“I understand that it was you who urged your mother to come see me about Louise,” he said.
“That’s correct, Mr. Brixton.” Watkins’s voice filled the room and Brixton visualized him delivering a fire-and-brimstone sermon. “However, I didn’t suggest you specifically. I simply told her that she might engage the services of a private investigator.”
“Had your sister told you about being paid to go to prison? I know she told your mother.”
“No, she did not. Louise and I suffered the sort of sibling rivalry that occurs in most families. Being older and male, I had different interests and friends. I felt my calling to God at a very early age, Mr. Brixton, and Louise was aware of it. I, of course, was aware of her lifestyle and the wrong path she was going down. It wasn’t a situation conducive to her sharing intimate thoughts with me, although I tried to reach her. I regret I was unable to provide a counterbalancing influence.”
“You’re referring to her drug use.”
“Yes.”
“But I’m under the impression that your mother—and now I assume you—are more interested in clearing her name regarding the stabbing than in finding out who shot her when she got out of prison.”
“Being shot is not a sin, Mr. Brixton. She happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. But to have spent four years behind bars for a crime she did not commit is a legacy I believe should be corrected.”
“When did you learn of Louise’s claim that she’d been paid to take the rap?”
“A few months ago. My mother, bless her, carried the burden of knowing for all these years.”
“What caused her to finally confide in you?”
“My mother isn’t well, Mr. Brixton. I believe that she wished to unburden herself of this before answering her final call.”
Brixton nodded. It was as good a reason as any. He noticed for the first time since entering that the house, and particularly this room, was relatively cool even without an air conditioner running. Maybe it was a perk of being close to God. If so, he might consider stopping in at a church from time to time, at least until fall arrived.
Brixton wondered just how ill Eunice Watkins was but didn’t ask. Stick to the reason you’re here, he silently reminded himself.
Sounds of a happy commotion from outside interrupted their conversation. “Excuse me,” Watkins said, standing. “The boys are about to leave for their game and I have to see them off. The church sponsors the team.”
Brixton followed him to the front porch and stayed there as Watkins went to where the team stood alongside a school bus. The youngsters had now been joined by a handful of adults, presumably their parents. When they saw Watkins approaching, conversation died. The moment he reached them, the boys and their parents lowered their heads in prayer, with Watkins leading. When their heads came up, Watkins shouted, “Play hard but fair! You carry God’s name with you.” The whooping and hollering resumed as the team scrambled onto the bus and the adults retreated to their cars parked in driveways up and down the street.
“I’m impressed,” Brixton said when Watkins rejoined him on the porch.
“With what, Mr. Brixton?”
“With the respect they obviously have for you.”
“To be more accurate, sir, it’s the respect I have for them. Are we finished?”
“Yes, unless you can remember something that will help in my investigation.”
“Might I ask you a question?” he said.
“Sure.”
“I know nothing about you, Mr. Brixton, except what my mother has told me. She says you seem like an honest, honorable man. My mother is prepared to pay a large sum of money to you in the hope that truth will prevail.”
“The ten thousand your sister gave her.”
“She told you that?”
“Not to worry, Reverend. I’m not out to spend your mother’s money beyond what it’ll take to find out the truth.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that you were.”
“But the implication was there. Look, anytime you or your mother wants to call this thing off, let me know and that’ll be that. In the meantime, I’m working as best I can, considering how long ago this all went down.”
Watkins extended a large hand. “I see why my mother has put her faith in you, sir,” he said. “Please call on me at any time.”
Watkins went inside the house, leaving Brixton on the porch. He walked to the street and gave a thumbs-up to the kids as the school bus pulled away. Their parents’ cars left their driveways and fell in line behind the bus. But Brixton’s attention went to one car in particular. It had been parked at the curb a few houses removed from the church and was driven by a white man who cast a fast glance at Brixton as he joined the parade. He didn’t look familiar to Brixton, a nondescript sort of man with a pinched, elongated, ferretlike face.
The way Lazzara had described the man who’d been looking for him the preceding day.
CHAPTER 9
Brixton got in his car, made a U-turn, and headed in the direction the bus and entourage had taken. But by the time he caught up with them a few blocks away, the last car in line, the one driven by Ferret Face, had veered off and was gone.
As he drove to Eunice Watkins’s house he reflected on the conversation he’d just had with her son. He had to give the padre credit for not commenting on his battered face. He’d never even winced. Aside from that, Brixton had been uncomfortable meeting with the minister.
That feeling was nothing new. He’d been ill at ease around ministers and priests going back to when he was an altar boy in his family’s local Brooklyn parish. He’d been baptized like all good Catholic babies, and confirmed in the faith, attending Sunday Mass on a regular basis with his mother while his father slept in after getting home from his Saturday-night shift behind the bar.
