Margaret Truman's Internship in Murder

by Margaret Truman

  “So you’re speculating that this man killed Laura and Cody Watson on behalf of Congressman Gannon,” Annabel said.

  “Yeah,” said Brixton, “on behalf of, or on direct orders from him.”

  “If you’re right,” Mac said, “you’re about to unleash one of the biggest political scandals this city has ever seen.”

  With that thought lingering in the air, Mac and Annabel said good night.

  “I’ll call Zeke first thing in the morning and tell him what happened, ask that we can get together to show him the photos,” Smith said.

  “I’m not sure what time I’ll be bringing Flo home,” Brixton said, “assuming she is coming home.”

  “Call me after you get her settled in,” Mac said.

  “Shall do,” said Brixton. “Thanks for coming to the hospital and for being here for me.”

  “We’ll always be here for you, Robert,” Annabel said as she kissed his cheek.

  The rain had stopped. Brixton poured himself a snifter of brandy and took it out to the small terrace, where he dried off a chair. He’d started to second-guess his decision to leave Flo alone at the hospital but decided that she was in good hands. Besides, what Annabel had said about feeling the effects of a traumatic experience was true. He’d begun to ache, starting with his legs and progressing up to his shoulders and arms. As he shifted position in the chair against the pain, a succession of faces appeared before him: Congressman Hal Gannon—his chief of staff Roseann Simmons—Laura Bennett, that lovely young woman whose life was snuffed out … Cody Watson, Gannon’s press aide, who wanted to do the right thing and died in the process … Gannon’s campaign manager, Joe Selesky, arrogant and obnoxious … the double-dealing private eye Paul Wooster … Millie Sparks, Rachel Montgomery, and Peggy Talbot, the airline flight attendant, three women who’d been seduced by Gannon’s good looks, suave demeanor, and position of power … everyone he’d come into contact with since becoming involved with the Laura Bennett case.

  But they faded from his consciousness as quickly as they’d appeared.

  Now the only face that remained was an unnamed man, middle-aged, salt-and-pepper hair, who tied what was left of his hair into a tight ponytail, a cold-blooded murderer. Brixton retrieved the two photographs he had of the man and stared at them, memorizing every facet of his face. As he did, the anger that coursed through him was so intense that he dropped his glass to the concrete floor of the terrace, where it smashed into pieces.

  “I’ll get you, you bastard,” he said aloud as he headed for the kitchen to get a broom and dustpan. “I’ll find out who you are and I’ll get you. You can count on that.”

  CHAPTER

  36

  The subject of Robert Brixton’s wrath sat in the bar at his hotel near Reagan National Airport. He’d changed hotels frequently since coming to Washington, using different names that appeared on multiple IDs in his wallet. The young bartender, a recent graduate of a bartenders’ course at a community college, had never heard of a stabilizer and couldn’t find the recipe in the guide that was kept behind the bar. He asked the customer to explain.

  “It’s quite simple,” the customer said, smiling. “Take a snifter, pour in a jigger of port wine, then add a jigger of brandy, and stir. Any brand will do.”

  “Thanks,” the bartender said, and managed to find a bottle of rarely requested port.

  The customer, who wore a green sport jacket of the type frequently seen at golf tourneys at exclusive clubs, and a crisp butter-colored button-down shirt, tasted his drink. “Perfect,” he announced.

  The woman seated next to him asked about it.

  “Something I learned years ago from my father,” he said pleasantly.

  Which wasn’t true. While being blessed with good genes and an imposing physique—as well as suffering very few physical maladies over the course of his fifty years—he’d been cursed with a sour stomach since childhood that demanded constant attention. There was a large ulcer, and he suffered from almost nonstop acid reflux that he tried to keep under control by popping countless Tums each day. He’d learned about the medicinal properties of the stabilizer during a stay at a hotel in John o’ Groats on the barren northern coast of Scotland after an especially rough trip on a small ferry coming back from the Orkney Islands.

