Monument to Murder (17 page)

He eventually decided that whoever had taken the disk from the camera wasn’t interested in who’d taken the pictures. Chances were also better than good that they had looked at the photos, seen nothing of value in them, and tossed them in the trash. He lit a third cigarette as he came to these conclusions, looked at it, snuffed it out in an urn in front of the building, and went back upstairs, where Cynthia was packing up to leave.

“Hate to run out on you, Bob, but Jim called and said he needed to talk with me.”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“Thanks. You’re a sweetheart.”

He was on his way out of the office when the phone rang.

“Dad. It’s Janet.”

“Hi, honey. How are you?”

“I’m okay but I’ve gotten myself into a little bit of a financial jam and need some money.”

“What kind of a jam?”

“Oh, I got—it really doesn’t matter, does it? I’ll pay it back. I promise. I have some great new concerts coming up and—”

“How much do you need, Janet?”

“Five hundred? I could use more but—”

“Are you in some sort of trouble?”

“No, Daddy, I’m not in any trouble.” Her tone hardened. “Look, if you don’t want to help me out I’ll—”

“I’ll see what I can do and send you a check. It’ll be a few days, though.”

She turned soft again. “Thanks, Dad. I really appreciate it
and
I’ll pay it back.”

“Sure, honey.”

“I have to run. You’re a doll.”

The line went dead and he sighed. It wasn’t the first time she’d called looking for money, nor was it unusual for her to say that she’d pay him back. She never did. Once, he’d balked at sending money and called Marylee to discuss it. She berated him for not having been there for his girls throughout their entire lives and further accused him of putting money before his responsibilities as a father. He claimed that his ex-wife had cornered the market in self-righteousness, like her mother. That conversation had ended in a hang up and he’d never contacted her again concerning their youngest daughter’s calls for cash.

He shook off the frustration Janet’s call had created, picked up the phone, called the
Savannah Morning News,
and asked for Willis Sayers, a veteran reporter with whom Brixton had become friendly while a cop.

“Hello, my man,” Sayers said. “Long time no talk, or is that a cliché?”

“It’s a cliché. I need to pick your brain, Will.”

“About?”

“About a family here in Savannah. The Cardell family, more precisely a daughter named Mitzi.”

Sayers, a bear of a man, laughed like one. “Washington’s leading social light. What about her?”

“Buy you a drink?”

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

“Pinkie Master’s on Drayton? In an hour?”

“Don’t be late.”

CHAPTER   23

It hadn’t been necessary for Will Sayers to tell Brixton that Pinkie Master’s Lounge was on Drayton Street. Brixton had been to the dive bar across from the Hilton Hotel, in Savannah’s historic district, many times over the years. It had been around as long as Savannah had been, or so it seemed.

Brixton took a seat at the small, circular bar, which was sticky to the touch, and ordered what everyone else seemed to be ordering, a “tall boy PBR,” a sixteen-ounce glass of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. He was tempted to have a martini served in a plastic cup (Savannah is one of the few cities in which it’s legal to carry drinks outside and consume them there) but decided to hold off. No telling how long an evening it would be. Willis Sayers had the reputation of being able to outdrink most men of normal size, which included Brixton.

He glanced down and realized that he was seated where a brass marker was inlaid into the bar commemorating the spot where in 1974 Jimmy Carter allegedly had announced his intention to run for president. Al Gore had made a similar proclamation there in 1999.

Pinkie Master’s was a rock-solid Democratic hangout frequented by a variety of types, students from SCAD, bikers, businessmen in suits, lots of media folks, and on this evening a private detective named Brixton, who looked up at the large Confederate flag, and a sign that read
TIPPING IS NOT A CITY IN CHINA
, proudly displayed behind the bar. He smiled.

Sayers arrived a few minutes later. He wore what he usually wore, baggy chino pants, a striped button-down shirt obviously purchased from a big man’s catalog, wide red suspenders, and a red-and-white railroad handkerchief protruding from his rear pocket. He wedged his sizable girth past other customers, slapped Brixton on the back, and took the empty stool next to him. “Bourbon and a tall boy,” he barked at the female bartender.

“A martini,” Brixton told her. He’d almost finished his beer.

“How are you, Will?” she asked.

“Pretty damn good, hon. You?”

“Holdin’ up.”

Sayers turned to Brixton. “So, good buddy, you’re looking to become a D.C. society type?”

Brixton laughed. “Hardly,” he said.

“What’s your interest in Miss Mitzi Cardell?”

Sayers’s voice was as loud as his size and Brixton second-guessed meeting him at Pinkie’s. “Maybe we can leave here and find someplace quieter,” he suggested as the jukebox, which seemed never to be still, spewed out another obscure hit from the eighties and a group of customers started singing along.

