Margaret Truman's Undiplomatic Murder

by Margaret Truman

  The cop pointed over his shoulder at the house. “The man who lives here,” he said.

  “Charles McQuaid?”

  “I don’t know his name.”

  Another uniformed cop joined them, and Brixton asked the same questions, plus a few others.

  “Boating accident,” the second officer said. “DOA.”

  “Charles McQuaid?”

  “Right.”

  “Is anybody here from his family?” Brixton asked.

  “There’s a sister inside.”

  Brixton entered the house and saw a woman sitting on a couch in the living room. He introduced himself and asked if she was McQuaid’s sister.

  “That’s right,” she said. “Mr. Brixton. Charlie talked about you when he came to visit yesterday.”

  “He told me that he was going to see you, someplace in Maryland, right?”

  “Silver Spring.”

  He joined her on the couch. “I hope you don’t mind my asking some questions about what happened to Charlie. One of the cops outside said it was a boating accident. I was out on his boat with him yesterday. He seemed—well, he seemed to really know what he was doing. The boat was immaculate and…”

  She smiled. “Yes, ‘meticulous’ is the best word to use about Charlie. He told me about you, and I’ve read some of it in the papers. You must be very angry at what’s been happening to you.”

  Brixton wasn’t sure how to respond. McQuaid had told him that his sister was suffering from terminal cancer, yet here she was raising his problems.

  “Look, I’m not important right now. What happened here? I don’t understand this business about a boating accident.”

  “Another fisherman discovered him out on the river,” she said. “At least that’s what I’ve been told.”

  “Another fisherman? Was Charlie fishing?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  He fell silent.

  “I suppose Charlie would have wanted his life to end this way, out on his boat, fishing, enjoying the fresh air,” she said. “That’s a lot nicer than what I…” She trailed off. “Anyway, it’s good to die doing what you love, isn’t it?”

  “He was a widower,” Brixton said.

  “Yes. I felt terrible for him when Sue died. She was a wonderful woman, perfect for him. Isn’t that the way a good marriage works, when one spouse understands the other?”

  “I wouldn’t argue with that, Ms.…?”

  “Jeannette McQuaid. I never married. Charlie was always trying to fix me up with someone he said would be perfect for me, but they never were.” She managed a small laugh.

  “When I was with him yesterday, he told me that he stopped fishing after his wife died, that he preferred getting his fish from local restaurants.”

  She assumed a thoughtful expression. “Yes, he did say that, more than once. I suppose he missed it and decided to go fishing again.”

  That didn’t play for Brixton.

  “What else did they tell you?” he asked.

  “About?”

  “How Charlie died.”

  “I’m not sure I remember. When they called they said that my brother had died in a boating accident—he had listed me as his contact should anything happen to him. That’s all they said, I think. I came right away, of course.”

  “Excuse me,” Brixton said, getting off the couch and seeking the officer outside who seemed to be in charge. The ambulance was gone.

  “I’ve been talking to the deceased’s sister,” he said, “and she’s a little confused about how her brother died.”

  “The guy who found him says he got tangled up in his fishing line and went overboard.”

  “Did you see the body when it was brought in?”

  “Yeah. He had fishing line around his neck. I guess he wasn’t too experienced being out on a boat and all.” He pointed to a man and woman standing in front of a neighboring house. “That’s the guy who found him.”

  Brixton walked next door, introduced himself to the couple, and asked the man, a hefty fellow with a ruddy complexion, about having discovered the body.

  “Doesn’t make any sense to me,” the man said. “Charlie’s been out on his boat damn near every day for all the years we’ve been neighbors. Can’t imagine how he’d get himself caught up in his fishing line.”

  “He was in the water when you found him?” Brixton asked.

  “Yeah. I was cruising by real slow and spotted Charlie’s boat anchored in a cove. Good fishing there. I didn’t see him on board, so I pulled close. That’s when I saw him in the water. Shocked the hell out of me. I passed him only an hour earlier when he was talking to a couple of guys in their boat.”

