“I need to sit down,” Brixton said.
“Sure, sure,” Lazzara said, grabbing Brixton’s arm and helping him stay erect as he guided him into the restaurant.
Brixton slumped on a bar stool.
“You got mugged?” Lazzara asked.
“I got jumped. Two guys.” It was at that moment that he realized that his attaché case was gone. “They took my case, dammit! I had pictures from tonight’s assignment. Damn!”
“Okay, take it easy,” Lazzara said. “You need to see a doc.”
“No, I’m all right.”
“The hell you are.”
Lazzara brought a cloth soaked in cold water from behind the bar and applied it to Brixton’s face. “You’re a mess. Your nose is busted.”
Brixton pressed his fingers against it and groaned at the pain.
“Come on, man, you need the ER.”
Brixton didn’t argue. After telling the chef to lock up, Lazzara walked Brixton to his car and drove him to Memorial Health University Medical Center, in midtown, where Brixton was seen by a young physician. Lazzara had been right: Brixton’s nose was broken. Aside from that, there didn’t appear to be any other serious injuries.
“How did this happen?” the doctor asked after patching Brixton up.
“I was jumped by two guys,” Brixton answered.
“Have you notified the police?”
“I, ah—I will once I leave here. I was a cop.”
“Were there weapons involved in the assault?”
“Not that I know of.”
Brixton had mentioned to Lazzara during the drive to the hospital that he wasn’t carrying his licensed handgun. “Not that it would have done me any good,” he said. “They were all over me before I could even move my hands.”
“You didn’t see ’em?” Lazzara asked after they’d left Memorial and were on their way back to the restaurant.
“Enough to ID them? It was dark and they were quick.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t go back to your place,” Lazzara suggested.
“No, it’s okay. I got mugged, that’s all.”
Which didn’t accurately reflect what he was thinking. Sure, he might have been the victim of a simple street assault, a couple of guys who spotted the attaché case and figured it might contain a million in cash. But that didn’t wash for Brixton. There was more to it than that. How many coincidences could there be in the space of two days?
He’d been followed by the good ol’ boy in the red truck. A stranger had shown up at Lazzara’s asking for him. Someone had broken into his office, gone through his files, and left without the laptop tucked under his arm. And now this.
These incidents were enough to make him believe that his taking on the Louise Watkins case was, one way or another, connected. He couldn’t conjure why that would be, but it was too compelling to be dismissed. It was all too much to process during the ride back. His broken nose throbbed and his head ached. On top of his injuries, there was the theft of his attaché case. The camera and digital recorder were insured, covered under the policy he carried on his office. But there was no insurance on the photos of the restaurant owner’s cheating wife and her lover-boy.
He thought back to what he’d captured with the camera. The photos were of no use to anyone except the husband and his attorney. They’d have to be content with Brixton’s written report of what he had witnessed the wife doing. But chances were that they wouldn’t accept it as proof and that he’d have to follow her again, using a new camera. Maybe they’d feel sorry for him because he’d sustained injuries in the line of duty. On second thought, the attorney wasn’t the sort of guy who’d feel sorry for anyone.
Lazzara unlocked the restaurant door and put on the overheads. Brixton sat at the bar. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked. Smoking was prohibited in all restaurants in which food was the primary draw.
“No, go ahead,” Lazzara said, sliding an ashtray that hadn’t been used in years across the bar. “Drink?”
“Yeah, that’d be great. Scotch, neat.”
Lazzara joined him. “How you feeling?”
“All right.”
“You want me to call Flo?”
“No. No sense worrying her. I’ll talk to her in the morning.”
“You gonna call the cops and report it?”
“Tomorrow. I have to file a report on the break-in anyway. Might as well do both at once.”
They lingered at the bar for another half hour, when Brixton announced that he was going home. Lazzara locked up again and walked him to the entrance of his building.
“Sure you’re okay?” he asked as they stood inside the cramped lobby that served the building’s six apartments.
“I’m fine. Thanks, Ralph. I owe you.”
Lazzara laughed. “I’ll put it on your bill.”
“Yeah, you do that. Thanks again.”
As Lazzara walked back to where he’d parked his car, he passed the scene of the attack on his friend. He looked down at the red stain left by Brixton’s blood on the sidewalk and hoped that it wasn’t a down payment on worse things to come.
CHAPTER 8
Brixton woke at six the following morning on his couch, where he’d collapsed the night before. He hadn’t bothered to undress, just kicked off his shoes and curled up; sleep had come in seconds.
He went to the bathroom and examined his bruised face in the mirror. One side was swollen and had turned purple and green. His nose, which he always thought was one of his better features, was puffed and discolored. Other than that, he was his usual handsome self.
He showered, dressed in chinos and a pale yellow button-down shirt that he thought went nicely with his wounds, and added a light blue linen blazer. He checked himself in the mirror again and knew that people would want to know what had happened to him: “Walk into a tree?” they’d ask.
He wouldn’t reply, “You should see the other guy.”
