Monument to Murder

by Margaret Truman

  “Mitzi? It’s Jeanine,” she said in a low voice. “Catch you at a bad time?”

  “No. My guests just left. A painfully dull evening. The new head of the TSA is a pompous ass if I’ve ever met one.”

  “Sorry. Mitzi, I think we should get together again soon about this—this Savannah project. You know I’m going there next week.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve come up with some information about the—about the man we discussed at lunch.”

  “Oh. Something bad?”

  “No, no, but we should talk. Can you come here to the White House tomorrow at four?”

  “Four? That’s a problem. I have a meeting with the caterers for the Washington Opera party I’m hosting.”

  “Postpone it, Mitzi!” Jeanine said sharply.

  “I—of course I will. Can you tell me about this information you’ve come up with?”

  “Not on the phone. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The first lady went to the outer office, where Millius continued to work on the computer.

  “I think I’ll get some sleep,” she said.

  “Good idea,” he said without looking up.

  He waited a few minutes after she’d left before checking her phone to see what number she’d called. Mitzi Cardell! Of all the people Lance Millius disliked—and the numbers were sizable—Mitzi Cardell was at the top of the list.

  He packed up to leave. Before he did so, he consulted a directory of political operatives in Georgia, especially in the Savannah area. Because the president and first lady were from Georgia and the president had once been governor of that state, the network of political friends there was extensive. After jotting down a few names from the directory, he added that note to other materials he was carrying home.

  “Robert Brixton,” he muttered as he turned out the lights.

  PART

  THREE

  CHAPTER 22

  Cynthia Higgins was crying when Brixton walked into the office carrying a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Jim … got … fired … last … night,” she said, each word punctuated by a sob.

  “Sorry to hear it,” he said. “What happened?”

  She blew her nose with gusto and drew some deep breaths. “He got into a fight with a customer on the ghost tour, some big, fat older guy with a snootful of booze and with a girl young enough to be his daughter.”

  “Always nice to see fathers treat their daughters to a night out.”

  “Daughter? Hell! Anyway, this drunk starts giving Jim a hard time, telling him the tour stinks and that Jim doesn’t know squat about Savannah ghosts.”

  Brixton saw it coming and grimaced.

  “So Jim tells him off in no uncertain terms, and the drunk calls the tour agency and they ream Jim out. Turns out this slob has political and business connections in Georgia and threatened to put the agency out of business. That’s it! Jim gets canned.”

  “Well,” Brixton said, “Jim is—was—in the people business.”

  Cynthia flared. “Which doesn’t mean he has to take guff from anybody.”

  Brixton held up his hands. “No, of course not,” he agreed. “I’m sure he’ll find another job soon. There’s got to be a dozen ghost-tour operators in the city.”

  “His boss told him he needs anger management classes.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe he should look for another line of work.”

  “Maybe I should look for another husband. Sorry. I know it’s not your problem, Bob. These calls came in earlier this morning.”

  Brixton took the slips of paper she handed him into his office and sat behind his desk, feet up on it. Two of the messages promised new clients, including another restaurant owner who wanted to establish surveillance on two employees he suspected of skimming. The third was from Detective Wayne St. Pierre.

  “Hello there,” St. Pierre said when Brixton returned the call. “And how are you, sir?”

  “Not bad. You called.”

  “As a matter of fact I did. I have good news for you.”

  “I’m always up for good news.”

  “We’ve found your missing camera and recorder.”

  Brixton swung his feet off the desk and straightened up in his chair. “Where?”

  “A pawnshop in the Lamara Heights district.”

  “You canvassed them?”

  “Not exactly. We did put out a bulletin to pawnshops describing the missing items. That doesn’t usually amount to anything, but this particular law-abiding owner called and said he had them. Obviously looking for the citizen-of-the-year award.”

  “When did this happen?” Brixton asked.

  “This morning. I thought you’d want to come with me to talk with the owner.”

  “Yeah, I’d like that very much.”

  St. Pierre gave him the address and they agreed to meet there in a half hour.

  The pawnshop was in a row of seedy one-story buildings that had gone through a succession of owners and small businesses; gentrification wasn’t spoken there yet. St. Pierre and Brixton arrived at the same time and entered the shop, where a wizened old man stood behind a small counter protected by Plexiglas panels. St. Pierre announced who they were and why they were there and they were buzzed into the owner’s cramped domain. Brixton’s eyes immediately went to his briefcase and its contents, which were displayed on what passed for a desk.