  “Did you know those other guys?” Brixton asked.

  “No, can’t say that I did. It wasn’t the kind of boat you usually see around here.”

  “How so?”

  “One of those low, flashy speedboats, you know, lots of plastic, big engine.”

  “And you’d never seen it or the men before?”

  “Can’t say that I did. I would have noticed a boat like that.”

  “The last time I was with Charlie he told me that he’d quit fishing.”

  The man grimaced. “He quit right after Sue died. I guess he caught the bug again. Probably wishes he hadn’t.”

  Brixton thanked him and returned to Jeannette McQuaid.

  “Charlie was going to share things that he thought might help me,” he told her. “I know this is an imposition at a difficult time, but would you mind if I took a look around his office?”

  “Of course not,” she said.

  Brixton knew where it was but followed Charlie’s sister to the home office in which he and McQuaid had talked the previous day. There was a big difference twenty-four hours later. What had been a pristine, obsessively neat room was now in disarray. A few file cabinet drawers were half open, their contents sticking up crookedly. The desk was a repository of other folders, papers spilling from them. Brixton came around to the chair and saw that two drawers had also been left open.

  “Have you been in here since you learned that your brother died?” he asked.

  “I peeked in when I got here,” she said, “but didn’t stay. I was surprised how messy it was. Charlie was always so neat.”

  “I’m surprised, too,” Brixton said.

  “Maybe Charlie forgot and was looking for the things he left with me yesterday,” she said.

  “What things?”

  “Papers, files. He brought some files and papers with him and spent some time after dinner going through them. He forgot them when he left and called to ask me to keep them till he could pick them up. I offered to bring them back and was about to walk out the door when I got the call about his accident.”

  “Where are they?” Brixton asked.

  “In my car.”

  He hesitated before asking, “May I see them?”

  “I don’t see why not. I’ll go get them.”

  “Tell you what,” Brixton said, “how about I take you to dinner? You can give them to me after a good meal.”

  Her face lit up. “I think that sounds like a very good idea,” she said. “There’s nothing I can do for Charlie tonight. I’ve already identified his body and have called his three children. They live so far away; Charlie always wanted to be closer to them. They’ll be flying in tomorrow, and we’ll get together and make funeral arrangements. To be honest, Mr. Brixton, the shock of this is just now hitting me. I think I’d like to lock up the house once everyone is gone and relax over a good meal. Thank you for suggesting it.”

  * * *

  Brixton had seldom met a woman—anyone for that matter—who was as open and self-effacing as Jeannette McQuaid. He’d suggested one of the nearby fish restaurants, but she said, “I would love to go to the Bistrot Du Coin.” She pronounced it “bis-trot.”

  “Bistrot? With a tee? Not bistro?”

  “I’m showing off, I suppose,” she said. “One of the men Charlie fixed me up with to
ok me there on the few dates we had. I know it sounds cruel, but the restaurant was much more interesting than he was. I learned that the word bistrot is Russian. It means “quick.” The waiter also told me that bistros in France are always painted brown to hide the nicotine stains. That’s why they chose the color for their walls, only no one is allowed to smoke there. Do you smoke?”

  “I did,” he said, not adding that a cigarette would be welcome.

  “Would you mind going there?” she asked. “We’ll go strictly Dutch.”

  They drove both cars to the restaurant where they secured a table and ordered from the restaurant’s vast menu, with Jeannette translating some of the French phrases.

  Brixton felt like a kindly uncle or psychotherapist during the meal. Jeannette told him stories about her brother and her life growing up, of the job from which she’d retired at the Maryland Department of Motor Vehicles, how she’d learned French and Spanish from online courses, and a host of other personal tidbits. Brixton decided that as a single woman who’d lived alone for most of her adult life, she had too little opportunity to talk to people, and he was glad to provide a listening post. It was toward the end of the meal and over dessert and coffee that she mentioned her cancer. “They say I’m terminal,” she said, laughing away the thought. “I always thought that only women who had children got ovarian cancer. I guess I was wrong. I’m in a clinical trial at NIH, and I’ll bet you anything—any amount, you name it—that my cancer will disappear.”

