Monument to Murder (19 page)

CHAPTER   27

On his way home Brixton had stopped at Lazzara’s for a drink and an order of mussels to go. Now in his apartment, he sat at a table by the window; the folded-up file folder and a piece of paper on which he’d copied the notation about Jeanine Montgomery lay next to the platter of empty mussel shells, leftover garlic bread, and a half-empty bottle of pinot grigio. He’d jotted down the name of the detective listed on the front of the report, someone with whom Brixton had worked while with Metro. That detective would be of no help, having died shortly after taking retirement.

The night had been a blur once he’d discovered Jack Felker’s body and the police had arrived. Now, with solitary time to think, he tried to put things in perspective and to fathom what up to now had been unfathomable.

He cleared the dishes, brought his laptop to the table, and started typing, hoping that the act of putting his thoughts into words would help. He started with a question: why had Jeanine Montgomery been interviewed by a detective following the stabbing in Augie’s parking lot? Had someone seen her there that night and told the police? That seemed to be the only logical explanation. The detective who’d “cleared” Jeanine hadn’t indicated why he’d come to that conclusion. Did she have an alibi for that evening? Had her family’s clout influenced the officer to take her word that she hadn’t been there? He’d seen that happen before—a cop, especially a young one, unduly impressed with someone’s money and power.

Okay,
he thought,
let’s assume that Jeanine Montgomery
was
at Augie’s that night. If so, could Mitzy Cardell have been with her?
There was nothing to indicate that she had been, but they were known to have been close friends since their early years. Bosom buddies. Their families were undoubtedly close. Augie’s was a notorious dump, hardly the sort of place to which someone like Jeanine Montgomery would have ventured alone. Chances were that if she had, indeed, been at Augie’s that night, she’d had a friend with her, a friend like Mitzi Cardell.

Both the Cardell and Montgomery families had plenty of money; paying ten thousand to protect one or both of the girls wouldn’t pose a hardship.

He poured wine into his glass and rapped his knuckles on the table out of frustration. This was all a game of supposition and speculation, a what-if exercise. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t useful. He’d played what-if myriad times while with the Savannah PD and it had paid off big on occasion.

He continued with his imagined scenarios and two-finger typing.

He thought back to what his roly-poly journalist friend, Willis Sayers, had said about Ward Cardell “owning” Warren Montgomery. What had that been about? What were the possibilities? Had Cardell arranged to pay off Louise Watkins not to protect his
own
daughter but to protect her best friend, Jeanine Montgomery, who now happened to be America’s first lady? Wow! That represented the biggest
if
of all.

He picked up the battered file folder. Why would Cardell’s PR guy, Jack Felker, have a file labeled “Watkins”? Had Felker been involved in some way in choreographing the payoff to Louise?

Speaking of Felker, Brixton was convinced that the former PR man had been murdered, the mess in his study and the telltale tiny red dots on his inner eyelid testifying to it. Why? Who? Had Felker told someone that he’d agreed to speak with a private investigator who was delving into the Louise Watkins case more than twenty years later, and had that person made sure that Felker couldn’t go through with the meeting?

Then there was Wayne St. Pierre’s urging that he, Brixton, drop the matter and leave Savannah. He took it at face value, that St. Pierre had his best interests at heart. But was there more to it? St. Pierre ran with the city’s elite when he wasn’t getting down and dirty as a cop. Warren Montgomery had been a guest at St. Pierre’s party that Brixton and Flo had attended, surrounded by Savannah’s A-list, for which Brixton had disdain—or for any so-called A-list, for that matter.

Connect the dots,
he told himself,
only do it better than the government is capable of doing to thwart terrorism.

His office had been broken into, but nothing had been taken. A warning?

Eunice Watkins, Louise’s mother, had received calls from an anonymous person who’d said, “Don’t be stupid,” before hanging up. Stupid about what, reopening the question of her daughter’s imprisonment and murder twenty years ago?

Brixton had been mugged, his briefcase containing his camera and recording equipment stolen. Just a random street crime? Probably. Or did it have to do with the Watkins case, or what the photos on the camera’s disk showed? If the latter was true, it had nothing to do with Watkins.

Had the driver of the red pickup been nothing more than a moronic bubba who showed up once too often, or had he been following Brixton?

And what about the nicely dressed, ferret-faced guy who’d been looking for him at Lazzara’s Restaurant, and who was possibly the same man who’d followed him to Lucas Watkins’s rectory?