  “That’s it?” St. Pierre asked.

  “Sure is,” Brixton replied, picking up the camera. “They never even took this off,” he said, referring to his name label that was still affixed to it.

  “Who brought this stuff in?” St. Pierre asked the owner.

  “Vinnie.”

  “Vinnie who?”

  “I don’t know his last name. He’s a homeless guy who hangs around the neighborhood, has his hand out all the time, checks out Dumpsters and the like.”

  “Know where we can find him?” asked St. Pierre.

  “Probably out on the street someplace.”

  While Brixton examined the contents of his briefcase, St. Pierre continued asking questions. “Did this fellow Vinnie say where he’d gotten it?”

  “Said he found it in a Dumpster. Like I said, he checks them out and—”

  “And you didn’t question him?”

  “Sure I did. I asked where he got such a good camera and recorder. He just said he found them in a Dumpster. I gave him a few bucks—a lot less than the equipment is worth—and figured I’d gotten a good deal. That’s what I’m in business for, to find good deals. Anyway, I took them in and was going to display them when I got the message from the cops.” He looked at St. Pierre over his half-glasses. “From law enforcement,” he corrected. “As soon as I got that message I called in. I’m a good citizen, always have been.”

  St. Pierre filled out a form indicating that he’d taken possession of the items and handed it to the owner. “I’m sure we’ll have more questions for you,” he said. “In the meantime, how about we take a swing around the neighborhood and find this Vinnie character.”

  “I can’t leave the shop.”

  St. Pierre looked left and right. “Doesn’t look to me like they’re breaking down your doors. Come on now. We find Vinnie and you can come back.”

  Brixton placed the camera, recorder, and other items into the briefcase and followed them outside. The owner locked the door and got into the back of St. Pierre’s unmarked car. Brixton took the front passenger seat.

  It took them less than five minutes to locate Vinnie. They spotted him sitting on the sidewalk in front of a vacant storefront a few blocks away. St. Pierre parked and got out of the car. Brixton joined him, leaving the pawnshop owner in the vehicle.

  “Hello there, Vinnie,” St. Pierre said with a smile. “Hot day, isn’t it?”

  Vinnie, who was probably younger than he looked—living on the street and foraging for food aged a guy fast—peered up at St. Pierre and Brixton through bloodshot
eyes. His face was grimy beneath his stubble, his chino pants urine stained, his torn red T-shirt filthy. He wore heavy winter boots despite the oppressive heat.

  St. Pierre motioned to Brixton, who held the open briefcase in front of Vinnie, displaying the camera. St. Pierre squatted and asked Vinnie where he had found it. It took the homeless man a minute to realize that he was being questioned by a police officer. When he did, he struggled to his feet and stumbled, trying to get away. St. Pierre grabbed his arm and gently pushed him against the storefront. “You’re not in any trouble, Vinnie,” he said. “We just want to know where you found these things.”

  “I didn’t do nothing wrong,” Vinnie said, fear etched on his face.

  St. Pierre assured him that he hadn’t and repeated his question. Vinnie mentioned a Dumpster. St. Pierre told him to lead them to it. Vinnie did as instructed. The Dumpster was at the corner next to a building that was being demolished. “In there,” he said. “I found it in there.”

  St. Pierre and Brixton peered over the edge of the Dumpster, which was filled with construction debris.

  “Feel like getting dirty?” St. Pierre asked Brixton.

  “No.”

  “Nothing to be found here,” St. Pierre agreed.

  They thanked Vinnie for his time and drove back to the pawnshop. As the owner was getting out, he asked, “What about the money I gave him? I’m out that money and don’t have the camera.”

  “How much?” Brixton asked.

  “Twenty.”

  “You ripped him off,” Brixton said as he pulled out his wallet and handed the owner a twenty and a ten. “Thanks for calling it in.”

  “Like I said, I’m a good citizen.”

  Brixton accompanied St. Pierre to Metro, where the briefcase, camera, and recorder were dusted for prints. There weren’t any.

  “Thanks,” Brixton said when he was handed back the briefcase and its contents.

  “Mah pleasure, Robert,” St. Pierre said as they walked outside together. “Things progressing on the Watkins case?”

