Margaret Truman's Undiplomatic Murder

by Margaret Truman

  “That sounds wonderful, Marylee.”

  Brixton didn’t know the protocol for such a gathering. His knee and back had started to ache, and he would have preferred to leave. He had every right to be there, yet he felt as though he didn’t belong. He passed the next half hour talking with visitors and nibbling on cookies and cakes brought by neighbors, offerings that Marylee had arranged on the dining room table. When he felt that he’d put in the requisite time, he told Marylee that he was leaving.

  “There’s another thing before you go, Robert. I don’t want to see Janet’s funeral turned into a media circus. That would be totally inappropriate.”

  She sounded like her departed mother, imperious and self-righteous.

  “Why tell me, Marylee? I’ve got nothing to say about it.”

  “It’s because of you that the media might show up, your shooting the congressman’s son and all. I’ve had calls from reporters asking about you.”

  “That congressman’s son just happened to be in cahoots with the suicide bomber who took our daughter’s life.” He was unsuccessful in keeping the anger from his voice.

  “Yes, I’ve read about that,” the priest said.

  “Are you okay, Daddy?” Jill asked.

  “Me? I’m fine. Look, if there’s nothing more to discuss, I’d better get going. Like I said, Father, whatever Mrs. Brixton wants is fine with me.”

  “Mrs. Lashka,” Marylee corrected.

  Brixton kissed Jill good-bye and walked from the house, followed by Marylee’s husband.

  “Can I do anything for you, Robert?” Lashka asked.

  “Can’t think of a thing,” Brixton said.

  “It sounds to me as though you could run into legal trouble over the shooting of Congressman Skaggs’s son. If you need legal advice, you know where to turn.” He handed Brixton his business card and adopted what passed for a serious, concerned expression.

  “That’s nice of you, Miles,” Brixton said. “I’m really touched. See you at the funeral.”

  Brixton got in his car and silently cursed. There was a moment when he might have taken a swing at the ambulance chaser, but he’d managed to restrain the impulse. He waited until his anger had passed before starting the engine and pulling out of the driveway. He stopped a block away and turned on his cell phone, which was filled with messages, including those from Marylee. Most were from media requesting—some almost begging—for an interview, which he ignored. He made a note of a few calls worth returning. One was from his former paramour, Flo Combes, calling from New York. “I’m worried about you, Robert,” she said. “If there’s anything I can do, come to D.C., just name it. We may not be lovers anymore, but we can still be friends. Please call me.”

  The other call that he cared about was from Donna Salvos at SITQUAL. He reached her on her cell phone.

  “What’s up?” he said.

  “Where are you? I’ve called the apartment a number of times and just get that damned machine.”

  “Making funeral arrangements for Janet.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Can I help?”

  “Everybody asks what they can do for me, and I appreciate it. I really do. But what I want and need is to find out why Skaggs’s kid was with the bomber, who he was, what his game was. I’m being portrayed as some trigger-happy whack job who goes around shooting young men who just happen to be passing by.”

  “I know, Robert, I know. Look, Mike Kogan wants to meet with you.”

  “About what, reinstating me?”

  “I don’t know why. I’m just passing along the word. He’s been calling your apartment, too.”

  “Tell him I’ll give him a call.”

  “I will. And keep in touch with me.”

  He drove back into the District and made a pass by his apartment building. The media crowd had thinned out, but the TV remote truck was still there, along with a smattering of reporters. It struck him that being a reporter was like being a cop—endless hours spent hanging around and waiting for someone or something to happen. He’d spent plenty of time on stakeouts when he was a cop in D.C. and Savannah and had hated every minute of it.

  He parked on E Street and passed the time walking through the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial, in which federal, state, and local cops who’d died in the line of duty were honored. It wasn’t his first time there. He stopped to read some of the nineteen thousand names engraved on the memorial’s long, curved, blue-gray marble walls and felt as though he’d personally known them. Savannah had its own memorial to fallen cops, located just outside police headquarters, and Brixton had often lingered there too, gaining solace from the experience. No one at Marylee’s house had talked about a headstone for Janet. It had to be a nice one, not too elaborate, but dignified. He’d bring it up the next time they talked.

