He debated grabbing a taxi back to the office but decided instead to stop in a bar and grill a block from the lawyer’s office building. It was a dark, quiet place, at the perfect time, too early for the happy-hour revelers and long after the lunch crowd had departed. The bar’s AC was operating full-blast, which turned Brixton’s damp shirt cold and clammy. He pulled off his tie and settled at the end of the long bar, behind which a sallow-faced man in his early thirties took care of business. Brixton ordered a gin and tonic and sighed. A wave of depression settled over him.
It was a familiar feeling. He tended to be depressed. At least they’d told him he did, “they” being his ex-wife and two pop-psychologist daughters, his boss at the Washington, D.C., MPD, his chiropractor, primary care physician, and a few others including a nosy, chatterbox neighbor, the bartender at his favorite hangout down the street from his apartment, and Flo Combes, his current lady friend. He never argued with them; what was the use? It wasn’t as if bouts of the blues rendered him useless, curled up in the fetal position for days on end. If he was depressed it was because he had reason to be. Perpetually happy people got on his nerves. There was plenty to be depressed about. All you had to do was turn on TV at any hour, or spend your days as a cop dealing with the dregs of society.
“You want another?” the bartender called from where he was drying glasses.
“No. Hey, do I look depressed to you?” Brixton asked.
He meant it as a joke, but the bartender looked at him as though deciding whether his customer was crazy and about to cause a scene.
“Forget it,” Brixton said as he tossed down some cash and left, aware that the bartender was watching his every step, poised to reach for the baseball bat he undoubtedly kept behind the bar.
Brixton walked slowly in the direction of his office. A police cruiser passed with two uniformed officers in it. It brought back memories and he smiled for the first time that afternoon.
Half a block from his building he noticed the red pickup truck parked across the street, the driver sitting stoically behind the wheel, windows open, puffing on a cigarette. Brixton realized he hadn’t had a cigarette since leaving the attorney’s office and wanted one. Instead, he crossed the street and went up to the passenger side of the truck, leaned on the door, and smiled. “Hello,” he said.
The driver was big and bulky, a dyed blond with a scraggly reddish blond beard, wearing a faded blue-and-white short-sleeved shirt open to his navel, and jeans. His face and massive arms were sunburned, an outdoors kind of guy. He scowled at Brixton.
“Why do I get the feeling that you’re interested in me?” Brixton asked, widening his smile.
“Get lost,” the driver said.
“For some reason I’ve seen you too often where I’ve been,” Brixton said, taking note of the shotgun rack over the driver’s seat.
“What the hell are you, some fag trolling for queers. Get lost!”
“Oh, you shouldn’t talk like that,” Brixton said, maintaining his pleasant disposition despite wanting to reach in and smack him.
The driver started the engine, snapped the gearshift into Drive, and burned rubber as he spun away from the curb, almost dragging Brixton with him. Checking the truck’s license plate was second nature to Brixton and he wrote it down on a receipt he pulled from his shirt pocket. It was at times like this that he wished he were still on the force, whipping out his badge and weapon and taking the blond hulk down a peg.
The brief confrontation snapped him out of his dark mood. After a quick cigarette, he went to the office, poured himself a thimble-size shot of scotch from a bottle he kept in a desk drawer, put his feet up on the desk, and processed what had transpired over the past two days. A few things nagged at him.
The first was the series of phone calls Eunice Watkins had starting receiving.
The second was the moron in the red truck.
She hadn’t received such calls until she’d visited him the day before.
And the pickup and its driver had started showing up at the same time.
Coincidence?
Possibly.
Then again …
The ringing phone interrupted his introspection. It was Wayne St. Pierre.
“I’m callin’ to invite you to a soiree at the old homestead,” St. Pierre said.
“What’s the occasion?” Brixton asked.
“Do I need an ‘occasion’ to throw a party? Just havin’ a few friends over for cocktails and thought you and your lovely lady, Miss Flo, might like to join us. Day after tomorrow. I know, I know, it’s last minute but spur-of-the-moment invites are always the most fun. Seven o’clock? Elegant casual dress. No need to bring anything except your charming selves.”
Brixton’s first reaction was to question why he and Flo were on the invitation list. St. Pierre was known to throw parties at the mansion his parents had left him, and Brixton had been to a few when he was still a cop. But he hadn’t been invited to one since his retirement.
“Not sure about Flo,” Brixton said, “but I’ll be there.”
“Splendid. There’ll be a gracious plenty of top-shelf whiskey, and I’m bringing in a chef for the occasion who’ll take you back to that Savannah we knew before all you interlopers from the north invaded.”
“I’ll let you know about Flo,” Brixton said.
“You’re a fine gentleman, Robert Brixton. I think you’ll enjoy the other guests I’ve rounded up. See you then.”
“Wait, Wayne, I need a plate run.” He read it off the paper in his shirt pocket.
“First thing tomorrow,” St. Pierre said. “Got to run. Bye.”