When Brixton left home to join the Washington MPD, he put worshipping behind him—until he met and married Marylee Greene and had two kids with her. The Greene family was devoutly Catholic, and Brixton went along, although he knew that he was only going through the motions. Their daughters were dutifully baptized in the Catholic faith and he attended Mass with them whenever his shift allowed. If his faith had been weak before becoming a D.C. cop, nights spent on the city’s mean streets did nothing to strengthen it. And the breakup of the marriage brought a sense of finality to any belief in a higher power. He hadn’t set foot in a church since.
He and the Jewish Flo Combes were a perfect match in that regard. At thirteen her parents had celebrated her coming of age with an elaborate bat mitzvah at a local catering hall. She’d dated plenty of young men, many of them not Jewish, which was all right with her parents. Neither her mother nor her father was especially observant, and their attendance at the local synagogue was restricted to the high holy days.
When Flo graduated from the Parsons School of Design in Manhattan and launched what she hoped would be a successful career as a clothing designer, she fell hard for a handsome young Jewish fellow who was in his third year of residency at a New York City hospital. Their marriage had lasted even fewer years than Brixton’s had—two years, two months, six days, to be precise. Her husband turned out to have an increasingly serious prescription-drug problem that set his emotions on a roller coaster, placid one moment, volatile to the point of physical abuse at the next. Fortunately, no children were involved and they parted amicably, as amicably as possible in such circumstances.
Flo soon tired of the Manhattan rat race and looked to relocate to a more serene environment. A high school friend had moved to Savannah and encouraged Flo to join her there. She packed up, found an apartment in this quintessential southern city, got bank backing for her dress shop, and happily settled in to her new life. There were beaus there, too, of course, but along came Robert Brixton, fresh from twenty years as a homicide detective with Metro, and their distinctly secular, off-and-on relationship took off. Although they disagreed about many issues, they were in concert on one important one: neither wanted
to be married again.
Eunice Watkins greeted Brixton and, unlike her son, gasped when she saw his face.
“It’s a long story,” he said. “I’m fine. Not to worry.”
She invited him in for sweet tea. He declined, explaining that he had appointments to keep. She’d put the photograph in a plastic bag and taped it closed.
“You take good care of that now,” she said.
“You have my word,” he said. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask whether you’ve received any more strange phone calls.”
“No, thank the Lord.”
“That’s good,” he said. “You let me know if you do. I’ll try and have the picture back to you later today, but it may be tomorrow.”
“That will be fine,” she said.
“I spent time with your son this morning.”
“Lucas called and said you’d paid him a visit.”
“I’m sure you’re very proud of him.”
“I thank God every day for him,” she said. “Every day. I’ll be prayin’ for you, Mr. Brixton,” she added, indicating his face.
“I appreciate that,” he said.
His next stop was the Christian Vision Academy. He’d been on those grounds before as a cop, two calls, as he recalled, having to do with suspicious-looking people hanging around. The private girls’ high school was the butt of occasional jokes, mostly about its reputation as being snobbish and priggish, the students’ families coming almost exclusively from Georgia’s A-list stratum. But it had a sterling reputation for turning out fine young southern women who, for the most part, went on to marry fine young southern men after leaving CVA and majoring in finding suitable husbands at college. A few had strayed over the years from the religious teachings that supplemented the school’s academic curriculum, and Brixton had once arrested one of those rogue fine southern young women in a drug bust. He’d arrested people from all walks of life as a cop, both in Savannah and in D.C., including a House member in the nation’s capital, and some wealthy types in Savannah. Money never buys morality was how he saw it.
CVA’s campus was set on a dozen acres of gently rolling land with an abundance of live oaks, crepe myrtles with purple and white flowers resembling crepe paper, and sweet bay magnolias. The administrative building stood on the tallest rise, an imposing antebellum mansion that Brixton figured probably looked like Tara in Gone With the Wind, although it had been so long since he’d seen the movie that he couldn’t remember what Scarlett’s plantation home looked like. Smaller buildings, architecturally designed not to clash with the main building, housed classrooms and other functional rooms.
He pulled into a visitors’ parking area in front of the main building, turned off the engine, unwrapped the photograph, and spent a few moments examining it. He looked up as a group of six young women wearing the school’s green-and-black uniforms exited the building and passed the car, their voices shrill, their laughs giddy. The white girls in the photograph weren’t wearing uniforms, probably, he assumed, so as to not make the three African-Americans feel out of place. He focused on Louise Watkins’s wide smile and felt a twinge of sadness. What had led her into a life of drug use and hooking, and why would she give up four years of her young life for ten thousand dollars? Who knew? Decisions! You make good ones and you do okay, bad ones and you end up like her. His creed.
Mrs. Farnsworth was a tall, staunch lady in her sixties. In some ways she was the clichéd image of a head mistress of a prestigious girl’s school. But her pink suit and frilly white blouse, coupled with a pleasant smile, softened her beyond stereotype.
She invited him to take a seat in her large, handsomely furnished and decorated office and asked if he wanted a soft drink or coffee. He declined. He was aware that she was eyeing his beat-up face and headed off any questions. “I was mugged last night near my apartment,” he said. “But I’m feeling fine.”
“So much crime,” she commented.