  Eventually he returned to the car and drove to the restaurant where he was to meet Will Sayers for lunch. Sayers, whose mother was Czechoslovakian, was a self-proclaimed foodie. He’d complained about the absence of a good Czech restaurant in Washington and had latched on to this place the day it opened. He’d been a regular ever since. Sayers had already arrived and taken a table inside in a corner. The weather was nice, sunny and with a gentle breeze, the way it had been when the bomb went off. The restaurant had a pleasant outdoor dining patio, and Brixton would have opted to eat there but wondered if he’d ever feel comfortable again in an outdoor café. Besides, he was self-conscious wearing his white bandage and was glad that Sayers had chosen a less-public table.

  The large, imposing bureau chief was dressed in what was almost a uniform: wrinkled khaki pants, a button-down shirt, a putrid green tie, blue suspenders, a tan corduroy sport jacket rendered shiny from wear, and brown Space Shoes that were broken down from carrying his weight, which clocked in at just south of three hundred. Completing the outfit was a signature red railroad handkerchief hanging from his rear pants pocket. Willis Sayers would never win anyone’s best-dressed award.

  “Hey, pal, good to see you,” he said as Brixton sat across from him.

  “Good to see you too, Will.”

  Brixton hoped that the subject of Janet wouldn’t come up right away, and he picked up the menu as a distraction. “What’s good here?” he asked.

  “Everything,” Sayers said. He motioned for the waitress: “Two Pilsners and a plate of the chicken schnitzel to start, with the panko crust, nice and crisp, huh? And some potato salad.” He looked at Brixton. “Okay with you?”

  “Whatever you say. Not especially hungry. So, what’s new in the swinging, swirling world of big-time journalism?”

  “A lot less than what’s new with you, Robert. You okay?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “That hurt?” Sayers asked, referring to the white dressing on Brixton’s wounds.

  “Only when I laugh, which isn’t often these days. I’m staying with Mac and Annabel Smith.”

  “So Mac says. You’ll be at dinner tonight.”

  “Right.” Brixton leaned across the table. “Will, I’ve got to find out why Skaggs’s kid was with the bomber in the café.”

  “Why did I think I’d be hearing that today?” Sayers said as he pulled folded sheets of paper from his inside jacket pocket. “I did a little research on the kid.”

  Brixton managed a smile, his first of the day. Leave it to Sayers to anticipate what he’d be asking.

  “I don’t know if what I’ve come up with means anything, but it’s a start. You do know, of course, that the Skaggs family is not all sweetness and light.”

  “Annabel mentioned that, nothing specific. I don’t keep up with politicians from foreign countries.”

  “Mississippi’s not a foreign country.”

  “Says who? Go on, I’m listening.”

  “The congressman’s son, Paul, age twenty-two, lasted one semester at UCLA, dropped out, played beach bum for a while, surfed, strutted on the boardwalk—who knows? He evidently got tired of sunny California, because he left there and lived
in Hawaii for a while.

  “Damn, this schnitzel is good,” Sayers proclaimed after it had arrived. “Just the way I like it.” He saw that Brixton was annoyed. “Okay, sorry, you know me. I get excited over good food. More about Paul Skaggs. A few years back, when he was in high school in Mississippi, he attacked his father with a gun, threatened to kill him.”

  “Lovely. Why?”

  “Aside from being nuts, he hated his father’s stance on Iraq and Afghanistan. The old man is the loudest hawk in Congress. His son’s a self-proclaimed peacenik.”

  “There are lots of peaceniks who don’t threaten to shoot their father, or stand by while others are blown up.”