  The woman glanced at his left ring finger in search of a wedding ring. There wasn’t one.

  “Buy you a drink?” he asked.

  “All right.”

  She drank bourbon and soda.

  “If you’re buying me a drink, I should know your name,” she said.

  “John,” he said.

  “Just John?”

  “John Mitchell.”

  “Thank you for the drink, John Mitchell. My name is Lila Franco.”

  She was taken with John Mitchell. He was a handsome man by any standard, nicely dressed and well-groomed, with deep-set blue eyes and a well-modulated voice that conveyed his obvious intelligence. He was certainly polite; if he was on the make, he was classy in the way he approached it. That he pulled his hair back into a ponytail was somewhat off-putting, but she chalked it up to wanting to appear younger, or at least to indicate that he wasn’t behind the times.

  He’d showed interest in her, offering to buy her a drink, but she didn’t know, couldn’t know that he had no interest in her beyond passing the time with some pleasant conversation. Not that he didn’t like women. He’d been married twice. The first, entered into at a very early age, lasted only a year. The second ended with the tragic murder of his wife. She’d been battered to death in a secluded wooded area near where they lived. He was considered the prime suspect, but without evidence the DA declined to prosecute. There had been many women since then, but they came and went, one-night stands, some prostitutes, no one for whom he felt anything except lust and a vehicle for a quick release of his passion.

  “Are you in Washington on business?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you do, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I’m a consultant,” he said.

  “Oh? For the government?”

  “Sometimes. I consult for a variety of companies and agencies. And you?”

  “I work for a real estate firm in Crystal City.”

  “Is the real estate market here strong?” he asked.

  “Very. People are always coming and going in Washington, selling their houses and buying new ones. It’s the government. Always new people arriving and leaving.”

  “Sounds like an interesting career,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I’ve certainly enjoyed meeting you, Ms. Franco, and having this pleasant chat. I’m afraid I must be going.”

  She was disappointed.

  “You’re staying here at the hotel?” she asked.

  “Just for the night,” he said. “I have a business appointment to go to.”

  She found it strange to be off to a “business appointment” at ten o’clock at night but, of course, didn’t express it. He paid the tab, nodded as he got off the barstool, almost bowed to her, and left.

  A strange man, she thought. I would like to have gotten to know him better.

  He left the hotel and got into his black SUV, which he’d rented after returning the gray sedan to the rental company at the airport. He’d checked the sedan to make sure that there wasn’t any sign of having hit a pedestrian before turning it in, explaining that he needed to move some things and needed a larger vehicle.

  He listened to an all-news radio station as he drove to a street on the fringe of Georgetown, where he parked at a meter, turned off the lights and engine, and trained his eyes on a bar and restaurant across the street. He opened an expensive black alligator briefcase that sat on the passenger seat and removed a file folder with a name handwritten on the tab. Inside the folder were three photographs of a middle-aged man, and a sheet of paper on which information about the man was written.

  As he waited, he thought of the woman he’d met at the hotel bar. There
were so many women at bars in Washington, lonely women, women with a drinking problem or harboring anger at lives misspent, women with their makeup just so, hair coiffed perfectly, looking for someone, searching for a man to make them feel whole. He felt sorry for them. They wouldn’t find what they were looking for in Washington, D.C., not in a city crawling with spineless bureaucrats, dishonest men with large egos, men without values. That’s what set him apart, he was sure. He had values, core values. He was a man of action.

  At fifteen minutes before eleven, he got out of his car and walked to an alley that separated the restaurant from another building. He casually stood and waited, his eyes on the front door, the long, needlelike knife concealed in his hand. This was the part of his job that Bruce McGinnis hated most, the waiting.