  “I’d never take that bet,” Brixton said.

  “I haven’t told you how sorry I am about your daughter.”

  “Looks like we both have someone to grieve over.”

  They walked to where she’d parked her car a block from the restaurant.

  “Thank you for dinner,” she said, “I really did intend to pay my share.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  “Oh,” she said, “the things that Charlie gave me.”

  She retrieved three file folders and a manila envelope from the backseat and handed them to him.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate this. If there’s anything I can do…”

  “Charlie wanted to help you prove what you said happened at that café and with the congressman’s son. That’s what he told me.”

  “Your brother was quite a guy.”

  “Yes, he was, even though he was a lousy matchmaker.”

  She kissed his cheek, got in her car, and drove away.

  CHAPTER

  20

  Charlie McQuaid had been murdered.

  Brixton was as sure of that as he was sure of his own name. The question was why someone had killed the retired Justice Department lawyer and taken great pains to make it look like a boating accident. Did it have to do with McQuaid’s obsession about the arms dealer and cult leader Samuel Prisler? That was a possibility, the best that Brixton could conjure at the moment. If so, why had his murder taken place the day after he’d invited Brixton into his home and had made a date to get together again the following night?

  Was someone aware that McQuaid was helping Brixton with his struggle to clear himself of culpability in the shooting of Paul Skaggs, and to nail down the young Skaggs’s involvement in the suicide bombing? Was McQuaid’s death a message to Brixton? If so, who was sending that message?

  It had taken willpower to not raise with Jeannette McQuaid the distinct possibility that her brother had not been the victim of a fishing accident. There would be time for that later. In the meantime, Brixton knew that he had to keep probing to pull together the disparate bits of information and speculation that had come his way.

  He decided to visit Lalo Reyes’s apartment building again before calling it a night. The street in front of the building was relatively quiet considering its vibrant neighborhood. Brixton went to the small lobby and pushed the buzzer for Reyes’s apartment. Again, no response. As he pondered what to do, a young couple came through the door. They were so infatuated with each other, laughing and kissing, that they walked right past Brixton, who stepped inside. He walked down a short corridor to the elevator and rode it to the second floor. Apartment 2D was at the end of the hall. Brixton pressed his ear against the door. There was no sound. After checking to be sure that no one was nearby, he used a small device carried by most police and private detectives to undo the lock, stepped into the dark apartment, and quietly closed the door behind him. His eyes adjusted to the room; light from outside filtered through a dirty window at the far end of the living room.

  He turned on a table lamp and took in his surroundings. The room gave off every sign that its occupant was getting ready to depart or already had. There were discolored squares on the walls where artwork had once hung. The few tables were bare. Newspapers and magazines were piled haphazardly on a couch.

  Brixton went to the kitchen, where dirty dishes sat piled in the sink. An unplugged toaster oven occupied part of the countertop; a small coffeemaker, also unplugged, sat next to it. Half-consumed bottles of booze were on a table, along with glasses, and bottles of club soda and tonic water.

  The bedroom was also in disarray. A queen-size bed covered with a garish red comforter was unmade. A flat-screen TV sat on a bureau top. What most interested Brixton were two suitcases in a corner. He picked them up; their weight indicated that they were full.

  He returned to the living room and sat behind a white plastic table that functioned as a desk. It was littered with scraps of paper, and Brixton idly went through them. He opened an envelope with the return address of a travel agency and removed its contents. Included was a one-way airline ticket for travel two days hence, destination Maui, the Hawaiian Islands.

  The meaning of the ticket wasn’t lost on him.

  Prisler!

  Why was Reyes traveling to Hawaii, more specifically Maui? Was it because that was where Samuel Prisler and his cult were located?

