The reporter banged on the door. “You at least owe me for the food,” he shouted.
“What I owe you is a flattened nose and black eye. Get lost before I call the cops. You’re trespassing on private property.”
The rapping on the door eventually stopped, and Brixton settled at his kitchen table to eat. The confrontation had energized him. At the same time he knew that he would continue to be badgered by the press. After putting the empty food cartons in the garbage, he called Mac Smith’s number.
“Mac, it’s Robert Brixton. Your offer still good for me to spend a few days with you and Annabel?”
“Of course.”
“Starting tonight?”
“We’re not going anywhere.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
CHAPTER
11
Escaping the media pack was easier than Brixton had anticipated. He went down a back stairway to the parking garage beneath the building, got in his car, and roared away before anyone could react and set chase. After making sure he hadn’t been followed, he parked in the Watergate complex’s underground garage, and the doorman on duty in the lobby of the iconic apartment complex called the Smiths. Small suitcase in hand and with a Smith & Wesson 638 Airweight revolver that he’d brought with him from New York, which he was licensed to carry, nestled in his Fobus ankle holster (his SITQUAL-issued SIG SAUER P226 had been confiscated after the incident in the alley), Brixton arrived at their door and was warmly greeted.
“Glad you decided to come,” Mac said. “I can only imagine what you’ve been going through.”
“It’s all a blur at this point, Mac. I caught the president’s statement, and Skaggs’s too. He said that I’m slandering and libeling his son. That’s not true. It’s just not true, damn it! He was there in the café.”
“I don’t doubt that for a second, Robert. It’s unfortunate that there isn’t someone to corroborate it.”
“There’s got to be somebody.”
“Let’s hope that somebody surfaces.”
Annabel came from the kitchen. “Good to see you,” she said.
“I really appreciate this,” Brixton said.
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I put on fresh sheets after you called.”
“Don’t make a fuss about me,” Brixton said. “I would love a drink, though.”
“Coming right up,” said Mac.
Drinks poured, they sat on the terrace, which afforded a sweeping view of the Potomac River and the spires of Georgetown University beyond. Brixton had declined their offer of something to eat and told them of his encounter with the young Asian reporter from WTOP. “I was tempted to tell him to eat it since he’d paid for it, but I was hungry. I give him credit for ingenuity.”
“He’s lucky he didn’t end up with a sparerib up his nose,” Mac said, chuckling. “By the way, Will Sayers has been trying to get hold of you,” Mac said.
“I talked to him before I left the apartment. We’re having lunch tomorrow.”
Sayers had become friends with Mac and Annabel after moving to D.C. to reopen his newspaper’s Washington bureau and had introduced Brixton to them when Brixton came to D.C. from Savannah. They’d hit it off immediately, and Brixton treasured the couple’s honesty, a trait he’d not found in abundance in the nation’s capital.
“I’ll be going to Maryland in the morning to meet with my ex-wife about our daughter’s funeral arrangements.”
Annabel winced. “I can’t imagine anything worse,” she said. “Mac and I don’t have any children but—”
“I had a son who died in a crash,” Mac said.
“I know,” Brixton said. “It’s devastating. You just never think that any of your kids will die before you do. I keep asking myself whether I could have done something different, acted a minute sooner, saved her in some way. I knew—I just knew that something bad was going to happen and told her we were leaving the café. But she hung back, picking up some papers she’d been showing me, and then…”
“The young man you shot, Congressman Skaggs’s son,” Mac said. “Have you learned anything about why he was there with the girl?”
Brixton slowly shook his head and sipped his drink.
“It’s fairly common knowledge that the congressman is estranged from his children,” Annabel said.
“More than one?” Brixton said.
“Yes,” said Annabel. “Someone in the building who knows the Skaggs family told me that it’s a dysfunctional family with a lot of bitterness within it. There’s an adult daughter.”
“Do you know what the son had been doing the past few years?” Brixton asked.
“I have no idea,” Annabel said.
