“Not at all. As I told you, I’m a PI now. Louise’s mother came to see me. Louise went to prison for stabbing a guy outside Augie’s. Remember that joint?”
“Sure I do. Down and dirty.”
“Her mother claims that Louise confessed to that stabbing in return for ten thousands bucks, claims her daughter didn’t stab anybody.”
“Just like a loving mother.”
“I believe her.”
“Cops aren’t usually that gullible.”
“I’m not gullible, Wanda. The detective who took the confession didn’t believe it either.”
“She got herself killed,” Wanda said matter-of-factly.
“Not long after she got out of prison. She did four years.”
“Gunned down as I remember.”
“That’s right, in broad daylight. She was alone on the street. The cops say it was a random drive-by shooting. I say she was a target.”
They were interrupted by two young women, one black, one white, who walked in without knocking. They eyed Brixton suspiciously.
“What’s up?” Wanda asked them.
“Betty’s making trouble again,” one said.
“Is she?” said Wanda. “You tell Miss Betty that she’d best shape up or she’ll be answerin’ to me. You got that?”
They laughed and left.
“A couple of your saves?” Brixton asked.
“Uh-huh. You can take them off the street all right, but it’s harder to take the street out of ’em.”
“I imagine.”
“You were saying about Louise getting gunned down. Let me tell you what I remember about Louise Watkins. Like I said on the phone, she was just a confused little puppy, didn’t have what it took to turn tricks. It’s a hard business, you know, takes a certain kind of woman to survive it. Probably best she was sent down. I don’t think she would have lasted long as a hooker, probably have gotten herself cut up or worse by some pervert.”
“Did you and she talk much?” he asked.
Wanda shook her head, which sent her red hat into motion. “Just once or twice. I remember once after she’d been busted. Might have been her first time only I can’t be sure. Anyways, she told me that she loved her momma and didn’t want to hurt her, only she already was hurtin’ her. She was drugged up that time. Damn drugs. She was pretty heavy into it, selling, too.”
“Louise Watkins was a drug dealer?”
“Minor league stuff, Mr. Brixton. She peddled pot, some coke, nothing big time. She used to hang around Augie’s, sell to some of the teenyboppers who hung out there, too. Mostly white, girls and guys whose mommies and daddies never believed their precious kids were using. I told Louise to knock it off, told her that they’d take her down hard if she got busted dealing junk.”
“Did she listen to you?”
“Probably not. I was just another whore handing out advice.”
“She should have listened to you.”
“Most don’t, but enough do to make it worthwhile.”
“Did Louise have friends?” he asked.
“I suppose. She wasn’t out on the street long enough to get close to other hookers, but she hung around with some people at Augie’s.” She snorted. “Friends? They were only friends as long as she had junk to sell. There are no friends in that world, Mr. Brixton.”
“Did you know her when she confessed to the stabbing and was sentenced? I mean, were you in Savannah at that time?”
“Sure I was.”
“What’d you hear on the street about it?”
“Not much. Shame she got nailed. Too bad it happened. The smart thinking was that she was turning a trick in the parking lot, he got pissed about something, put some muscle on her, and she poked him. Didn’t she claim that he tried to rape her?”
“That’s right.”
“That doesn’t make any sense, no need to rape a hooker unless you’re broke and want it for nothing.”
“That’s the way I see it, too.”
The time passed quickly and they talked until one, when she excused herself to keep another appointment. She walked him out to the reception area, where she pointed to a large glass bowl with the sign DONATIONS. He smiled, extracted a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet, and dropped it into the bowl.
“Thanks,” she said. “You let me know how things turn out.”
“I will, and thanks for seeing me. Keep up the good work.”
“Oh, no fear of me stopping what I’m doing,” she said. “Long as there be men there be hookers to save.”
As he got into his car he remembered that his cell phone had been off since he’d left Savannah. He turned it on and saw that Cynthia had tried to reach him a half-dozen times. “Call me,” she’d recorded in his voice mail. “It’s important.”
He dialed his office.
“Jesus, where have you been?” she said.
“Atlanta. I told you I was coming here.”
“Your phone was off.”
“I know. What’s so important?”
“Somebody broke in here last night and went through your office, left a mess.”
“Damn! You call it in?”
“Of course I did. Detective St. Pierre was here with a crime-scene type. They left an hour ago.”
“I’m heading back now,” he said, “should be there by five. Hang around, huh?”
“It gives me the creeps to be here,” she said.
He didn’t say it, but it gave him the creeps, too.
CHAPTER 7
Brixton decided that whoever had ransacked his office was an amateur.
He’d broken into more than one office during his tenure as a Savannah detective and knew that a pro wouldn’t have destroyed the doorjamb during entry, nor would he have left things strewn all over the desk and floor. A pro would have jimmied the door neatly and made an attempt to put things back to prolong the discovery of the break-in.
“What do you think they were after?” Cynthia asked as Brixton surveyed the damage.
“I can’t imagine. Then again, maybe they weren’t after anything.”
Her expression was quizzical.