He had no facts, no tangible evidence to link any of those events with his having become involved with the Watkins family. He was perfectly willing to chalk them up to coincidence. Coincidences happen, more regularly than we like to admit. What bothered him was that in his four years as a private detective he’d never had such things happen to him. It was the timing. They all coincided with his taking on the Watkins case.

He turned back to the question of Jeanine Montgomery. She now lived in the White House, at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, surrounded by security guards and shielded from anything unpleasant by layers of screeners. Fat chance of ever getting to ask her about the stabbing.

There was her father, Warren Montgomery, who lived right there in Savannah. Calling him and asking about it would probably result in Montgomery’s using his political clout to get his PI license revoked. The same with Ward Cardell. Titans of industry. Successful businessmen. Good at screwing people and getting their way.

Jack Felker’s death now loomed larger and more meaningful than ever. Here was a guy who might possibly have told what he knew about Cardell’s involvement in what had happened at Augie’s that summer night. It was a long shot but Felker, supposedly close to dying, conceivably could have provided some answers. Brixton had almost forgotten about Felker’s death as he grappled with the other questions that boomeranged around in his brain.

He was sure that Felker had been murdered. Was it because he knew too much and had agreed to meet with Brixton? That was a good possibility. No, it was even better than that. Why else kill the guy? It wasn’t a robbery gone wrong. Whoever rifled through his files wasn’t looking to steal something of value, something that could be peddled through Savannah’s underground of stolen goods. He was after information—just as Brixton had been. And he’d probably gotten what he was after. The empty file folder with
WATKINS
on the tab had obviously contained information. Sloppy to have left the empty folder behind. It might not have contained anything relevant but it did confirm to Brixton that Felker, who had been associated with Ward Cardell at the time, knew something about what had gone down with Louise Watkins. And it was reasonable to assume that Cardell did, too.

He saved what he’d written, closed the laptop, and emptied the wine bottle. He was brimming with energy, and anger, and felt as though he might burst at any second.

The phone rang. It was Flo.

“How was your fund-raiser?” he asked.

“Boring. How was your evening?”

“Not boring. Feel like a nightcap someplace?

“You okay?”

“I’m not sure. The lobby lounge at the Marriott Riverfront in a half hour? It’s usually quiet there. I need to vent.”

She said she’d meet him there.

As he prepared to leave the apartment he glanced at the slip of paper on which Will Sayers had written Mackensie Smith’s Washington phone number. He’d make that call first thing in the morning. He’d decided that there was only one person with whom he had a chance of finding out what had happened in Augie’s parking lot twenty years ago, and that was Mitzi Cardell.

Jesus!

CHAPTER   28

Brixton stayed at Flo’s house that night. When he awoke the following morning he felt strangely relieved and enjoyed a newfound sense of control.

The Watkins case had overwhelmed him. He’d decided on his way to meet Flo that he was in over his head, out of his element, and not up to the challenge of finding the answers sought by Eunice Watkins and her preacher-son, Lucas. But Flo lent an open ear, as she usually did when he was down in the dumps and feeling impotent. She also wasn’t the sort of woman who equated love and caring with agreeing with everything that he said. She questioned him, gently chided him for falling into an uncharacteristic funk, and challenged his conclusion that he’d never be able to follow through on Mrs. Watkins’s behalf.

“You owe it to her to keep trying,” she’d said over their second glass of wine.

“I know,” he said, “but I’ve run out of ideas. It’s not like there are plenty of sources to give me the answers, locals, people who were there and know the truth. I thought that Felker might be one of those people but somebody made sure that he wasn’t. That leaves me with Cardell and his daughter, Mitzi. She’s now a big mucky-muck in D.C. Fat chance of getting to her.”

“Wait a minute, Robert,” Flo said. “You have this contact in Washington that Will Sayers gave you, Mackensie something or other.”

“Mackensie Smith. I intend to call him tomorrow. But what am I supposed to say, that I want him to use his influence to get Mitzi Cardell to sit down with me and admit what really happened twenty years ago? What if she was the one who stabbed the guy at Augie’s. Will she happily fess up? I don’t think so. And what if—I’ve been playing the what-if game all night—what if it was her buddy, Jeanine Montgomery, who poked the guy? She’s the first lady of the land, for Christ’s sake. I’m out of my league on this one, babe.”

“Maybe you are,” she said, “but that doesn’t mean throwing up your hands and slinking away. You have nothing to lose by contacting this Mackensie Smith, going to Washington, and seeing what can be accomplished there. If you fall on your face, so what? You can hold your head high for not having quit on Mrs. Watkins.”