  “Nothing new to report but I’m still working it.”

  “No further sidewalk confrontations with the city’s lower species?”

  “If you mean have I been mugged again, the answer is no. How are things at Metro?”

  “The bureaucracy lives on, Robert. How is your lovely lady friend, Miss Flo?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “Well, glad you got back your tools of the trade. Hot enough for you?”

  “More than hot enough, Wayne. This weather stinks. Thanks again.”

  “Take care, Robert. Ciao.”

  Brixton poured two shots of scotch upon returning to his office and shared the good news with Cynthia.

  “That’s great,” she said. “Now you can give the pictures to that attorney.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Depends on how nice he is to me and how much money he comes up with. He’s not on my list of favorite people.” Brixton was good at understatement.

  That day’s edition of the Savannah Morning News was on the desk where Cynthia had dropped it earlier. Brixton picked it up and took a look at the front page. Dominant was a large photograph of a man surrounded by men and women holding campaign signs. The caption indicated that the man, Shepard Justin, had just announced his candidacy in the upcoming Savannah mayoral race. His smiling wife and two kids, whom Brixton judged to be no older than eight or nine, stood next to him in the photo.

  Brixton read the accompanying article. Justin, an alderman and member of the city council, had held a news conference to make his announcement. He was quoted as saying, “It’s time that this wonderful city had a mayor who understands the needs and aspirations of its citizens. I pledge to you that as your mayor I will restore dignity to city government, work in a nonpartisan way to bridge the gaps that have paralyzed important legislation, and establish a new and refreshing commitment to family values that have been neglected for far too long.”

  Brixton leaned closer to the page and squinted to see the man’s face better. Although he wouldn’t swear to it under oath in court, he was almost positive that Shepard Justin was the man he’d photographed the night he’d followed the restaurant owner’s wife to the motel. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

  “You’ll be damned about what?” Cynthia asked.

  “The guy in the picture, Justin, the alderman who’s running for mayor.”

  “What about him?”

  He told her of his conviction that it was Justin who’d been having an affair with his restaurant owner–client’s wife and it was Justin whom the man he’d taken pictures of.

  “Whew!” was Cynthia’s response.

  “Yeah, how about that.”

  Cynthia returned to the reception area. Brixton swiveled in his chair, opened the briefcase, and pulled out the camera. He turned it on and the digital screen lit up. He pushed the button that retrieved photos from the camera’s disk. The message NO PHOTOS appeared in red.

  “What the hell?” Brixton said.

  He opened the camera to pull out the disk. The compartment was empty.

  He got up and left the office.

  “Where are you going?” Cynthia asked from behind her desk.

  “A cigarette.”

  “You really ought to think about quitting, Bob.”

  He ignored her and went downstairs, where he dragged on a cigarette and tried to inject order into his jumbled thoughts.

  What had happened to the photos he’d taken? Someone obviously had removed the disk. But why? They wouldn’t have bothered unless they knew what was on it. They’d unceremoniously dumped the briefcase and everything in it into a Dumpster, hadn’t even tried to sell the items, which meant that money wasn’t the motive behind the attack on him, nor was admiring the art of digital photography on their collective shrunken minds.

  He almost never had two cigarettes in a row but automatically lit the second one.

  Had his muggers linked up the photos on the disk with the newspaper picture—with Shepard Justin? He had to assume that they had. The next question was whether they had attacked him because they already knew what was in the camera or had discovered it by chance after the fact.

  If those photos were now in the hands of Justin’s political enemies, they could be used to derail his mayoral ambitions. Not that Brixton cared whether Justin lost his bid to lead city hall. Serve him right, he thought, bedding another man’s wife. Another family values hypocrite.

  Now Brixton’s thoughts shifted to whether the pictures that had been in the camera could be traced back to him. His name was on the camera, compliments of his Brother P-Touch label maker, and his name was displayed in other places inside the briefcase.

  Who knew that he’d taken the photographs and that he had them in the briefcase?

  The only people he could come up with were the husband who was being cuckolded and the husband’s attorney. Of course, Cynthia knew about the assignment, and he’d replayed the evening for his friend Ralph Lazzara after returning from the motel. But the assault had happened so soon after he’d taken the photos that he couldn’t conceive of anyone having been informed about it and told what he’d be carrying.

  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 finan
cial 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?”