Potomac River in suburban Maryland, a remodeled Victorian shielded from view of passersby by a seven-foot high hedgerow and numerous trees. He used a remote device to open the three-car garage, parked the Lexus alongside two other vehicles including a new black Porsche—all three vehicles had recently been reregistered to his mother’s address in suburban Virginia—and took the walking stick to an area of the garage devoted to woodworking. He removed the head of the cane and extracted its triggering mechanism, using a hammer to smash it. Within seconds the table saw had cut the stick and its thin metal shaft into a dozen small pieces, which he secured in a green plastic garbage bag and added it to another bag containing household trash.
He entered the house and went to a sizable room that contained an elaborate home theater system, a floor-to-ceiling wall of books, and a workout area that included a weightlifting bench and an elaborate treadmill. He sat behind his glass-topped desk and dialed a number. A woman answered.
“Good job,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“He said you’re clumsy.”
She laughed.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said.
He ended the call and stripped down to his shorts and sneakers. With a large plasma TV tuned to a local TV news channel, he stepped up onto the fast-moving treadmill and smiled as his tension melted away.
CHAPTER 12
Some pundits compared Mitzi Cardell to that famed D.C. hostess of yesteryear, Perle Mesta, who reigned over Washington society as the “hostess with the mostest,” particularly during the Truman and Eisenhower presidencies (Truman would eventually name her ambassador to Luxembourg).
Married to Pittsburgh’s steel baron George Mesta, she was the only heir to his $78 million fortune when he died in 1925. Feeling unaccepted by Pittsburgh’s social elite, “Pearl” Mesta changed the spelling of her name to “Perle” and moved to the nation’s capital, where she brought together presidents and their first ladies, senators, congressmen, cabinet members, and other political movers and shakers at lavish bipartisan soirees. Her fame eventually reached far beyond the District of Columbia: the composer Irving Berlin based his smash Broadway musical Call Me Madam, starring Ethel Merman, on her.
Mitzi eagerly accepted having the Mesta torch passed to her. She’d married John Muszinski, founder and CEO of Muszinski Financial Group, a man twenty years her senior, and it was his wealth that supported their glittering Washington lifestyle. Mitzi decided early on to use her maiden name, Cardell, which she felt would be more readily accepted than Muszinski by Washington’s social set.
An invitation to Mitzi’s parties at her Georgetown mansion was one of the most coveted in town.
But there were differences between dinner parties hosted by Mitzi Cardell and those staged by Perle Mesta. Perle had been a Democrat who liked Republicans and was an early supporter of the Equal Rights Amendment. Mitzi
“Are you all right?” Silva asked.
“A bite maybe,” the husband said. He straightened up and smiled at Silva. “Clumsy woman,” he said.
“But pretty,” Silva said, which made the wife laugh.
“Yes, pretty,” the husband agreed. “But clumsy.”
Silva looked back to where the sightseeing bus was parked. “I think the driver is about to leave,” he told the couple.
“Yes, we had better go,” said the wife.
They started to walk away but stopped. “Are you coming?” the husband asked.
“No,” Silva said, a broad smile crossing his face. “I think I’ll stay here and have lunch at one of the restaurants, get on a later bus. Go, enjoy yourselves. It’s a beautiful day for it.”
He waited until everyone had boarded and the bus had disappeared from view before getting into a taxi, which took him to the garage near Union Station in which he’d parked his car, a black Lexus sedan. He drove to his home across the Potomac River in suburban Maryland, a remodeled Victorian shielded from view of passersby by a seven-foot high hedgerow and numerous trees. He used a remote device to open the three-car garage, parked the Lexus alongside two other vehicles including a new black Porsche—all three vehicles had recently been reregistered to his mother’s address in suburban Virginia—and took the walking stick to an area of the garage devoted to woodworking. He removed the head of the cane and extracted its triggering mechanism, using a hammer to smash it. Within seconds the table saw had cut the stick and its thin metal shaft into a dozen small pieces, which he secured in a green plastic garbage bag and added it to another bag containing household trash.
He entered the house and went to a sizable room that contained an elaborate home theater system, a floor-to-ceiling wall of books, and a workout area that included a weightlifting bench and an elaborate treadmill. He sat behind his glass-topped desk and dialed a number. A woman answered.
“Good job,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“He said you’re clumsy.”
She laughed.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said.
He ended the call and stripped down to his shorts and sneakers. With a large plasma TV tuned to a local TV news channel, he stepped up onto the fast-moving treadmill and smiled as his tension melted away.
CHAPTER 12
Some pundits compared Mitzi Cardell to that famed D.C. hostess of yesteryear, Perle Mesta, who reigned over Washington society as the “hostess with the mostest,” particularly during the Truman and Eisenhower presidencies (Truman would eventually name her ambassador to Luxembourg).
Married to Pittsburgh’s steel baron George Mesta, she was the only heir to his $78 million fortune when he died in 1925. Feeling unaccepted by Pittsburgh’s social elite, “Pearl” Mesta changed the spelling of her name to “Perle” and moved to the nation’s capital, where she brought together presidents and their first ladies, senators, congressmen, cabinet members, and other political movers and shakers at lavish bipartisan soirees. Her fame eventually reached far beyond the District of Columbia: the composer Irving Berlin based his smash Broadway musical Call Me Madam, starring Ethel Merman, on her.
Mitzi eagerly accepted having the Mesta torch passed to her. She’d married John Muszinski, founder and CEO of Muszinski Financial Group, a man twenty years her senior, and it was his wealth that supported their glittering Washington lifestyle. Mitzi decided early on to use her maiden name, Cardell, which she felt would be more readily accepted than Muszinski by Washington’s social set.
An invitation to Mitzi’s parties at her Georgetown mansion was one of the most coveted in town.
But there were differences between dinner parties hosted by Mitzi Cardell and those staged by Perle Mesta. Perle had been a Democrat who liked Republicans and was an early supporter of the Equal Rights Amendment. Mitzi
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