They made love after returning to her house; at least his growing sense of impotency didn’t include
that
brand of it. As he fell asleep he pondered the conversation they’d had at the Marriott bar. He wanted to buy what she’d said, wanted to wave away all his doubts and forge ahead. It didn’t work, and he finally dozed off still filled with visions of failure.

But he felt different in the morning, full of resolve. Flo was amused that he hummed a tune while making breakfast, and he seemed lighter on his feet.

“Thanks,” he told her as he was about to leave.

“Go get ’em, tiger,” she said.

•  •  •

Cynthia had left a message on the answering machine. She wouldn’t be coming in until later in the day, something to do with meeting with their landlord to attempt to get out of their lease. That was all right with Brixton. He enjoyed being alone in the office with a cup of hot coffee from the downstairs food shop.

There had been other messages on the machine, including one from a man who said it was important that he speak with him that day. No name, but he left a phone number. Brixton returned that call before trying to reach Mac Smith in Washington.

“Thank you for getting back to me,” the man said. “Would it be convenient to meet with you later this morning?”

He sounded old, as though age had sapped his voice of energy.

“That depends. What’s it about?”

“It’s not something I wish to discuss on the phone.”

Brixton had heard that plenty of times before.

“I suppose I can squeeze you in today,” Brixton said. “Who am I speaking with?”

“What time will you be free?”

“Whoa, hold on. Who are you and why do you want to meet with me?”

“Let me just say, sir, that it has to do with a series of photographs.”

“What photographs?”

Brixton knew even before the words came out to what the man was referring—the shots he’d taken at the motel.

“Just name the time, sir,” the man said.

“An hour from now.”

“I’ll be there,” the man said and hung up.

The conversation sent Brixton’s mind racing in a direction other than Louise Watkins. The missing camera disk had always been in his thoughts but had never stayed front and center for very long. Now it was back and he cursed the distraction it created.

The number Sayers had given him for Mac Smith was Smith’s apartment in the Watergate. He answered on the first ring.

“Mr. Smith, my name is Robert Brixton. I’m a friend of Willis Sayers.”

“I’ve been expecting your call,” said Smith. “Will mentioned that I’d be hearing from you.”

“I’m not quite sure what it is I’m looking for in contacting you,” Brixton said, “but it has to do with a case I’m working on. I’m a private investigator.”

“So Will said. I don’t know what help I might be but I’m certainly happy to meet with you. Are you planning on being in the Washington area anytime soon?”

Brixton hadn’t made definite plans to go there but Smith’s question forced the issue. “Yes, I will be coming, but I want to be sure that my trip will coincide with you being available.”

“My schedule’s pretty flexible,” Smith said, “and I don’t have plans to be away in the near future. Just give me a date when you’ll be here and I’ll make sure I’m open.”

“How about if I get back to you once I’ve firmed up my plans?”

“Makes sense to me. Look forward to meeting you.”

Brixton was buoyed by the call. Smith sounded like a nice guy. Flo was right: he should go to Washington to see what he could accomplish regarding Louise Watkins. If he came up a cropper, the trip wouldn’t be a total waste. He could arrange to visit his daughters in Maryland, something he hadn’t done in much too long a time.

The feeling of relative exuberance faded fast when his visitor arrived at ten thirty.

Brixton knew who he was, Scott Wilson, a lawyer who’d been practicing in Savannah far earlier than Brixton’s arrival. He’d seen him around the courthouse and had read profiles of him in the paper. Wilson was a white-collar attorney, never dirtying his hands with common criminals. His clients were business types and politicians, and he was known as a consummate, smooth-talking dealmaker. Few of his cases ever reached court. He also had a reputation as a foppish sort of dresser, and this morning testified to it: white suit, pale blue silk shirt, wildly patterned blue-and-green tie, and highly polished shoes with pointy toes that screamed French or Italian. He had a mane of flowing white hair, pink cheeks, and lively blue eyes. The first-cast southern attorney out of central casting.

They shook hands. “Scott Wilson,” the man said.

“I know who you are, Mr. Wilson. Have a seat.”

Brixton directed him to a chair across the desk. “What can I do for you?” he asked. “You mentioned photographs.”

“That’s correct.”

“Okay, so tell me about these photographs.”

Wilson’s smile was meant to be friendly but there was adversarial steel behind it. “Maybe it would be better if
you
told me about them, Mr. Brixton.”

Brixton recrossed his legs and returned the smile. “Hard for me to do,” he said, “without knowing what photos we’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you know what I’m speakin’ of,” Wilson said. “I’m referrin’ to a series of pictures you took at a certain motel outside of town.”

Brixton’s laugh was as phony as Wilson’s had been. “Oh,
those
photos.”