“I’m determined to find out what I can about him,” Brixton said. “Why he would have accompanied a suicide bomber is the big question. I’ve got to know. If I can get an answer to that, maybe I can prove that he was there in the café.”
Mac and Annabel respected the silent reverie Brixton slipped into as he looked out over the river and slowly sipped his drink. He broke the mood by saying, “You know, in all my years on the force, here and in Savannah, I never killed a man.”
“I suppose it’s something every law enforcement officer dreads,” Annabel said.
“I’ve been close to cops who killed somebody in the line of duty. Even though the person they shot was the scum of the earth, taking a life hit them hard.” He paused. “My father killed a man once.”
Mac and Annabel drew a breath and waited for the rest of the story.
“My old man was a bartender in Brooklyn. Not a weekend bartender or anything like that. He was a pro, worked bars his whole life—and don’t let anybody tell you that it’s fun, you know, like show business, entertaining customers, putting on a show. It’s damn hard work.”
Mac agreed. “I know people who’ve gone into the restaurant business because they think it is show business, you know, standing at the front in a suit meeting and greeting customers. They soon find out what a tough business it is.”
“Yeah, my dad worked hard, and the joints he worked in weren’t what you’d call ‘high end’—they were neighborhood bars, shot-and-a-beer joints, every once in a while a nicer place. He owned a few, too. Anyway, one night he’s dealing with an obnoxious drunk who gets combative because my dad refuses to serve him more drinks. He threatens my dad—and you should know that he was a tough dude, a take-no-prisoners sort of guy. Anyway, the guy leans over the bar and grabs his neck. What does my father do? He grabs a baseball bat he kept behind the bar for protection and gives him a whack on the head. The guy goes down, and my father figures he’s knocked out, will wake up with a hell of a headache and sorry that he acted like a jerk. But he doesn’t wake up. The bat must have caught him in just the right place. My dad calls nine-one-one, and the guy dies on the way to the hospital.”
“You couldn’t blame your father for doing what he did,” Annabel offered.
“Yeah, that’s right, except that, like cops who shoot a murderer or rapist or drug dealer, my old man didn’t feel that way. Sure, he was justified in hitting the guy, just like a cop is justified in shooting a bad guy. The police—my dad knew a slew of them who used to hang out in his bars when off duty—told him he was justified, and he was never charged with anything. But it changed him. Man, did it change him. He was never the same, became moody and introspective, lost his sense of humor, lost his edge.”
Mac and Annabel said nothing.
“And now I’ve killed somebody.”
“Because he helped blow up a restaurant and killed your daughter and others,” Mac said.
“Tell that to the rest of the world,” Brixton growled. “I’m the only one who can place him in the café with the bomber. His father is a powerful congressman. The media doesn’t buy my story that he was in the café. Nobody does. My boss, Mike Kogan, puts me on leave until the dust settles. Mike’s a good guy. I’m being paid while I cool my heels. But I hate it. I hate being called a liar. I hate having to
defend what I did, because what I did was right. I thought he was armed. Turns out he had a cell phone with a silver case in his hand, no gun.”
“But why did he run from you?” Annabel asked.
Brixton managed a snort that would do for a laugh. “They asked me that at the hospital, some of the suits who arrived from the FBI, the CIA—everybody with questions. One of them said that if he were a young guy who saw me, somebody with blood running down his face and neck and waving a gun, he’d run, too. Of course I didn’t pull my gun until I cornered him in the alley.”
Recounting his father’s experience seemed to have drained from Brixton whatever energy he had brought with him to the apartment.
“You look exhausted,” Annabel said. “The guest room is made up, fresh towels in your bathroom, a TV. If there’s anything else you need, just yell.”
“You won’t mind if I head for bed? It’s early and—”
“Of course not.”
“I hate to end the conversation, but it’s better than passing out in front of you.”
Mac laughed. “Try to get a good sleep,” he said. “By the way, we’re having your buddy Sayers for dinner tomorrow night.”