“Sensitive?”

“Yeah, it is, Will, sort of sensitive.”

“Have dinner plans?”

“No.” He did, but he knew that Flo would understand if he canceled.

“Another round,” Sayers told the barmaid. To Brixton: “We’ll get some steam up here and head out. You buying?”

“Dinner? Sure.”

They downed the fresh drinks and Sayers put it on the tab he ran at Pinkie’s. Brixton called Flo on his cell and told her he was tied up on business. She wasn’t as understanding as he’d hoped.

“Where to?” Sayers asked when they were on the sidewalk beneath the Pabst Blue Ribbon sign that hadn’t been illuminated in years.

“How about Bella’s?” Brixton suggested. He was in the mood for Italian food and Bella’s made the best manicotti in Savannah, no surprise since the owner—who was not named Bella—was originally from Brooklyn. He was also conscious of his dwindling bank account and the call from Janet looking for money. Bella’s wouldn’t break the bank. Time for another advance from Eunice Watkins.

Settled at a table in a far corner away from other diners—there weren’t many—Brixton got to the point. He told him about the visit from Louise Watkins’s mother and her allegation that her daughter had taken the rap for someone else in the stabbing incident in Augie’s parking lot. Sayers listened attentively, but before Brixton could continue with the story, the big reporter interjected, “I remember that case, Bob. There always was a suspicion that she hadn’t done the deed. At least I heard that from some cop friends.”

“They were right,” Brixton said. “She got ten grand, which she gave to her mother. From what I hear she did well in prison, got her GED, found out she was good with numbers and wanted a job. She comes out of prison and—”

“And wham! She’s gunned down on the street.”

“Exactly. You remember that.”

Sayers nodded and refilled their glasses from their second bottle of Chianti.

“Okay,” Brixton said and continued recounting for Sayers other aspects of the Watkins story. He eventually mentioned the photo shown him by Louise’s mother of her daughter and two other black girls with three white girls on the CVA campus during a weekend retreat. “Mitzi Cardell was one of the white girls,” he added.

Sayers shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “What’s the connection?”

“I don’t know,” Brixton replied, “but I need to find out. To be honest, Cardell is the only possible link I can come up with. What I was wondering is whether you know anything that might help me get to her.”

Sayers ingested his final strands of spaghetti and patted his mouth with his red-and-white railroad handkerchief, which he’d tucked into his shirt collar. “No,” he said, shaking his large head for emphasis. “But maybe I can point you in a direction.”

The evening’s alcohol intake had caused fuzziness in Brixton’s brain, but the possibility raised by Sayers snapped him to attention. “Go on,” he said. “I’m listening.”

“Another bottle?” Sayers asked.

“No. I gotta work tomorrow.”

To Brixton’s chagrin, Sayers motioned for another bottle of Chianti. He leaned his elbows on the table and said, “First, my friend, I have some news for you. I’m leaving Savannah.”

“That
is
news,” Brixton said. “Retiring?”

“Hell no. The paper is sending me back to D.C. to open the bureau again.”

Willis Sayers had been assigned to Washington a few years back but had been recalled when the failing economy took its hit on newspapers. Closing bureaus had become routine. But, as Sayers explained, with a former Georgia governor in the White House and a Georgia peach as first lady, reopening the D.C. bureau was a no-brainer.

“Happy about it?” Brixton asked.

“Yes and no. Lots happening in D.C., a lot more than the drivel I end up covering here. But I never did like our nation’s capital or the people who make it run. Like Harry Truman said, if you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.”

Brixton laughed appropriately.

“Anyway,” Sayers continued, “I got to know a few good people when I was there, including a guy named Mackensie Smith. He was a top criminal lawyer until some drunken yahoo ran into the car his wife was driving and killed her and their kid. He packed up the practice and took a gig at GW Law School. A really solid guy, straight shooter. He’s comfortable with D.C.’s society crowd but marches to his own drummer. Married a knockout of a woman, Annabel, a ten. She was also a lawyer, mostly matrimonial, but threw in the towel, too, after marrying Smith. She owns an art gallery in Georgetown. I can give Mac a call and tell him you’d like to pick his brain about Mitzi Cardell.”

“I’d appreciate that, Will.” Buying dinner was beginning to pay off.

“Here’s another guy you might look up. Ever hear of Jack Felker?”

“No. Who’s he?”

“Felker used to be the PR guy for Mitzi Cardell’s old man, Ward Cardell. A slick guy, smooth as a milk shake. Anyway, there’s always been a rumor floating around about Cardell.”