  The front door opened a few minutes past eleven, and the restaurant’s staff came through it, laughing, kidding, complaining about the tips they’d received, and comparing notes about certain patrons who’d acted stupid. After they’d dispersed, McGinnis went to the door. Shades had been drawn, but there were gaps through which he could peer inside. The man whose picture he had had studied in the car was seated alone at the bar with his back to the door, a glass of amber whiskey in front of him, a pile of cash next to it. McGinnis had been told that the man was careless about not locking the door after his staff had left and that he relaxed over a drink while counting the night’s cash receipts. McGinnis was also informed that the restaurant owner possessed a handgun but kept it in a small office at the rear of the restaurant. His routine, according to the men who’d hired McGinnis, was to spend fifteen or twenty minutes drinking and counting before taking the cash to a safe in his office, turning out the lights, activating the alarm, and leaving for home. Fifteen or twenty minutes—more than enough time.

  McGinnis slowly turned the door’s knob. It opened silently. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. His presence alerted the man, who turned, a quizzical expression on his round Hispanic face.

  “We’re closed,” he said.

  “I know,” McGinnis said, quickly closing the gap between them. The man started to get up, but McGinnis rammed the needlelike knife blade into his back. It went in easily, came out easily, and went back in again.

  The man slumped to the floor.

  McGinnis turned and was out the door within seconds. He drove to the hotel, parked the SUV, and went to his room, where he turned on television, drew the drapes, and swallowed a half dozen Tums to ease the acidic pain that erupted from his gut to his mouth. That was the downside to what he did for a living. Killing people always brought on the worst symptoms.

  Before retiring for the night, McGinnis took one of the folders from his briefcase. Written on it was Brixton, Robert. In it were two newspaper photos of Brixton and notes taken from articles written about him over the years. His address was written on a sheet of paper that also included pertinent information about him, his career, and a description of the woman with whom he was involved, Flo Combes. With any luck, McGinnis would be able to accomplish this next Washington, D.C., assignment and return to his home and his fishing dragger on the Gulf coast of Florida.

  CHAPTER

  37

  Brixton arrived at the hospital the following morning at eight and sat with Flo in her room until she received final approval to be released. They chatted about many things, but the conversation kept coming back to what had happened on that rainy night on Wisconsin Avenue, and Brixton’s conviction that the driver had been the man with the ponytail.

  “He was aiming for me,” he said.

  “Thank God you saw him and reacted the way you did.”

  “Sometimes you get lucky,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I was hit by a car. My knee is killing me.”

  “They give you painkillers?”

  “Yes, but I hate to take them. Make me woozy.”

  “I talked to the doc when I arrived. He says you have to wear that brace for at least two weeks and stay off your leg as much as possible.”

  “Easy for him to say.”

  “Hey, you listen to what he says, Flo. You have great legs. That’s what attracted me to you.”

  “My legs? That’s all?”

  “There were a few other attributes. Good you don’t have a concussion.”

  “The doctor told me that you said I had a hard head.”

  “I was kidding.”

  “You’d better be. What’s new with the man with the ponytail?”

  “Mac and I are meeting with Zeke Borgeldt later today. We’ll show him the two pictures of the guy and explain what happened after we left the jazz club. They’ll go through their databases and see if they can ID the bastard.”

  “Good luck,” she said as the doctor entered and had her sign a few forms.

  “Thanks for the good care,” Flo told him.

  “That’s what we’re here for,” he said. “Safe home.”

  It took some maneuvering to get Flo into the passenger seat of their car because of her leg brace, but once she was strapped in, Brixton drove them to their apartment, where he got her settled on the couch, pillows stuffed behind her head and one under her leg, and a cup of hot tea and a plate of lemon wafers within reach.

  “I don’t need to be treated like an invalid,” she said, “but you’re sweet to do it.”

  “That’s me, Sweet Robert. You’ll be okay for a few hours?”

  “I’ll watch a movie and fill my face with these cookies. You go catch up with Mac. Give me a call after you’ve met with Borgeldt.”

  Brixton met Smith at Borgeldt’s office at four.

  “This is becoming a habit,” the superintendent said.

  “Sorry to take up your time again,” Brixton said, “but I don’t like becoming a target of a psycho, who, by the way, killed Laura Bennett and Cody Watson. Find this guy and you solve both cases. It’ll make you a star around here.”