He called Cynthia at home to tell her that he’d be in late, asked her to call the handyman they’d used before to repair the door, and headed out, stopping for a bacon-and-egg sandwich and coffee, which he carried to a small park across the street from the Metro barracks at Habersham and Oglethorpe. When he finished eating, he paused in front of a statue of a man in uniform; the sign read ABOVE AND BEYOND, LEST WE FORGET. A list of Savannah police officers who’d given their lives in the performance of their duties appeared below, starting in 1901 with an officer named Harry L. Fender and continuing through more recent years. Brixton had stood before that statue on the first day he’d reported for duty as a Savannah cop and silently hoped that his name wouldn’t be added to the roster.
The entrance to what the cops called “Metro” was covered with a portico supported by columns. A large blue sign with gold lettering announced that this was the SAVANNAH-CHATHAM METROPOLITAN POLICE DEPARTMENT, the result of a merger in 2003 of the Chatham County Police and Savannah City Police. Brixton entered the reception area, where the desk was manned by a pair of formidable female uniformed officers, one of whom Brixton recognized.
“Hey, Detective Brixton, how are you?” she asked.
“Not bad—and don’t ask what happened to my face.”
“Won’t say a word,” she said, laughing.
“Is Detective St. Pierre in?” Brixton asked, aware that the second officer was eyeing his bruises.
“I think so. He expecting you?”
“Expecting to hear from me. Thought I’d drop in instead of calling.”
“I’ll see.”
St. Pierre appeared minutes later. He took one look at Brixton, cocked his head, and said, “I suppose the other fellow looks worse.”
“I wish that were the case, and let’s skip the clichés. Got a minute?”
“For you, Bobby? All the time in the world. Come on back.”
St. Pierre shared an office with another detective, who was out investigating an armed robbery. Brixton took a chair and said, “Two reasons for my being here, Wayne. The first
has to do with my face. I was jumped on my block last night by two goons. They stole the attaché case I was carrying, which contained an expensive digital camera and tape recorder. I had photos in the camera from a surveillance job I did last night.”
“Following some misguided wife or husband?”
“As a matter of fact that’s exactly what I was doing.”
“You waited until this morning to report it?”
“I was in no mood last night to hassle with it. I’m reporting it now.”
“That’s good of you, Bobby. I’m sure that the second reason for your visit is what happened at your office night before last.”
“You were there,” Brixton said.
“Ah certainly was. Made a mess of your door, didn’t they?”
“That they did.”
“Your lady-Friday said she didn’t think anything was missing.”
“She was right. You pick up on anything while you were there?”
“Can’t say that I did. We dusted for prints.”
St. Pierre sat back and made a show of scrutinizing Brixton.
“I know,” Brixton said, “I don’t look so good.”
“Ah wasn’t admiring the handiwork those two fellas did on your ugly face, Bobby. What I am wonderin’ is why a nice fella like you wants to waste his time like a character in a Raymond Chandler novel. Hell, you could get yourself hooked up with some respectable company here in Savannah, head up their security department and spend your sweet days watching shoplifters on a monitor.”
It hurt when Brixton smiled. “I can’t imagine a worse way to spend a day,” he said. “I might ask you the same question. With all your money you could be spending your days mixing juleps and charming southern women with your wit and good looks instead of sitting here.” He indicated the cramped, cluttered office with a wave of his hand.
St. Pierre laughed. “You miss the point,” he said. “Being an officer of the law gives me a certain cachet that other handsome, wealthy Savannah gentlemen lack. I’ll get you a report form for last night. No, better make it two. Seems like your troubles come in pairs.”
When St. Pierre returned, Brixton asked whether he’d had a chance to run the plate on the red pickup.
“As a matter of fact I did. Seems it’s an old discarded plate taken off a vehicle that was junked.”
“But the pickup wasn’t junked.”
“I’d say that the fella driving that red truck didn’t want anybody to know who he was or where to find him, probably put those old plates on to make sure that didn’t happen. What’s your interest in the truck?”
“I think the guy was following me.”
“Oh. Well, whoever he is he probably has his legit plates back on the truck now. Following you, you say? What is goin’ on with you, Bobby? A break-in to your office, a mugging, and bein’ followed.”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” Brixton stood and stretched. “Thanks, Wayne. I’ll fill out these reports outside. This office gives me claustrophobia.”
“Before you go,” St. Pierre said, “what about my soiree? You and Flo will be there?”
“I haven’t mentioned it to her yet. I will later today and let you know. Actually, I don’t look like a happy partygoer.”
St. Pierre put an arm around Brixton’s shoulders and walked him from the office. “What I suggest, my friend, is that you concoct some intriguing story. You know, like you were hurt trying to protect a young lady’s virtue, or thwarted a terrorist attack right here in downtown Savannah.”
The handyman was busy trying to repair the broken office door when Brixton arrived and didn’t look up. But when he entered the reception area, Cynthia took one look and said, “Oh, my God, what happened to you?”
“I thwarted a terrorist attack last night on Bay Street.”
“You what?”
“I lied. I got jumped by two guys when I was going home after the assignment. They ripped off my camera with last night’s photos in it. Ralph Lazzara took me to the ER. I look bad but I’m fine.”
Cynthia had done a good job of straightening up the mess.