“How about that,” Brixton said. “Lunch and dinner with the whale.”
“We have another guest coming,” Mac said. “I hope you don’t mind. Her name is Asal Banai. She and Annabel became friends through a book club they belong to.”
“Asal Banai?” Brixton said. “Unusual name.”
“She’s Iraqi American,” Annabel said. “She works for a nonprofit organization that promotes better relations between our country and Iraq.”
Brixton’s brow furrowed.
“I mention it, Robert, because I’m not sure you’re up to having dinner with someone of Middle Eastern origins after what’s happened to your daughter.”
Mac and Annabel had discussed it prior to Brixton’s arrival and thought it only fair to give him an out.
“No,” Brixton said, “I don’t have a problem with it. Every Arab isn’t a suicide bomber.”
“Glad you feel that way,” Mac said. “Go on, get to bed. We’ll have breakfast in the morning and send you on your way.”
Brixton lay awake in the Smith’s nicely furnished, serene guest room and fought to put his thoughts in order. So much had happened, so many issues to resolve, so much anger to get under control. He tried to apply what friends who were in AA had told him: Change what you can, accept what you can’t, and be wise enough to know the difference, or something like that. Janet was dead! He couldn’t change that. Others were dead, too, unsuspecting people who’d been enjoying themselves in the café. Too late to do anything about them either.
He dreaded meeting with Marylee in the morning and was hopeful that he could maintain his composure, be a brick upon whom she could rely. There would have to be a funeral; nothing could change that reality. Marylee, a devout Roman Catholic, would want the works, every bell and whistle the church had to offer. He wouldn’t argue. Robert Brixton believed in individual faith. Some people required a higher power to turn to when things got rough and they needed comfort. But he turned skeptic when the faithful got together. Religion had probably inspired the bomber who’d slaughtered his daughter. Religious differences had fueled so many wars resulting in millions being killed. For him the only way to leave this world was in a simple pine casket and hopefully earning a few tears from friends while you were lowered into the ground. The lyrics for “St. James Infirmary,” the Louis Armstrong recording that jazz-lover Brixton played over and over, summed up his view of dying:
When I die, I want you to dress me in straight laced shoes
A box-back coat and a Stetson hat;
Put a twenty-dollar gold piece on my watch chain
So the boys know I died standin’ pat.
But he knew that he couldn’t impose his beliefs, or lack of them, on Marylee at her time of personal pain and sorrow.
His jumbled thoughts didn’t keep him from falling into a deep sleep, and he awoke early the next morning surprised that he’d slept as soundly as he had. After showering and changing clothes—and applying to his head and neck wounds the fresh dressings provided to him when he left the hospital—he joined Mac and Annabel for eggs, bacon, toast, and two cups of strong coffee.
“We’ll see you tonight?” Mac asked as he walked Brixton to the elevator.
“Sure. You run a first-class hotel, Mac.”
“When Annabel and I decorated the place, we wanted it to be as luxurious as the best hotels we’ve ever stayed in.”
“Well, you succeeded. See you at—?”
“Will Sayers and Asal are coming at six.”
* * *
The sky was overcast as Brixton drove from the underground garage and headed out of the District to Rockville, Maryland, where Marylee lived with her new husband, Miles Lashka. He’d met Lashka when he’d visited his daughters at the stately white colonial home, and was surprised when Marylee announced that she and Lashka were getting married. Brixton hadn’t liked the smarmy, tanned, and glib attorney from the first handshake. The attorney seemed to live in tennis whites and considered everything he said to be gospel. Worse, Marylee always agreed with him—“Miles says” or “Miles thinks” or “Miles knows a lot about that.” Brixton couldn’t fathom what Marylee saw in him. He knew, of course, that such speculation was a useless exercise. What attracted women to certain men, and men to certain women, had always intrigued and amused him. Maybe what made it especially interesting was that Lashka was his polar opposite. Go figure.