“What sort of rumor?”

“Hard to pin down. Cardell and the first lady’s father, Warren Montgomery, are close. Word has it that Cardell owns Montgomery.”

“
Owns
him?”

“Yeah. Seems Cardell did Montgomery a big favor years ago and—”

“What sort of favor?”

Sayers shrugged his large shoulders. “I don’t know,” he said and sipped wine. “It’s all very hush-hush, underground stuff.”

“You mentioned Cardell’s PR guy, this Felker.”

“Right, right. I’m told that Felker was mostly responsible for keeping his boss’s name
out
of the papers. Cardell cut some pretty nasty deals along the way is how I hear it.”

“Is Felker still working for him?”

“No. I heard just a few weeks ago that Mr. Felker is dying of cancer.”

“Oh.”

“I also hear that he’s been telling friends about some of Cardell’s deals that he had to keep sub rosa. Knowing you’re dying tends to make some people want to fess up to past sins. You might want to look him up.”

“I will,” said Brixton.

As they parted in front of the restaurant, Sayers promised to call Mac Smith in Washington to alert him that he’d be receiving a call from Brixton.

“Can’t thank you enough,” Brixton said.

“Dinner was thanks enough, my friend. If you come up with a bombshell about Mitzi Cardell and the first lady, I get it first.”

“Count on it,” Brixton promised.

And then he went home, dreading the hangover that was sure to follow.

CHAPTER   24

Rain splattering against the window woke Brixton the following morning. He sat up and immediately fell back onto the pillow. His head pulsated and his knee ached from having been in the wrong position while he slept. He reached for a bottle of Tums he kept at his bedside and downed two.

A cup of black coffee and a bowl of fruit that was on the cusp of turning into an alcoholic punch settled his stomach down, and a shower helped with the headache, supplemented by two Tylenol.

He called Flo, whose voice testified that she was not happy.

“Sorry about last night,” he said.

“You should be,” she said. “I spent my birthday with Marla.”

“Your birthday? No!”

“Yes! How was your dinner with the reporter?”

“Look, I’m really sorry about last night. I mean, my dinner with Sayers from the
Morning News
paid off big, I think. He gave me some leads to follow up on and—”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

She lightened up. “I was expecting a ten-carat diamond broach as a present from you last night.”

Relieved, he said through a chuckle, “I have it right here with me. Dinner tonight? The Pink House?”

“Sounds good. Don’t forget the broach.”

He called Eunice Watkins and told her that he’d need another thousand up-front. “I’ve developed some promising leads, Mrs. Watkins.”

“That’s good to hear,” she said. “Shall I bring a check to your office later today?”

“That’d be fine, Mrs. Watkins. If I’m not there just give it to my assistant, Cynthia.” She sounded perfectly content, didn’t have that change in tone people often adopt when asked for money. “Better make it two thousand if you don’t mind. I may have to spend some time out of town and—”

“Of course.”

Headache, sour stomach, aching knee, and a downpour were the only negatives to what otherwise was shaping up to be a good day—money in the bank and a not-too-angry Flo Combes.
Buy a card and a present before tonight,
he reminded himself as he left the apartment and headed for his offices.

He told Cynthia about having blown Flo’s birthday. After rummaging through a desk drawer he found the slip of paper on which he’d written the names of Flo’s favorite bath items—Fantasia Violet Soap and Cleopatra Body Wash. She was a fancy-soap addict, so she always smelled good. “Do me a favor,” he said to Cynthia, handing her the note. “Run over to the Paris Market and pick up some of each.”

He spent the next hour writing checks against the promised infusion of two thousand dollars into his account, including one to his daughter Janet. Eunice Watkins arrived at ten thirty with the check.

“Thank you,” he said.

She nodded. “I spoke with Lucas this morning and told him that you had some leads. He wants to know what they are.”

“Well,” Brixton said, suddenly faced with the question of how much to reveal, “it involves some people who might know something that can help us. I’d rather not mention their names at this point.”

“You said you might have to leave town,” she said.

“Right. Washington, D.C.”

“Someone there might be helpful?” she asked, the first hint of incredulity he’d heard from her.

“That’s right.”

Silence filled the room.

“You’ll have to trust me,” he said. “Believe me, I’m doing all I can.”

“I do trust you, Mr. Brixton, but Lucas—well, he is more of a businessman than I am.”

A clergyman in a three-piece suit,
Brixton thought.

She stood, straightened her dress, and said she looked forward to hearing from him. He assured her that she would.

He ran to the bank, deposited Eunice Watkin’s check, mailed his checks, and returned as Cynthia walked in holding her purchases from the Paris Market.