CHAPTER 6
Brixton stayed in his office until nine, closing time for Flo’s shop. They went to dinner at Vic’s on the River, one of his favorite Savannah restaurants, and lingered over after-dinner drinks in the bar. He’d told her little about the Watkins case the preceding night. Now, with shimmering snifters of brandy in their hands, he filled her in.
“And you believe the mother’s story?” Flo said.
“Yeah, I do.”
The skeptical expression on her face said volumes.
“You don’t buy it,” he said.
She wrinkled her nose, a sure sign that it hadn’t passed her smell test.
“I know it goes back a long way,” he said, “which makes it tough to nail down. But yeah, I do believe the mother. Where the hell would the girl get ten thousand to give her? Joe Cleland—a detective I used to work with—he took the daughter’s confession and told me he didn’t believe her.”
“But they convicted her anyway?”
“Sure. Case solved. Solving cases always looks good when budget time rolls around.”
“Didn’t she have an attorney?”
“Court-appointed. George English, an old-timer, retired.”
“And you’re convinced that her killing is linked to her having taken the rap for someone else.”
“For the ten grand. She gave it to her mother.”
Another nose wrinkle.
“I don’t know, Bob,” she said. After a long pause and a slow, deliberate taste of her brandy, she said, “Have you ever thought of getting out of the business you’re in?”
His laugh wasn’t completely sincere. “I seem to remember you asking me that before.”
She placed a nicely manicured set of long fingers on his bare wrist. “I worry,” she said, “that’s all. If this Louise Watkins was killed to keep her from pointing out the real killer, whoever did it won’t be thrilled that her mother wants to reopen the case.”
Not that the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. But he hadn’t dwelled on it. Louise Watkins’s travails went back twenty years. Whoever might have been involved was undoubtedly long gone and disinterested, maybe dead. The possibility that anyone would be keeping tabs on the mother for all these years was remote at best.
“Actually, it’s her son, Lucas, who wants to reopen the case. He’s a minister.”
“Whoever.”
He hadn’t told her about the red pickup yet. Her comment about being worried convinced him that it was better left unsaid.
“Staying with me tonight?” she asked after Brixton had paid the bill.
“Can’t. I’m going to Atlanta in the morning and need an early start.”
“What’s in Atlanta?”
“It’s who’s in Atlanta,” he said. He told her about Wanda Johnson, aka Puddin’ Johnson, and why he wanted to see her.
“Think she’ll remember this Watkins girl after so many years? How many hookers has she dealt with?”
“She says she does remember her. It may not amount to much but I think it’s worth the trip.”
They drove to where she’d parked her car next to the shop. They embraced and he considered changing his plans for the night. But he girded against the urge, saw her safely into her car, and watched her drive away.
It was raining hard the next morning when he stumbled out of bed. The alarm clock said six and he didn’t debate it. He’d stayed up late watching an Atlanta Braves game on TV, and mulling over his life, something he found himself doing with increasing regularity. And, as usual during these moments of introspection, much of the time was spent reflecting on his failed marriage and the two daughters it had created.
• • •
He’d met Marylee Greene shortly after joining the Washington, D.C., police department. Their mutual attraction was instantaneous. It was also culture shock for the Brooklyn-born Robert Brixton. Marylee was nothing like the girls he knew back home, nor were any of the other young women he’d met in the nation’s capital. They tended to be bubbly and gushy, their southern accents only adding to that persona. There wasn’t any gushing in his Brooklyn home while he was growing up, with his dour father and taciturn mother.
Marylee had been a cheerleader at the University of Maryland, and Brixton expected her to launch into a “Give me an M, give me an A” at any moment no matter the setting or occasion.
They’d crossed paths for the first time when Brixton, a rookie patrolman, was summoned to a restaurant where a customer had gotten out of hand over his bill. Marylee was on duty as a hostess—she’d majored in European literature and hadn’t yet found a job in D.C. calling for that particular knowledge—and greeted Brixton as he and his partner came through the door. The fracas was quickly settled. The irate customer left, and Marylee gave Brixton the information he needed to complete his report. She was taken with his strong, youthful face and snappy uniform, he with her dazzling smile, shapely figure, and fashionably styled blond hair. He didn’t know whether asking for a date while on duty was against MPD rules but did it anyway.
They were married six months later, to the chagrin of her mother, who considered police service a necessary albeit lower-class way to make a living.
Marylee became pregnant the first month of their marriage and Jill was born nine months later. The second pregnancy occurred as soon as Marylee’s physician told her it was okay to have sex again. Janet arrived nine months after that.
Things went downhill from there. Brixton had become disenchanted with his job, which was a mild reaction compared to Marylee’s revised view of being married to a cop. With her mother, arms crossed, supervising the move, Marylee, Jill, and Janet vacated the apartment in The District and headed to the family home in Maryland. Brixton didn’t contest the divorce or the amount of child support and alimony. Marylee’s mother had been left a lot of money when her husband died, and Brixton got off easy. Within months he’d resigned from Washington’s MPD, been hired by the Savannah Police Department, and moved to that quintessential southern city where there were plenty of other Marylees that he assiduously avoided. Flo Combes was originally from Staten Island. Enough said.