  “Right, but what the kid did was in keeping with other actions. None of this was ever reported: The family kept it hush-hush, aside from the predictable leaks, and the local media played along with the family. The kid was a foul ball all through high school—suspended a few times, got in fights. My source down there also says that junior knocked up a classmate, but his old man, the esteemed congressman, bought off the girl and her family. The kid ended up in some quasi-military school where screwed up kids are supposed to learn discipline and find God. I don’t know how he did there. The next thing I know, he goes to UCLA in California—he’s allegedly damn bright despite being a nut job—and lasts a semester.”

  “But he obviously came back to D.C. When?”

  Sayers shrugged his large shoulders and finished the schnitzel. “How about an order of beef goulash with bread dumplings, and bratwurst? Their sauerkraut is terrific. By the way, what do you hear from that lovely lady you used to live with in Savannah?”

  “Flo? She’s still in New York. Our split wasn’t what you’d call amicable, but we’re still friends. She’s been calling. She’s a good gal, only—”

  “Only she got tired of Robert Brixton’s jaded view of the world and everybody in it.”

  “Something like that. Order whatever you want. So, Paul Skaggs comes back to Washington, hooks up with a teenage girl whose sense of fashion and religion is to strap TNT to herself. He accompanies her into a busy café around the corner from State, where she blows everybody up including my daughter. Why?”

  “I don’t have an answer for that. Did you read the list of victims?”

  “No.”

  “The number of dead is now at nineteen, two not making it in the hospital. Seven worked at the State Department.”

  “No surprise. It’s a block away.”

  “Just wondering whether that café was chosen because of who hangs out there. One of the other victims was Marjorie Krim. Name ring a bell?”

  “No.” Brixton summoned the waitress and ordered a martini, straight up. Sayers stuck with beer.

  “Who is she?”

  “An activist for LGBT rights here in D.C.”

  “A lesbian?”

  “Yeah. She worked for the State Department.”

  “So?”

  “There’s something brewing in the D.C. gay community, Robert.”

  “Such as?”

  “You know Congressman Ken Wisher from Georgia?”

  “I’ve heard of him. A real right-winger.”

  “Right, a real right-winger, champion of family values, leads the fight against gay marriage…”

  “And?”

  “And maybe a closet gay.”

  It was Brixton’s turn to sigh. “I gotta tell you, Will, I couldn’t care less about a congressman’s sex life.”

  “Even if he was compromised because of his sexual orientation?”

  “Who compromised him?”

  “Don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out. I’ve got a lead on someone who allegedly was Wisher’s lover on occasion, a guy from the Spanish embassy. He calls himself Lalo.”

  “Lalo Reyes?”

  “You know him?”

  “I interviewed him about the murder of that German embassy employee, Peter Müller. Reyes and Müller were lovers.”

  “He gets around. Did Congressman Wisher’s name come up during the interview?” Sayers asked.

  “No.”

  Brixton grunted.

  “What?”

  “Reyes told us—I was with my partner, Donna Salvos—he said that he’d lived in a lot of places.”

  “And?”

  “One of them was Hawaii. I wonder…”

  Sayers jotted something in the reporter’s notebook he seemed always to have at the ready.

  Brixton brought the conversation back to Paul Skaggs. “What else have you learned about him?” he asked Sayers.

  “Not a hell of a lot. He had a sister, Morgana.”

  “I heard about a sister. What’s her story?”

  “She’s ten years older than her brother. Best I can put together, she split from the family years ago and hasn’t been a guest at their Thanksgiving dinners since. The son either.”

  “They both split, huh? Sounds like the Skaggs kids weren’t anxious to hang around with Mommy and Daddy.”

  “Be an interesting dinner if they showed up.”

  “Where’s the daughter?” Brixton asked.

  “Hawaii. At least that’s what I’m told.”

  “You said that Paul Skaggs was there, too.”

  “The blow to your head didn’t affect your hearing, Robert. Yeah, he was in Hawaii, too. The island of Maui. Ever been?”

  “No.”

  “Beautiful place.”

  “I’ll put it on my bucket list.”

  Conversation came to a halt when their lunch was delivered. Brixton was anxious to hear more from his journalist friend but decided to wait until the platters were clean, which didn’t take long.