This would be the first time he’d visited the home without Marylee’s mother being there. The old lady had died of lymphoma while Brixton was back in New York, and he’d suffered a brief moment of sadness after receiving the news. He was sad when anyone died, whether he liked them or not. Dying was the price you paid for living, someone had once said, and Brixton related to that bit of philosophy. But he decided that to attend her funeral would represent hypocrisy and he begged off, much to Marylee’s chagrin, although he suspected that she was secretly relieved.
The elderly Mrs. Greene had never tried to mask her disdain for him, and he blamed her for contributing to the breakup of the marriage.
“Rest in peace, Mrs. Greene,” he’d said after learning of her death. It would have to do.
Marylee’s house with its white cedar shakes, moss green shutters, three-car garage, and blacktop driveway was in a grassy neighborhood with tall, stately trees and with plenty of basketball hoops. If you didn’t know the address, you’d have trouble finding it; it was identical to every other house in the community. Parked in the driveway were matching silver Mercedes sedans. One’s vanity license plate read PLEABARG.
Brixton’s older daughter, Jill, answered the door. “Oh, Daddy, you look terrible,” she said, giving him a quick hug.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Brixton said, and kissed her on the cheek. Beyond her in the large living room decorated in white and gold were Marylee, Miles Lashka, and a Catholic priest.
“Is Joey here with you?” Brixton asked, referring to Jill’s son, his only grandchild.
“No. He’s with a sitter. Come on in.”
Jill’s husband, Frank, intercepted Brixton on his way to the living room. Frank was a tall, ruggedly handsome ex-marine who carried his military bearing into civilian life. He’d gone back to college after his discharge and earned a master’s degree in hospital administration, which he put to good use at Walter Reed. He was a man of few words, which Brixton appreciated. He liked his son-in-law, probably because Frank made it obvious that he liked him.
“You okay?” Frank asked.
“Yeah, I’m okay. You? How is Jill holding up?”
“Doing fine, Robert. Glad you’re here. Wish I saw more of you.”
Brixton was next greeted by Lashka, who shook his hand and uttered his condolences.
The youngish priest introduced himself as Father Monroe. “A difficult time, I know,” he said.
“Yeah, tough,” Brixton agreed.
He went to where Marylee sat on a couch and extended his hand. “Not much to say is there?” he said.
“No, not much to say.”
Lashka quickly slid in next to Marylee and put his arm around her.
“I’ve arranged for the funeral,” she told Brixton. “The funeral director said that it will have to be—” Sobs choked off her final words.
“Closed casket,” Lashka filled in. “Understandable.” He handed his wife a white handkerchief.
Brixton took a chair next to the priest, who sat talking to Jill. “I just want you to know, Father, that anything Marylee wants is okay with me.”
“I try to personalize the service to whatever extent possible,” the priest said. “Will you wish to speak about your departed daughter?”
“No, I’m not much of a public speaker,” Brixton said.
Father Monroe looked to where Lashka sat with Marylee. “Her stepdad will be saying a few things,” he said.
“Good,” said Brixton. “I’m sure he’ll make a very nice speech.” His tone said that it would be best to not pursue the topic.
Marylee, red-eyed but composed, came to them. “I tried to reach you on your cell phone,” she said.
“I haven’t turned it on since—since the bombing. What did you want?”
“I wanted you to bring any pictures you have of Janet for a photo wall at the funeral parlor.”
“You kept most of the photos, but I have a few. I’ll get them to you.”
“The young man she’s been seeing—his name is Richard—I’ve asked him to bring his band and play at the funeral. She said he’s very talented.”
All Brixton could think of that moment was that it was this Richard’s cockamamy idea for a music app that had lured Janet and him to the café. It also struck him as inappropriate to have a rock band at such a solemn occasion—maybe solo jazz piano, Shearing, Peterson, Garner—but he knew that it really didn’t matter what music was played. Regardless of what words were said or how elaborate the ritual would be, nothing would change. His daughter was dead, and the rest of it was for those left behind.
Margaret Truman's Undiplomatic Murder Page 9
