“Oh, that’s wonderful. That’s really wonderful, Brixton.”
“Couldn’t be helped.”
“It sure as hell won’t help my client. What do you think I should do, tell him that you say you saw his wife with this guy at a motel? That’ll do a lot of good, Brixton. He needs proof to bring to the judge, hard proof.”
“I understand that, but you see, I got beat up and—”
“I don’t need excuses, dammit, I need evidence, hard evidence. What you say doesn’t mean squat. What’d I hire, an amateur?”
“No, you hired a good PI who got his face busted up trying to keep a couple of bozos from stealing my expensive camera and your client’s pictures. I should have the check from my insurance agent within a week and I’ll follow her again once I buy a new camera.”
“I should have gone to a real agency,” the attorney growled, “somebody who knows what he’s doing.”
“You know what?” Brixton said. “I think that’s exactly what you should do, get somebody else.”
“What about the advance I paid you?”
“Sue me for it, pal. I consider it a down payment on my pain and suffering.”
He clicked off the phone.
It took Brixton a few minutes to calm down. His thoughts ran rampant. He considered going to the attorney’s office and punching him out, but he’d end up in jail if he did that. He thought of contacting the husband’s wife and telling her to cool it with her lover. That wouldn’t accomplish anything, he decided, and contented himself with having blown off the attorney and keeping the advance payment.
Eunice Watkins was home when Brixton dropped off the photograph. He didn’t stay.
Cynthia was packing up to leave by the time he walked into the office.
“Half a day?” he said.
“Very funny. I have errands to do,” she said. “It’s quiet around here. I mean, unless you want me to stay.”
“No, go on. I have to leave, too. Flo and I are going to St. Pierre’s place for a party tonight.”
“The way you look?”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. First thing in the morning go online and find out everything you can about a Mitzi Car-dell. She’s supposed to be some big-shot D.C. hostess who was friendly with the president’s wife.”
“Why?”
“Cynthia, I’m not in the mood for twenty questions. Just do it, okay?”
“Testy, aren’t we? I’ll take care of it. Enjoy the party. And lock up tight when you leave. I’d hate to have to go through this again.”
CHAPTER 10
Flo Combes owned the building in which she lived, a two-story row house constructed in the mid-1800s of large porous bricks known as “Savannah grays”; its second-floor balcony covered with scrolled ironwork typical of vintage Savannah houses. She occupied the top floor and rented the lower one to the owner of an art gallery that featured local artists, many of them products of the Savannah College of Art and Design, Wayne St. Pierre’s alma mater.
“You look terrific,” Brixton said when Flo opened the door dressed in a knee-length white silk sheath.
She winced at the sight of his face. “Oooh,” she said. “You really did a number on yourself.”
“I had nothing to do with it,” he said.
She gently touched the side of his face. “Hurt?” she asked.
“Only when I laugh. You look—different.”
“Like it?” she asked. “I had my hair done this afternoon and I told her to do something different with it. She came up with this shorter cut.”
“Looks great,” he said, and he meant it, although he preferred the longer version. Discretion prevailed and he didn’t say it. She’d been blessed with a mane of luxuriously full and healthy hair, so richly black that it gave off almost a purple sheen. It was the first thing he’d noticed about her the night they met.
“So,” she said, “why are we invited to this shindig? You and Wayne haven’t been close since you left Metro.”
“It’s this case I’m working on. He’s been helpful inside the department. Besides, I get a kick out of him, always have. He’s funny.”
“That’s not necessarily flattering.”
“No, I mean I like him. It’s just that I’ve never known another cop like him. It must be his money.”
“You used to wonder whether he was gay.”
“I don’t think he is. Not that it matters. He’s had plenty of girlfriends.”
“That doesn’t always mean anything,” she offered.
“Ready to go?”
“Do I look sufficiently southern?” she asked, striking a pose.
“You look sufficiently Staten Island,” he said. “Perfect!”