  “That was good,” Brixton said.

  “Always is here. Ready for some more tantalizing tidbits?”

  “I was counting on it.”

  “The Skaggs daughter, Morgana, is still in Hawaii.”

  “What’s she do there?”

  “Works for Samuel Prisler.”

  “Prisler. Prisler. The arms dealer?”

  “Not according to him.”

  “There was a feature on him a while back in a national magazine.”

  “Here,” Sayers said, handing Brixton a copy of the article he’d dug up on the Internet. In it, the author alleged that Prisler was a middleman between foreign arms manufacturers and certain Middle Eastern countries.

  As Brixton scanned the article, Sayers said, “From everything I’ve learned, he’s got connections with Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, Mali in Africa, and especially strong ties with Pakistan. It’s alleged that young Paul Skaggs lived in Prisler’s compound for a time.”

  “He has a compound?”

  “It’s a cult. Causes lots of controversy on Maui. Prisler manages to skirt the issue because he’s got clout on the island. He runs local businesses—aside from selling arms around the world to less-than-savory people.”

  “So what?”

  “So, wise guy, maybe there’s a connection between Paul Skaggs getting involved with a Middle Eastern suicide bomber and falling under Prisler’s spell. Allegedly, of course.”

  Brixton shook his head. “That’s too much of a stretch. It sounds like an Oliver Stone screenplay.”

  “Just playing the what-if game.”

  “You say the daughter is in Hawaii? Maui?”

  “According to my impeccable sources.”

  “And she’s part of this cult Prisler runs?”

  “My sources say that if you hook up with him, you’re in for life. He doesn’t take kindly to members of his community abandoning him.”

  “So Morgana Skaggs is a member of his so-called cult. What’s the connection with Prisler and the bombing?”

  “I don’t have one. All I know is that after Paul Skaggs left California, he joined his sister on Maui and lived there for a spell. You’ll have to connect the dots, Robert, if that’s possible. That’s all I have, but I’ll keep digging. Oh, by the way, Morgana Skaggs changed her name when she got to Hawaii.” He consul
ted one of his sheets of paper. “Kamea Wakatake. That’s the Hawaiian name she goes by now.”

  Brixton added to the notes he’d been making on the papers Sayers had given him.

  “There’s a guy who knows more about Samuel Prisler than Prisler knows about himself, Charles McQuaid, retired from the Justice Department. While he was at Justice he headed up a task force that tried to build a case against Prisler. They never did, but Prisler has been an obsession with McQuaid. He’s a friend of mine. If you want, I’ll call and get you two together.”

  “Thanks,” Brixton said. “I appreciate it.”

  “See you tonight at Mac and Annabel’s,” Sayers said as they parted outside the restaurant.

  “Yeah. Do you know anything about Annabel’s friend who’ll be there?”

  “No, never met her. Take care,” Sayers said, slapping Brixton on the arm. “I know you’re going through hell, pal. I’m here for you.”

  “What can I do for you?” Brixton asked.

  “An exclusive interview about the bombing—but only when you’re up to it.”

  Brixton watched Sayers waddle away and struggle to get into his car. Since the bombing and death of his daughter, Brixton had begun to wonder whether he had any friends in this world.

  Sayers had answered the question.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Brixton made another pass at his apartment building after leaving lunch and was pleased that the media had departed in search of other stories. He parked in the underground garage, went to his apartment, and called Mike Kogan at SITQUAL headquarters—if the offices above the Thai restaurant could be called a headquarters.

  “I’ve been trying to get hold of you,” Kogan said.

  “I’ve been running around, had to make funeral arrangements for my daughter.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You didn’t turn on your cell.”

  “I wasn’t interested in hearing from the rest of the world. Donna says you want to talk to me.”

  “That’s right, I do. You free now?”

  Brixton checked his watch. “No. How about in the morning?”

  “Okay. You staying out of trouble?”

  “If you mean have I not talked to the media? Yes, I’ve stayed out of trouble.”