“From the looks of it, nothing’s missing. Any thief would have taken my surveillance equipment. My laptop’s sitting on the desk. Your computer’s still there. Nothing.”
“Then why?”
“Maybe somebody was sending me a message.”
He sat behind his desk and poured them each a shot glass of scotch. “Just a possibility,” he said, and went on to tell her of the big man in the red pickup.
“He’s been following you?”
“It looked that way. At least that’s how I read it.”
But then he waved away the scenario he’d just painted. He didn’t want to spook her and possibly prompt her to quit. Since coming to work at his agency four years ago, the most upsetting thing that had happened to Cynthia involved the idiot last year who’d been fired from his bartending job after Brixton proved that he was ripping off the house. The bartender had somehow discovered that it was Brixton who’d fingered him, and had showed up at the office waving a samurai sword. Cynthia had hidden under her desk while Brixton calmed the man down until he was able to lay him out with two short, well-placed punches. Then the police hauled him off. He was deemed mentally unfit to stand trial and was remanded to a mental institution for evaluation. The last Brixton had heard of him was six months ago, when someone said that he’d moved to California. Perfect place for him.
“What did St. Pierre say?” Brixton asked her.
“Not much. The crime-scene techie dusted for prints on the door and some of the file cabinets. Detective St. Pierre wants you to call him tomorrow to file an official report. Want help cleaning up? I told Jim I’d probably be late.”
“No, go on home. I’ll take care of it. It must have been traumatic walking in this morning and seeing this.”
She shuddered and wrapped her arms about herself. “I was afraid he might still be here. I got out fast and called the p
olice from the deli.”
“Smart thinking.”
She started to leave, stopped, and said, “I forgot to ask how things went in Atlanta.”
“Okay. Wanda Johnson was helpful.”
“Glad to hear it. Why don’t you get out of here, go have a nice dinner with Flo and call it a night. We can put things back together in the morning.”
“Yeah, I might do that. See you tomorrow.”
Her suggestion was appealing, and he almost acted upon it. But in the turmoil he’d forgotten that he was scheduled to follow the restaurant owner’s wife that night to see whether she actually did attend a weekly Tupperware party.
According to the attorney, the party was supposed to start at eight, and he’d given Brixton the couple’s address as well as a photo of the wife and a description of the car she would be driving. The last thing Brixton wanted to do at that moment was to tail an adulterous woman. But he’d already received an advance. Besides, there were bills to pay. He was always amazed at how pragmatic he could be when necessary.
He examined the office door and decided it would take more carpentry skill than a locksmith could provide. He’d call in a handyman in the morning. Whoever had broken in wasn’t likely to take an encore. He turned out the lights and walked out, carrying with him the attaché case holding the camera and recorder he would use that night.
He showered at his apartment, changed into jeans, a black T-shirt, and sneakers, and stopped in at Lazzara’s, his neighborhood hangout, a small Italian restaurant and bar on the corner owned by a fellow transplant from New York. Ralph Lazzara had also married a southern girl and moved with her to Savannah. And, like Brixton, the marriage hadn’t lasted long. But by the time it disintegrated Ralph had already opened the restaurant and decided to stick with it. Living in Savannah was a lot cheaper than in Brooklyn.
“Hey, look who’s here,” Lazzara said when Brixton walked in. “Sam Spade himself. How’s business?”
“Could be better. Let me have a Swamp Fox and an order of calamari. I don’t have much time.”
Lazzara plopped the bottle of locally brewed beer in front of Brixton and called in the calamari order to the kitchen. He joined Brixton at the bar. They were the only two people in the six-table restaurant.
“There was somebody in here this afternoon looking for you,” Lazarra said.
“Oh? Who?”
“I didn’t get his name. Kind of a weasel type of guy, you know, narrow face like a ferret I used to own. Dressed nice.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked if I knew where Bobby Brixton lived, said he was an old buddy from Brooklyn.”
“He called me Bobby?”
“Uh-huh.”
“He sound like he was from Brooklyn?”
Lazzara laughed. “He didn’t have any accent as far as I could tell, you know, he didn’t talk like they do here.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“I told him you were from the neighborhood but I didn’t know where you lived. I figured that’s what you’d want me to say.”
“Somebody broke into my office last night.”
“No? What’d they take?”
“Nothing as far as I can see. The only stuff worth anything is some electronic paraphernalia I use now and then. Everything was still there. It wasn’t a burglary.”
“Kids?”
“I don’t think so. Where’s the calamari? I have an assignment.”
Lazzara disappeared into the tiny kitchen and emerged carrying the platter.
“Did this guy who was asking for me say anything else?” Brixton asked between bites.
“No. He had a sweet tea, thanked me, and left.”
“Has a big, sunburned guy with blond hair, almost orange, and driving a red pickup been around?”
“A bubba?”
Brixton nodded.
“Doesn’t sound familiar but I’ll keep an eye out. What’s the assignment you’re on?”
Brixton finished the calamari and beer and promised Lazzara that he’d stop back on his way home and tell him about it.