Wayne St. Pierre’s home was located on Monterey Square on Bull Street between Taylor and Gordon Streets, amid equally impressive homes, all of them old, large, immaculately maintained, and owned by wealthy Savannahians. That old money was behind each front door was as evident as if they had neon signs on them that flashed RICH!
Piano music and the voices of party revelers came from the house as Brixton turned over his car to a young man St. Pierre had hired for the evening as a parking valet. “I want a cigarette before we go in,” Brixton said, pulling one from his jacket pocket and lighting it. He’d taken only an initial puff when the door opened and St. Pierre appeared, dressed in a purple silk smoking jacket, black pants, white tux shirt open at the neck, and red-and-yellow carpet slippers with toes that turned up.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked. “Sneaking a smoke like some homeless character? Come on in and bring your cigarette. The antismoking crowd doesn’t have jurisdiction over the old homestead.” He turned to Flo. “You look absolutely ravishing, my dear,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. “Come in, come in. Plenty of good whiskey for all, food catered by Susan Mason herself, and nothing but Johnny Mercer music.”
They followed him inside, where two dozen men and women stood in conversational bunches, drinks in hand, their laughter filling the room along with music from a Yamaha Disklavier player piano. Two uniformed waitresses passed trays of canapés and other finger food. A few smoking guests had gathered around a sizable ashtray.
“Bar’s over there,” St. Pierre said, indicating a far corner of the large living room. He left them to welcome another arriving guest.
Brixton said into Flo’s ear, “We don’t have to stay long.”
She laughed and led him to the bar.
St. Pierre rejoined them as they waited for one of two bartenders to make their drinks. He was accompanied by a tall, deeply tanned man with rugged features. His pearl-gray suit had Savile Row written all over it. “Bobby and Flo, say hello to Warren Montgomery.”
They shook hands.
“We’ve met before,” Brixton said, “when I was with Metro.”
“One of Savannah’s finest?” Montgomery said. “Not still on the force?”
“No. I retired four years ago,” Brixton replied as the bartender handed them their drinks.
“Warren’s our president’s father-in-law,” St. Pierre said.
“I know that,” Flo said. “We’ve never had the pleasure of meeting. It must be exciting being that close to the seat of power.”
Montgomery gave forth with a self-effacing laugh. “I don’t think I’d choose the term exciting, Ms. Combes. Annoying might be more like it. They wanted to assign a couple of Secret Service boys to keep me safe.” Now it was a guffaw. “I told ’em that I had my own security people and that they could save the taxpayers money by lettin’ me take care of myself. If more citizens felt that way we might be able to balance the damn budget there in D.C.”
“You get to see your daughter much now that she’s in the White House?” Brixton asked.
“I get there occasionally,” he replied. “Even got to sleep in the Lincoln Bedroom on one occasion. They say it’s haunted but I never saw any ghosts parading around. Got enough ghosts here in Savannah without havin’ to go to Washington
to see them.” Then, as though noticing Brixton’s black-and-blue face for the first time, he said, “Judging from your face, I’d say being retired from the police is a dangerous undertaking.”
“An accident,” Brixton said.
“Can’t be too careful these days,” Montgomery said. “Good meeting you folks.” He strode away.
“I’m going out for a cigarette,” Brixton announced.
“You can smoke right in here, Bobby,” St. Pierre said.
“I don’t like blowing smoke in people’s faces.”
“Robert’s a very considerate smoker,” Flo explained.
St. Pierre slapped him on the shoulder. “Looks like some of our famous southern manners rubbed off on you. Go on out back.” He pointed to french doors that led to a brick patio.
“You go ahead,” Flo said. “I’m not leaving the air-conditioning. Besides, I’m enjoying the music.”