  What was Reyes’s relationship with Prisler? Was he a cult member, as Paul Skaggs had been and as his sister was? Maybe there wasn’t a connection. Maybe—and Brixton was willing to accept the possibility that no connection existed—Reyes had simply lived there in the past and wished to return to a place that he enjoyed.

  But why had he resigned his job at the Spanish embassy so abruptly?

  Did his relationship with the German embassy staffer Peter Müller mean anything in the larger scope of the recent embassy murders?

  Brixton felt overwhelmed as he sat and stared at the airline ticket, but a sound snapped him to attention. Someone was outside the apartment inserting a key in the lock. Brixton sprang to his feet, switched off the lamp, and went to the bedroom, where he secluded himself behind the open door. He heard two male voices, one belonging to Reyes, as they entered the apartment. The man with him spoke with a deep voice and drawl; Brixton thought of cowboy movies.

  “We’ll miss ya’ll,” the drawl said.

  “And I’ll miss you,” Reyes said, “but it’s time to go; a time for everything. Sorry for the mess.”

  The second man laughed. “It’s not as messy as my place, Lalo. You should see it, dude.”

  “Drinks are in the kitchen,” Reyes said.

  “Had so damn much to drink at the party,” said man number two.

  “I’ll miss Marigold’s,” Reyes said.

  Of course, Brixton thought. That’s where he should have looked for Reyes—at Marigold’s, the gay nightclub.

  He heard the rustle of clothing and a deep sigh. Were they embracing?

  “Make yourself a drink,” Reyes said. “I’ll get changed.”

  Brixton tensed. Reyes walked into the bedroom and tossed his jacket on the bed. He sat on its edge and began to remove his shoes and socks. It was after he was barefoot and had wiggled out of his slacks that he sensed Brixton’s presence. “What the—?

  “Calm down,” Brixton said as he stepped from behind the door.

  “Get out of here,” Reyes shouted.

  “What’s going on?” the other man asked as
he came into the bedroom. He was big, taller than Brixton, and bulky in his tight jeans and fringed yellow leather shirt-jacket. “Who in hell is he?” he asked Reyes.

  “It doesn’t matter who I am,” Brixton said.

  The big guy with the drawl lunged at Brixton, hands extended as though to strangle him. Brixton’s reflexes kicked in. He stepped aside, allowing the big guy’s momentum to carry him past. Brixton came up behind and wrapped his right arm about the man’s throat in a stranglehold, causing him to slump to his knees. Brixton maintained his grip and turned, expecting an attack from Reyes, but the young Spaniard stood paralyzed on the other side of the bed, eyes wide, fear etched on his smooth, handsome face.

  Brixton released his hold and used his foot to shove Reyes’s friend in the direction of a chair. “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you saddle up whatever horse you rode in on and get lost. I have something to discuss with Mr. Reyes. Shouldn’t take more than a half hour, maybe an hour at most. Go back to Marigold’s and have a drink to kill the time. I’m sure Lalo will be happy to see you when you get back.”

  “Damn, Lalo,” he said as he struggled to his feet and gently touched his fingertips to his bruised throat. “What’s this all about?”

  Brixton took a step in his direction.

  “Okay, okay, I’m goin’. Damn man, you really hurt me.”

  “You’re lucky you can walk out of here,” Brixton said. “And don’t even think about telling anybody what happened. Got it?”

  He nodded sullenly and left the apartment.

  Brixton now focused on Reyes, who’d pulled up his pants and nervously buckled his belt.

  “So you’re planning a trip to sunny Hawaii, Lalo.”

  “What? How do you know that?”

  “I read your airline ticket. Maui’s supposed to be nice this time of year.”

  “You have no right breaking into my apartment and going through my things.” He didn’t say it with any conviction, as though he didn’t want to upset Brixton.

  “You’re right, Lalo. I’m guilty of breaking and entering. You want to call the police, nine-one-one?” Before Reyes could answer, Brixton added, “Before they get here, you’ll be in a lot worse shape than your gentleman caller.”