  “I already am a star,” Borgeldt countered. He started to say something else, but Brixton added, “And no need for a parade or a dinner to honor me for breaking those cases. I’m still just a humble guy.”

  “I’ll cancel the parade,” Borgeldt said, casting an exasperated look at Smith.

  “What we need,” said Smith, “is for you to have someone go through your databases to see if this man with the ponytail crops up. You have the two original photos—the one from Laura Bennett’s cell phone camera and the one Robert’s friend took at the Hotel Lombardy. Now this same man has tried to run Robert down. Fortunately, he failed. If you can identify him, you’ll obviously want to bring him in for questioning.”

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” Borgeldt said wearily, and rubbed his eyes.

  “I just thought that—” Smith started to say.

  “I know, I know, Mac. Don’t take anything I say seriously. It’s been a long day following a long night. How’s your lady friend?” he asked Brixton.

  “Sore, banged up, but she’s okay. She has great legs. Hate to see one of them go through a meat grinder.”

  “You’re a leg man. You don’t have anything else about this guy with the ponytail except the pictures?” Borgeldt asked.

  “That’s it,” Brixton said. “I figure that somebody who goes around killing people must have a rap sheet, maybe not for murder but for some other offense over the years.”

  “Do you think he’s from here in the D.C. area?” Borgeldt asked.

  Brixton shrugged.

  “If he’s not,” Mac said, “it could mean that he’s staying at a hotel in the area. Can you have some of your people canvass hotels with the photos?”

  “That takes manpower, Mac. You might have read that we’re fighting budget and staffing problems.”

  “I seem to have heard that somewhere,” Mac said, tongue-in-cheek. “We’re not asking that you drop everything to go after this guy, Zeke. But now that he’s evidently out to kill Robert, I’m sure you don’t want another dead body on your hands.”

 
“I’ll see what I can do,” Borgeldt said.

  “Can’t ask for more than that,” Mac said. “Thanks. Let me know if you come up with anything.”

  Brixton missed seeing Flo sitting at the front desk as he and Mac walked into their office suite. He called her. “How’re you doing?” he asked.

  “Okay,” she said. “Watched a bad movie and kept dozing off. Tell me about Borgeldt.”

  Brixton filled her in on the meeting. “What do you feel like for dinner? I’ll bring something home with me.”

  “Pizza. I have this overwhelming urge for pizza with pepperoni and sausage.”

  “Consider it done,” he said. “I’ve got some catching up here at the office, should be home in a couple of hours.”

  “Take your time,” she said. “Wish I was there to help. I’ll come in tomorrow.”

  “The hell you will. You’re staying home with your gorgeous leg propped up on a soft pillow.” She started to protest, but he added, “Don’t argue with me. You know I become irrational when anybody argues with me.”

  That issue settled, Brixton ensconced himself behind his desk and caught up on what seemed to be a never-ending flow of paperwork. He was immersed in it when Mac poked his head in. “I just got a call from Gannon’s attorney, Richard Nichols. It was a sort of heads-up call to let me know that Gannon has agreed to do a live interview with CNN.”

  “Why would he do that?” Brixton asked.

  “According to Nichols, all the negative press has eaten into his support back home in Tampa. Nichols has convinced him to do the interview as a way to clear the air. It’s strictly a PR move.”

  “When?”

  “The interview is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. They’ll air it tomorrow night.”

  “Must-see TV,” Brixton said. “Why did Nichols think it was necessary to give you a heads-up?”

  “He wants the Bennett family to know it from me before they learn about it on the news. You have to give it to Gannon. It’s a gutsy move on his part, but I suppose the pressure is on back home. He’s been on the receiving end of some pretty tough media exposure, editorials accusing him of stonewalling the investigation, not being truthful with authorities, falsely denying that he had a sexual relationship with Laura Bennett. It’s a story that won’t go away. I spoke with Luke Bennett. He says that media types have been parked outside his door ever since Laura went missing.”