“Anything seem to be missing?” he asked.
“No, but it’s hard to tell with so many papers.”
“Nothing of value in them,” he said. “I’d better call Flo.”
He reached her at the dress shop and told her what had happened.
“And you didn’t call me?” she said.
“I didn’t want to worry you. Hey, I’m all right, got patched up nicely at Memorial. Look, Wayne St. Pierre has invited us to a party at his house tonight.”
“Tonight? Thanks for the advance warning.”
“I was busy thinking of other things. I’d like to go, rub elbows with Savannah’s upper crust.”
“I thought you didn’t like Savannah’s upper crust.”
“I don’t. Can you close up early?”
She sighed audibly. “I suppose I can have Carla cover for me. Do I have to dress up?”
“Sure. Basic black with pearls and plenty of rocks on your fingers.”
“Bob!”
“Elegant casual. Isn’t that what they say at restaurants? I’ll pick you up at six.”
He asked Cynthia to get him the phone number of the Southside United Freedom Church and dialed it. The call was answered by a man with a deep, cultured voice.
“I’m looking for the Reverend Lucas Watkins,” Brixton said.
“You are speaking with him.”
“My name’s Robert Brixton. I’m a private investigator working for your mother.”
“Yes, my mother mentioned you.”
“I was wondering if I could stop by and talk with you about the case.”
“About my sister, Louise, you mean. Hearing her referred to as a ‘case’ is a bit unsettling for me.”
“Yeah, well, I— Could we get together to talk about Louise?”
“Are you thinking of today?”
“If it’s okay with you. I can be there within the hour.”
“All right. You have the address?”
“I do.”
“The rectory is directly behind the church. It’s a white, one-story frame house. I’ll await you there.”
Brixton’s next call was to the Christian Vision Academy, where the photo of Louise and friends had been taken during a weekend retreat. He was shuttled around until he connected with the school’s headmistress, Mrs. Farnsworth.
“I have absolutely no recollection of a young woman named Louise Watkins,” she said after Brixton explained the reason for his call.
“I don’t expect that you would,” Brixton said. “Her mother has a photograph of Louise with some of your students at the retreat. I thought that if I showed you the photo, you could help identify who’s in it with her. I know it’s a long time ago, the late eighties, but I really would appreciate your help.”
“Well,” she said after a pause and a meaningful sigh, “I suppose I would be willing to do that. But I must say that our students come from prominent families here in Savannah, from all over the state as a matter of fact. Their privacy is of paramount importance to us.”
“Sure, I understand,” he said. “I just need some help in sorting things out. I’ll arrange to get the photo from her mother and call you when I have it. Will you be in all day?”
“Yes.”
“Hopefully I’ll get back to you by early afternoon. Thanks very much for your assistance. Have a nice day.”
A call to Eunice Watkins confirmed that she would be at home and that he was welcome to come by and pick up the picture, provided he returned it. It was one of her favorite photographs of her daughter because it showed Louise in happier days. He said he understood and pledged that the photo would be back in her hands safe and sound.
The Southside United Freedom Church was on a leafy street in a virtually all-black area, surrounded by modest houses on small plots of land. A group of boys dressed in Little League uniforms—he gauged their ages as somewhere bet
ween ten and twelve—milled around in front of the church, waiting for someone to pick them up and deliver them to a ball field. Brixton parked on the street and approached them on his way to the rectory.
“Got a big game today?” he asked.
His question was met with shouts followed by high fives. The other team didn’t have a chance, if their bravado was any indication.
Brixton looked past them and saw a man he assumed was the minister standing on the small front porch in front of the rectory. He was imposing in height and weight. He wore a black suit and white shirt with a clerical collar. His salt-and-pepper hair and beard were neatly trimmed. He raised his hand. Brixton returned the wave.
“Looks like a bunch of all-stars out front,” Brixton told him.
The Reverend Lucas Watkins laughed. “Their enthusiasm makes up for any shortfalls on the playing field. Come in, Mr. Brixton.”
The inside of the rectory was neat and orderly, the air smelling of fresh paint. “Coffee, tea?” the minister asked.
Brixton opted for coffee. Watkins had a glass of water. They sat in what Watkins termed his study, a compact, nicely furnished room with floor-to-ceiling bookcases on one wall and a large open window looking out over a small backyard. A set of lacy orange-and-yellow curtains fluttered in a welcome breeze. Brixton noted that among an array of photographs hanging behind the desk was a large color photo of Eunice Watkins with her daughter. He commented on it.
“Breaks my heart every time I look at it,” Watkins said, slowly shaking his head. “Louise was a victim and paid the price.”
“A victim? Of what?”
“The society we live in, Mr. Brixton. She fell under the influence of evil people who inhabit it.”
Brixton was tempted to challenge the statement. As far as he was concerned, today’s society was no different than it ever had been and most people didn’t fall victim to anything. For Brixton, life amounted to nothing more than a series of decisions. You make good ones, and barring some freakish act of nature or accident, a tornado or being hit on the head by an air conditioner falling from a high window, things go pretty smoothly. Make bad decisions and things don’t go so well. But he wasn’t there to argue philosophy.
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