“Yes, sir,
those
photos. I represent a client who has a specific interest in them.”

I bet you do,
Brixton thought. “Who might that be?” he asked.

“My professional obligations prohibit me from divulging his identity,” Wilson said. “I have the feeling that you are a man who prefers direct talk, no beating around the bush.” He said it with one eyebrow cocked and Brixton wondered how he could get one to go up and not the other.

“My client has authorized me to pay a handsome sum for the photographs, Mr. Brixton.”

Brixton was confused and was sure that his expression mirrored it. Why would they think that
he
had the photos?
They
obviously had them. But even if they didn’t—even if someone else had possession of them and was attempting to blackmail Wilson’s client before turning them over—there was no reason to confront the one who had taken the pictures.

“I know the photos you’re referring to,” Brixton said, “but I don’t have them.”

Wilson’s face reflected skepticism.

“Somebody mugged me the night I took them and stole the camera. I eventually got the camera back but the disk was missing. No disk, no photos.”

“That may be, Mr. Brixton, but it doesn’t assure me that you don’t have a duplicate set.”

“Of course I don’t,” said Brixton, edginess creeping into his voice. “How could I have a set of dupes? The camera was stolen hours after I took them. I never had a chance to do anything with them.”

Wilson examined a crease in his trousers and then diverted attention to his polished fingernails. Brixton disliked polished fingernails on men. “The problem, you see, is that whether you have a duplicate set or not, you are aware of their existence. Your name was on the camera they were taken from. I’m sure that you at least took a peek at your handiwork to be sure that the camera functioned properly.”

Brixton didn’t confirm or deny.

“And I further assume that you have been able to identify the people in the photos.”

“You assume a lot of things,” Brixton said.

“I’m paid to do that, Mr. Brixton. Let me cut to the chase, which I
also
assume you would appreciate. As I said earlier, my client is prepared to pay you a handsome sum for—”

“For photos I don’t have.”

“For forgetting that you ever took them.”

“Oh, I get it,” Brixton said. “Your client might be embarrassed if the public got to see those pictures, might cost him a few votes.”

Brixton’s comment obviously resonated with Wilson, and Brixton had a moment of doubt about having indicated that he knew who the attorney’s client was, the same man in the photo kissing the restaurateur’s straying wife—Shepard Justin, candidate for mayor of Savannah. But he immediately resolved that it didn’t matter. He was tired of the cat-and-mouse game Wilson was playing, had had enough of
assuming.

“I’ve been told that you tend to be a man who enjoys straight talk. That was your reputation when you were a police officer.”

Brixton nodded.

“And since you evidently know my client’s identity and his reason for having retained me to represent his interests, you are probably sitting there confident that you have the upper hand.”

“No, you’re wrong. The only thing I’m confident of is that you wasted a trip here.” He realized that his voice had begun to reflect the anger he felt and worked to modify it. He leaned forward on his desk and spoke in the sort of hushed tone that he might use with a friend to whom he was giving advice. “Let me put it this way, Mr. Wilson. I don’t give a damn about those pictures or your client. But I’ll ask you a question. Who came to you with the disk? Whoever that was is the guy who beat me up and stole my camera.”

“An anonymous source, Mr. Brixton.”

“And you paid for it. Right?”

Wilson stood and dusted off lint that wasn’t there. “I have come here today to make you a very generous offer.”

“A very generous bribe, you mean.”

“Call it what you will. I am prepared to offer you twenty thousand dollars for your assurance that you will forget that you ever took those photos.”

“I’ve already forgotten about them,” Brixton said.

“Or perhaps you have a duplicate set and don’t feel that twenty thousand is enough for them. I also find your dismissal to be foolhardy, Mr. Brixton. We aren’t dealing here with a run-of-the-mill situation. We are talking about a man’s political future as well as the future of this city. I sincerely hope that you don’t regret your brash, unwise decision. It could have unfortunate consequences.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Good day, sir.”

“Good day to you,
sir.
Take your money and tell your slimy client that screwing another man’s wife doesn’t strike me as the sort of trait I look for in my elected officials. Not that I expect anything better from them. Thanks for stopping by, Mr. Wilson. Should be an interesting election.”

Wilson gave another insidious smile, did a little bow, and left. After he had, Brixton went downstairs, lit a cigarette, and reviewed the conversation. If Cynthia had been privy to it, she would have told him that he’d been stupid not to take the money and run. In retrospect, she might have been right. He didn’t have a duplicate set of the photos, nor did he have any intention of telling anyone that the man at the motel was the same one running for mayor. He could have taken the money for doing what he’d intended to do all along—nothing.