He drove to the address given him by the attorney and parked a few houses down on the opposite side of the street. The wife’s car as described sat in the driveway. He looked at his watch: 7:45. The minute he looked up, the wife came from the house, got into her car, backed from the driveway, and drove off. Brixton fell in behind at a discreet distance.
He assumed that if she was going to a girlfriend’s house, it wouldn’t be far. But as they continued to travel, the husband’s suspicions became more plausible. The route took them out of the residential area and to a highway leading south. It was twenty minutes past eight when she exited and turned into a motel parking lot.
Here we go, Brixton said to himself as he took a parking spot two cars removed. He pulled an expensive digital camera with a monster telephoto lens from the case and rolled down his window. She got out of the car, fluffed her hair, straightened her miniskirt, and crossed the lot in the direction of the rooms. Brixton had never been to a Tupperware party but doubted whether women at them would be dressed the way she was.
As trysts go, this one proved easy for Brixton. The door she paused at had a bright light over it that afforded plenty of illumination for the camera. Too, the motel’s name in red neon was low enough above the door to be in the frame. The wife turned before knocking, as though to make sure that no one was watching (She should only know, Brixton thought), and he squeezed off a rapid-fire series of shots catching her full-face. The man with whom she was rendezvousing stepped outside to greet her with an embrace, giving Brixton a clear shot of him, too.
They disappeared inside. Brixton checked to see that the photos had come out—they were excellent quality—and replaced the camera in the case. Two hours later, after dictating his observations and times in the digital recorder, he drove off with mixed emotions. He was pleased at how easy it had been. The husband would have proof of his wife’s infidelity, the attorney would look good for having hired the right PI, and Brixton was spared a succession of future evenings hoping to catch her in the act. On the other hand, he’d intruded into someone’s personal life, an intrusion that would result in pain for everyone involved. He felt anything but proud as he made his way back to the city but knew he’d feel better once he’d picked up the lawyer’s second check.
Lazzara’s Restaurant was busier than when Brixton had been there earlier. All the tables were taken, and four of the five stools at the bar were occupied. Brixton took the vacant one and ordered a scotch and water. Lazzara, who was bartending, asked, “How’d it go?”
“Fine. An easy one.”
Lazzara leaned over the bar. “That guy who was in earlier looking for you came back. Not long after you left.”
“Asking for me again?”
“No. He had a drink and some pasta and left.”
Brixton thought of his trashed office and wondered if there was a connection between this stranger and the break-in.
“You want something to eat?” Lazzara asked.
“Yeah, that’d be great.”
“I’ve got an eggplant special.”
“I don’t eat eggplant.”
“That’s right. I forgot. The usual?”
“That’ll be fine.”
The couple next to him tried to engage him in conversation but he wasn’t in the mood for chitchat with strangers. He politely disengaged and focused on his veal parmigiana. The couple left, as did most of the diners at tables. Lazzara joined Brixton on his side of the bar.
“Put it on my bill, Ralph.”
“Sure. Tell me more about what happened at your office.”
Brixton filled him in, and told him of his surveillance that night of the wayward wife without mentioning names. “Did the guy asking for me look like the type who’d break in someplace?”
“Not the way he was dressed. Like I said, sharp dresser, expensive suit, fancy tie. You think there’s maybe a connection?”
�
�Probably not.” Brixton stood and clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “The veal was great, Ralph. It’s been a long day.”
“You look beat. Go crash. It’ll do you good.”
Brixton took his case of electronic gear and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The rain that had soaked the city earlier had cleared, leaving Savannah in a soupy, humid mist that made it hard to breathe. He headed in the direction of the building in which his one-bedroom apartment was located, eager to strip down, take a shower, and bask in the AC. The street was quiet, the few small stores that lined his route closed for the night, heavy metal gates secured over their windows and doors.
As he approached the corner, he thought he heard a noise coming from an alley that ran between his building and the adjoining one. A few more steps brought him even with the dark shaft. It happened fast. Two men who’d been lurking in the alley’s shadows rushed him. The first caught him flush on the side of the face, knocking him to one knee. The second man grabbed him from behind in a stranglehold while the first rammed his fist into his gut, then smashed his nose. Brixton tried to bring up the attaché case as a shield but it was ripped from him. He tumbled face-forward, hands outstretched in search of the case, his momentum bringing his already battered face into contact with the hard sidewalk. He squeezed his eyes closed against the pain in his head; he heard their footsteps as they ran from the scene and disappeared around the corner.
Brixton remained motionless on the sidewalk until his senses had cleared. He opened his eyes and managed to pull himself up so that he was on all fours, and vigorously shook his head in an attempt to regain some semblance of clarity. He got to his feet, fell, and tried again. This time he was successful, although he was anything but steady. He gently put his fingers to his face. When he pulled them away, they were sticky, wet with his blood. He brought his hand back up to his mouth. No teeth missing. Count your blessings.
He leaned against the metal grates protecting the stores and used them as props to retrace his steps back to Lazzara’s. He reached the window and looked inside to where Lazzara was busy cleaning up behind the bar. Brixton felt as though he might vomit. Lazzara saw him and rushed through the door. “What the hell?” he said.
Monument to Murder Page 5