Brixton’s daughters considered him a bit of a flake, which was okay with him. He called weekly, sent the checks on time until they reached eighteen, and managed a visit every couple of months. He missed watching them grow up but didn’t wallow in that disappointment. The older girl, Jill, went on to receive a degree in accounting from Maryland University and landed a good job with a firm in Bethesda, where she met her husband. Brixton had attended the wedding a year ago and proudly walked her down the aisle. Janet proved to be less conventional. She dropped out of college and became involved with the music industry in capacities that Brixton never fully understood. Most recently she claimed to be promoting rock concerts in the D.C. area featuring bands Brixton had never heard of, nor wanted to. He knew she was into the rock world’s drug scene and had warned her on many occasions of the ramifications of that life. She always listened but he was certain that his words fell on deaf ears. That he was now a private investigator, a private eye, amused Jill and Janet, whose knowledge of what private eyes did came from TV. All in all, and with the exception of worrying about Janet’s lifestyle, his life was pretty good, except for those times when he was sure it wasn’t.
• • •
He left Savannah at seven. The 250-mile drive to Atlanta usually took him about four hours, but the rain and two accidents on I-75 slowed him down. On the long list of things he didn’t enjoy, long drives were at or near the top. His orthopedic problems were made worse when behind the wheel for longer than a half hour, and the number of yahoos sharing the road seemed to increase each day, gobbling messy sandwiches while driving, blathering on cell phones, and more recently dunderheads composing text messages on the highway while doing seventy-five.
The only positive thing he found about driving long distances was the time it gave him to think. Shutting off his cell phone while behind the wheel was as second nature to him as silencing it in theaters. There was no call important enough that couldn’t wait until he’d arrived at his destination and gotten out of the car.
He’d researched Wanda Johnson on the Internet the night before. Now in her early forties, she’d been turning tricks for years—Vegas, Boston, Chicago, Atlanta, and finally her hometown, Savannah. Her rap sheet took up enough pages to fill a novella; the Savannah PD’s vice squad knew her well enough to call her by her nickname, “Puddin’.”
She’d had her epiphany following her last arrest. A local clergyman, whose flock consisted of the city’s criminal population, did for Puddin’ whatever it is that clergymen do. Presto! Wanda gave up “the life” and started counseling other hookers to get off the streets—and their backs—dump their pimps, and start living straight.
She got plenty of local press for it but soon decided that there weren’t enough clients in Savannah to sustain her efforts. She packed up and moved to the big city, Atlanta, where there were more in need of her services, and more civic-minded money to sustain her mission.
Wanda Johnson’s Refuge Project was housed in a storefront in a seedy section of the city, flanked by a boarded-up former take-out-chicken shack and an active pawnshop. A fresh coat of white paint and a tastefully painted sign above the door caused it to stand out from its surroundings.
Brixton stepped through the door and was greeted by a young black woman seated behind a makeshift desk created by a hollow door on two file cabinets. A large bulletin board featured dozens of color snapshots of women who Brixton presumed had been rescued from the streets by the mission’s founder. A series of six watercolors depicting city life were grouped on one wall along with a clock with an Atlanta Falcons face, some photographs, and a large blackboard.
Brixton introduced himself and said he had an appointment with Ms. Johnson. The receptionist disappeared through a door and reappeared moments later accompanied by Wanda. Now a stout, middle-aged woman, she wore a flowing white linen robe with colorful embroidery at the hem, cuffs, and neckline, and a floppy red hat, a far cry from what she must have worn during her days as a prostitute. Her dark brown face was heavily made up: vivid red lipstick, greenish eye shadow, and pink rouge. She extended her hand and said, “I don’t remember seeing you around Savannah. You ever work vice?”
“No, ma’am.”
“The vice squad cops were pr
etty nice, not out to bust chops.”
“I hope you told them that.”
“Every time they hauled me in,” she said with a hearty laugh. “Come back to my office, if that’s what you can call it. Times are tough.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Her office wasn’t much bigger than a good-size walk-in closet. She’d squeezed a yellow vinyl couch that had seen better days into the space along with a small, round table that functioned as a desk, the only thing on it a cordless telephone. Another bulletin board held photos similar to the ones outside, as well as a large calendar. There were photos of Wanda receiving awards of some sort from politicians, and candid shots of her with Atlanta athletes at what Brixton assumed were fund-raising events. A through-the-wall air conditioner chugged away noisily. There were no windows. She must have sensed Brixton’s reaction to the space because she said, “Most of the money we raise goes to help the girls, the hospital and rehab fees, help ’em with their rent, psych counseling, stuff like that. I don’t need no fancy office.”
“Most nonprofits could take a lesson from you.”
“Glad you see it that way.”
She directed Brixton to the couch, then sat in a swivel office chair. “So,” she said, “you want to know about Louise Watkins.”
“That’s right.”
“What is it you want to know about her?”
Brixton grinned. “As much as you can remember.”
“That might not be much.”
“Anything will be helpful.”
“Mind if I ask why you’re interested in her?”
Monument to Murder Page 4