The disk inserted in the piano contained only Johnny Mercer songs recorded by a local professional pianist, the ivory keys moving magically without anyone seated on the piano bench. It segued from one Mercer tune to another—“Fools Rush In,” “Autumn Leaves,” “Satin Doll” (with music by Duke Ellington), and “Laura,” Flo’s favorite song, written with the composer David Raksin. Mercer had been a lifelong Savannah resident; his family’s ancestral home, across the square from St. Pierre’s, had become a tourist destination, hosting thousands of visitors each year. He’d written the lyrics to more than a thousand songs and composed the music for others, many of which became classics. He ranked right up there as a Savannah favorite son.
It was a typical summer night, hot and steamy, although a breeze had developed, which helped a little. Brixton lit up and sat on a stone bench in front of a piece of statuary, a six-foot-tall naked woman holding a bunch of grapes. Savannah was full of statues, many celebrating the city’s heritage, which went back to 3500 BCE, when the Biblo lived there. Oglethorpe’s arrival in 1732 marked the birth of modern Savannah. Brixton respected the city’s history but didn’t have any particular interest in it. For him it was an alien land in which he’d ended up through circumstances. No, he decided as he sat on the bench and thought about it, he’d ended up in Savannah because he’d decided to come there, and he was still there because he’d decided not to leave. He didn’t believe in fate. You made your own fate.
As this train of thought occupied him, he realized that he was becoming depressed. The shrill female voices inside, coupled with loud males’, oiled by the free-flowing booze, grated on him. He lit a second cigarette. He knew he should go back inside and join Flo but dreaded it, actually dreaded it. They never should have come. He should have declined St. Pierre’s invitation, made an excuse—his face was excuse enough—and spent the evening with Flo at some quiet restaurant, or in one of their apartments.
He was sinking deeper into this morose state when the doors opened and St. Pierre came through.
“Bad form, Bobby, leaving that lovely lady alone in there with a bunch of men on the hunt.”
“I was just about to come in,” Brixton said, snuffing out the cigarette on the bricks at his feet and adding it to the first butt, which he held in his hand. “You need an ashtray out here.”
“The ground is fine, my friend.”
“You travel in impressive circles, Wayne,” Brixton said as he stood and maneuvered against a pain in his back.
“Ah was surprised when Warren said he’d stop by tonight,” St. Pierre said. “You can imagine how busy he is with his real estate interests and having a daughter in the White House.”
“Yeah. I’m sure he’s a busy guy.”
“Come on in, Bobby, and meet some of my other friends. Most of ’em are pretty nice once you get to know them.”
Brixton forced some life into his voice. “Okay,” he said, “but no more ‘Bobby.’”
St. Pierre delivered a fake punch to Brixton’s abdomen. “You’ve got my word, Robert, and a southern gentleman’s word is his bond.”
Brixton and Flo stayed another hour. St. Pierre introduced them to a handful of others at the party, a few from Savannah’s artsy crowd whom Brixton considered too precious for his taste, and some of the host’s wealthy neighbors who reacted to Brixton’s battered face by cutting short their conversations. When it was time to leave, St. Pierre walked them to where they waited for the car parker to fetch Brixton’s Subaru.
“Thanks for inviting us, Wayne,” Flo said.
“It was my pleasure.” He looked at Brixton and frowned. “Looks to me, Robert, that you could use a vacation, considerin’ everything that’s been happening to you lately. You know, go lie on a beach someplace, drink some fancy rum drinks, and relax.”
“I might do that, Wayne.”
“Wonderful seeing both of you. Stay out of trouble, Robert. There’s no case worth gettin’ beat up over.”
PART
TWO
CHAPTER 11
On most summer days, Washington, D.C., is as miserably hot and humid as Savannah. But on this day it was as though a large dome had been placed over the city built on a swamp and someone had switched on a gigantic air-conditioning unit. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees and the humidity was low. The sky was cobalt blue—like a fall sky—and the brisk breeze from the northwest was invigorating.
A perfect day for sightseeing.