“Thanks,” he said. “You’re a doll.”

“Bob,” she said, “I have something to tell you.”

“Oh?”

“Jim and I are leaving Savannah.”

“Wow. Where are you going?”

“Iowa. Jim is from there. His uncle, Sydney, owns a community bank and has offered Jim a job as a teller.”

Brixton’s laugh wasn’t completely genuine. “Sounds good,” he said against the sinking feeling he was experiencing. “I just hope he keeps his anger in check when a customer gives him a hard time.” He knew the second he’d said it that it was wrong, and tried to cover with an even bigger, more manufactured laugh.

Cynthia let it go. “We’re leaving a week from now,” she said. “Sorry for the short notice but—”

“Hey,” he said, “nothing’s forever. I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too,” she said and walked out as the tears came.

Brixton closed the door to his office before calling Wayne St. Pierre at Metro.

“Hi-ho, Robert,” St. Pierre said.

“What do you know about a guy named Jack Felker?” Brixton asked. “He used to be Ward Cardell’s PR man.”

When St. Pierre didn’t respond, Brixton said, “You there?”

“Yes, I’m here, Robert. Why do you ask?”

“I’d like to ask him some questions. Know how I can reach him?”

“Ah—of course. Give me a minute.”

He returned with Felker’s phone number. “I should alert you, Robert, that Mr. Felker is quite ill.”

This time the silence was on Brixton’s end. It initially sounded as though St. Pierre didn’t know Felker. But here he was warning Brixton that the man was dying. Before he could ask how well St. Pierre knew Felker, the detective asked, “Does this have to do with the Watkins thing you’re working on?”

“Yeah, it does, Wayne.”

“Well, good luck. I must run now. Ciao!”

Brixton went over in his mind what he would say when he reached Felker. Once he had, he dialed the number. A man answered.

“Mr. Felker, my name is Robert Brixton. I’m a former Savannah detective who’s now a private investigator.”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if you might be good enough to give me a few minutes of your time.”

“For what?” Felker replied in a weak voice.

Brixton pictured the man with whom he was speaking, riddled with cancer, emaciated, eyes sunken, hairless thanks to the chemo, fading fast.

“Well, sir,” he continued, “it might be best if we wait until we meet in person. Can we do that?”

“I don’t know. I’m not well.”

“Yes, sir, I’ve been told that, and I’m sorry for your troubles. Look, this has to do with a case I’m working on. It involves a young black woman who years ago was wrongly convicted of having stabbed someone to death. Her name was Louise Watkins.”

Felker’s voice gained strength as he said, “I have nothing to say about that.”

Bingo! Translation:
I know about it but don’t wish to discuss it
.

He hadn’t said, “That name means nothing to me,” or, “I have no idea who you’re talking about.” He’d said, “I have nothing to say about that.”… “About
that
!”

He knows!

Brixton collected his thoughts before pressing on. He decided to toughen his stance. “Look,” he said, “I know that you were Ward Cardell’s PR spokesman for years, and that his daughter, Mitzi Cardell, knew Ms. Watkins at the time of the incident. All I want to do is ask a few questions—of you and hopefully of her.”

“I’m not sure there’s anything I can tell you.”

Making progress,
Brixton thought. He shifted gears. “Look, Mr. Felker, I
know
what went down twenty years ago with Louise Watkins. All I need is to fill in some holes. Whatever we talk about is off the record.”

Would the bluff work?

He heard a deep sigh at the other end. Finally, Felker said, “All right, but there’s little I can tell you.”

“Whatever you can will be appreciated, sir.”

They agreed that Brixton could come to the house that night at eight. “But please come alone,” Felker said before hanging up. “I don’t want anyone to know.”

Brixton realized the moment he’d clicked off the phone that he’d already made dinner plans with Flo. If he hadn’t forgotten her birthday he wouldn’t have felt so conflicted about canceling another date. An early dinner was out of the question. She seldom closed her shop until eight, often nine. Besides, she’d want to make a night of it, dinner at the Pink House, after-dinner drinks at some bar with music, and home together for a celebratory roll in the sack.

He put off calling her and later was glad that he had. She called at one that afternoon to say that she’d forgotten that she’d promised to attend a fund-raising dinner with her friend Marla, and would he, Brixton, be terribly hurt if they made it tomorrow night?

“I was really looking forward to tonight,” he said, not terribly proud of his lie but enjoying being able to milk it. “I just hope no one steals the broach before I get to give it to you.”

“You can always buy another,” she said airily. “Thanks for understanding, Bob.”

“That’s me,” he said, “Understanding Bob.”