He nodded and got right to the point by handing her the photograph. She put on half-glasses and spent more time than he thought necessary to look at it.
“Taken at one of our weekend retreats,” she said flatly and handed back the picture.
“That’s what I was told by Louise Watkins’ mother,” he said. “Louise is the third black girl from the left.” He handed the photo back to her.
Farnsworth perused it again and shook her head. “This was so long ago,” she said, and the picture ended up back in Brixton’s hands.
“What I’m hoping is that you can identify the other young women in the photo, Mrs. Farnsworth.” He gave her the photo again.
“Hmmm.” She adjusted her glasses. “I don’t know the names of the black girls in the picture, or of two of our students.”
“Two?” he said. “But you know the name of one?”
She placed the photo on her desk and smiled. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I can’t miss that vibrant face and lovely smile.”
Brixton waited for her to elaborate.
“The girl on the far right is Mitzi Cardell.” She placed the accent on the dell.
“Sounds like you knew her pretty well.”
“And still do, Mr. Brixton. Her name isn’t familiar to you?”
“Afraid not.”
“Mitzi was an outstanding student, top grades, a class leader, an exemplary young woman. That she’s gone on to great success surprised no one here at CVA.”
“What does she do?” Brixton asked, wishing he already knew.
“Why, Mitzi Cardell is one of Washington’s leading hostesses, Mr. Brixton, and a confidante to many of our government’s leaders.” She laughed. “Some say that many members of Congress, and the White House for that matter, don’t make important decisions without conferring first with Mitzi.”
“Really? I don’t follow the Washington social scene too closely. I lived there for a while but that was years ago.”
“It’s fitting that she’d ended up in Washington. Her best friend here at school was Jeanine Jamison. That’s her name now that she’s our first lady. Jeanine Montgomery was her maiden name. I’m sure she’s grateful to have Mitzi close-by to help ease the incredible pressure she must be under as first lady. They were inseparable here, just as they are in Washington. Mitzi is one of our major fund-raisers, and the first lady has lent considerable support to our efforts in that regard as well.”
“This Ms. Cardell,” Brixton said. “Her family from Savannah?”
“Yes. Wonderful people, pillars of the community.”
It took a few moments for the name Cardell to register with Brixton, big shots in Savannah, plenty of money, their names in the society columns every now and then. The old man led the annual St. Patrick’s Day parade on a few occasions; Savannah’s St. Patrick’s parade was the second largest in the United States, second only to New York City. Go figure. Brixton recalled being introduced to him at a fund-raiser for a charity dedicated to providing funds to the families of cops wounded or injured in the line of duty. Typical titan of industry was Brixton’s reaction to shaking his hand. Cardell had made his money in real estate, and there had been rumors that he’d pulled a few shady deals including payoffs to elected officials to secure prime downtown property. Business as usual.
“That’s the best I can do,” Mrs. Farnsworth said.
“You’ve been generous with your time,” said Brixton. “I appreciate it.”
She walked him from the building, looked up into a pristine blue sky, and said, “I’ve been blessed with helping nurture so many outstanding young ladies during my years here.”
“Must be nice seeing your students go on to bigger and better things.”
“Very satisfying, Mr. Brixton, very rewarding.”
Brixton got into his car and turned on his cell phone, which had been off all day. There were messages from Cynthia. He called the office.
“You know,” she said upon answering, “you should get in the habit of leaving your cell phone on, Bob. It’s so damn frustrating trying to reach
you.”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry. What’s happening?”
“A restaurant owner called to say he needed you to do some undercover work at his place. And that attorney called to get a report on the wife you followed last night.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“I told him I’d have you call.”
“I will.”
He’d been avoiding making that call all day.
“Are you coming back to the office?”
“Later. The handyman get the door fixed?”
“Uh-huh. He left his bill.”
“Okay. I should be back within the hour.”
While Brixton dialed the attorney’s number, Mrs. Farnsworth placed a call of her own from the office. “Mr. Cardell, it’s Waldine Farnsworth at CVA.”
“Hello there,” he said in a loud voice colored by his Savannah roots. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
She told him of Brixton’s visit and of his interest in the girls in the photo. “I pointed out Mitzi to him. I hope that was an appropriate thing to do.”
“You say he’s a private detective?”
“Yes. He gave me his card.”
“Ah’m sure there’s nothing to it, Waldine, but I appreciate the call.”
“I just thought you’d want to know.”
“Much obliged, Waldine. I’ll have to get over there one of these days to talk some about raising some more money for that fine school of yours.”
“I look forward to that,” she said, and the conversation ended.
Brixton reached the attorney from his car.
“What’ve you got from last night?” the attorney asked.
“The husband’s right,” Brixton replied. “She met up with a guy at a motel south of here.” He gave the attorney the name of the motel and its location.
“Damn good work, Brixton. You’ve got pictures, tapes?”
“Well, let’s just say I had pictures.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I got a good set of pictures of the two of them hugging in front of their motel-room door, but I got mugged. The bastards took my attaché case that had my camera and recorder in it.”
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