The tour guide of a double-decker, open-top sightseeing bus parked in front of Union Station stood by the door and greeted passengers who’d paid for a tour of the city, including a man in his late thirties with a pencil mustache, who used a thin walking stick with a gnarled head. Aside from his cane, Emile Silva looked like any other tourist—chino pants, white sneakers, and a white shirt worn loose.
“Good morning,” the guide said pleasantly.
“Good morning to you, sir,” Silva replied, equally as pleasantly, “a perfect day for a tour.” The guide accepted his prepaid ticket and watched him slowly, presumably painfully, climb the stairs one at a time to the open upper level, where he took a seat behind a couple who spoke to each other in a combination of Kurdish and English.
Silva looked down to where a dozen high school students led by their teacher came from Union Station and milled about until their tickets were collected and they were allowed to board.
“All right, everyone,” the tour guide said as the driver started the engine, “off we go. We’ll be stopping at the sites listed in your brochures and you’ll have time to get off and take all the pictures you want before we proceed to the next stop. Please stay in your seats while we’re moving for your safety and comfort.”
The bus pulled away and the tour guide started his spiel about Washington and the many landmarks they’d be passing. Silva heard the comments but wasn’t particularly interested in them. He’d recently taken this tour twice with different drivers and guides, so he knew in advance what would be said. That left him free to focus his attention on others on the bus, particularly the couple in front of him, who demonstrated enthusiasm at what they were seeing.
The couple and most of the other tourists got off the bus at the U.S. Capitol to take photographs of the imposing structure, particularly the almost twenty-foot-tall statue of a woman, Freedom, that sits atop the building’s nine-million-pound cast-iron dome. Some of the young people on the tour were too busy horsing around to pay attention to what the guide said about the Capitol, and Silva viewed them with disgust.
With everyone back onboard, the trip continued—Washington’s compact Chinatown, Ford’s Theatre, where Lincoln had been assassinated by John Wilkes Booth, the monuments to the Korean, Vietnam, and Second World wars, and the Holocaust Museum. Some of his fellow tourists lingered at those locations, knowing they could board another passing bus at any time. Silva remained in his seat.
But when they reached Washington Harbour, a riverside complex of restaurants, shops, an office building, a condominium, and an inviting promenade that offered panoramic views of the river, Silva got up, stretc
hed and yawned, and hobbled down the stairs, leaning on his cane. The Kurdish couple headed straight for the promenade and stood looking out over the river and its boat traffic. Silva came up next to the man, a burly fellow wearing a black suit, white shirt, and black tie. His wife wore a colorful, long-sleeved velveteen outfit that ran straight from her neck to her ankles; a “lira belt” fashioned of coins strung together provided a waistline.
“It’s a beautiful city, isn’t it?” Silva commented.
“Oh, yes,” the wife said.
“Your first visit?” Silva asked.
The husband nodded.
“How long will you be staying?” Silva asked, following the line of usual questions asked of tourists.
“One more week,” the husband replied.
“You’re from…?”
“We are Kurds, the northern part of Iraq,” the husband said.
Silva had inched closer until his hip touched the husband’s.
“It’s the best way to see a city on a first visit,” Silva said, “taking a bus tour. Once you’ve gotten an overall view, you can choose what to follow up on.”
As he said it, a woman in a pale blue jogging suit seemed to have lost her balance when she was abreast of them and fell against Silva, pushing him harder into the husband.
Silva grunted.
The husband said “aah” and reached down to touch his ankle, the one closest to Silva.
“I’m sorry,” the jogger said. “I really am sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Silva said.
The woman jogged away. Silva turned to the husband, who was now crouched down. He’d rolled down his black sock and was examining and rubbing his ankle.
“Are you all right?” Silva asked.
“A bite maybe,” the husband said. He straightened up and smiled at Silva. “Clumsy woman,” he said.
“But pretty,” Silva said, which made the wife laugh.
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