Margaret Truman's Undiplomatic Murder

by Margaret Truman

  “I knew that would happen,” Marylee said.

  “First Amendment, that’s all,” Brixton said.

  “It taints everything” was Marylee’s response.

  “You mean I taint everything,” Brixton said.

  She started to reply but stopped in midsentence and climbed into the limo, followed by Brixton.

  Lashka had arranged for food and drinks at a local restaurant following the burial, but Brixton begged off when they returned to the church.

  “You sure, Dad?” Jill asked. “It would give you a chance to relax.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure, sweetheart. I’m just not in the mood. Look, I’ll call in a few days and we’ll get together, go out for dinner, something like that.”

  “Okay.” She embraced him and said, “I love you, Dad.”

  “And I love you, Jill. Take good care of the kid. He’s my only grandson.”

  * * *

  The turnout in Biloxi, Mississippi, for Paul Skaggs’s funeral at the Old Biloxi Cemetery off Irish Hill Drive was huge. Dozens of his father’s congressional colleagues traveled to this city on the Mississippi Sound that had suffered extensive damage in 2005 from Hurricane Katrina. Congressman Skaggs had used his considerable power within Congress to see that the city and other Mississippi cities on the Gulf Coast received maximum federal aid. Skaggs was a beloved figure in his state. The funeral was covered by teams from the networks and cable news channels, along with dozens of reporters from the print media. After a church service at which speakers broadcast the service outside to the hundreds of people who couldn’t get in, the entourage led by Skaggs and his wife slowly made its way to the cemetery, where their only son was interred.

  Members of the press surrounded Skaggs following the service. Appropriately grim faced, he waved off their questions but stopped to make a statement, the sun shining off his silver hair.

  “This is a very sad day for me and mah wife and for the good folks of Mississippi and the United States of America. It’s bad enough to have had a beloved son gunned down in cold blood by someone charged with keeping the peace, but he’s been maligned in the process. Ah am in talks with the Justice Department about looking into the killing of my son and bringing charges against his murderer. Now if you’ll excuse me, ah have a lot of good people to thank for bein’ here.”

  As he started to walk away, a reporter shouted, “Why isn’t your daughter here, Congressman?”

  Skaggs stopped and his face turned redder than usual. He fixed the reporter in a stare that would penetrate lead. “How dare you come here at this time of grief and sorrow and ask about what is a personal family matter? Ah suggest that you go back to wherever it is you come from and learn some manners.”

  With that he disappeared into the large crowd, which closed ranks around him.

  Following the interment, a gathering was held at a local casino that had been rebuilt with federal funds generated by Skaggs. Rumors were rife over the course of his political career that he was closely entwined with the “Dixie Mafia,” whose home base was Biloxi and which had practiced its violent control of business in that and other southern cities since the 1960s. Skaggs’s rise from local politics to the United States Congress was said to have been achieved with the help of the Dixie Mafia’s leaders, but no one had ever made the case against him, including local media, which was said to fear reprisals from Skaggs and his well-oiled Mississippi political machine.

  He was having a drink with old friends when an aide whispered in his ear that he had an important call. He excused himself and took the aide’s cell phone and his drink to a secluded corner of the casino.

  “Skaggs here,” he said in his raspy voice.

  “It’s Sam Prisler.”

  Skaggs looked around to ensure that he was alone. He was, but he still moved farther into the corner and lowered his voice. “This is a hell of a time to call me,” he said.

  “Look, Congressman, I know you just buried your son,” Prisler said, “but this is important, too. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Pull back on Brixton.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “We don’t need more publicity about him. We don’t need any hearings in Congress or lawsuits or anything else that keeps him in the public eye.”

  “The son of a bitch killed my only son.”

  “And he has to pay for that, but we’ll take care of him in our own way. Keeping him in the public eye makes it more difficult.”

  Skaggs was aware that others were approaching. “Look, Sam, I can’t talk now,” he said. “You give me a call tomorrow night at my house in D.C.”

  “I’ll do that, Congressman, but in the meantime, lay off Brixton.”

  The line went dead.

  “Problem?” the aide who’d given him the phone asked.

  “No, no problems. Fetch me another bourbon on the rocks, will you, Jamie? This one’s got itself all watered down.”

  * * *

  Brixton popped a frozen meal in the microwave and watched TV news. A live feed from the Paul Skaggs funeral showed Congressman and Mrs. Skaggs holding hands at the grave site. Brixton hadn’t known that the Skaggs funeral was scheduled on the same day as his daughter’s, and he found himself choking up as the reporter’s voice-over talked of the special tragedy of burying a child. A close-up of Paul Skaggs’s father and mother, tears running down the mother’s face, the congressman’s mouth set in a tight line of resignation, ended the piece.

  Brixton retrieved the papers that Jeannette McQuaid had given him from where he’d secured them beneath shoe boxes in the bedroom closet, went to the balcony, and reread them. As much as he understood the prevailing message they contained—that Samuel Prisler was a major conduit for illegal arms and explosives to Middle Eastern countries, and there were tangential references to the role Zafar Alvi might play—much of the legal jargon and previous case histories tested his limited knowledge of the law. Halfway through the papers he dialed Mackensie Smith’s number.

  “Hello, Robert,” Smith said. “Tough day for you.”

  “Tough for everybody, Mac. I’m calling to ask a favor.”

  “Shoot.”

  Brixton explained what he had and asked if Smith would read them and give his take on how damning the papers were for Prisler.

  “Sure thing,” Mac said.

  “Can I run by now?”

  “Give me an hour or two to finish up something I’m doing. Why don’t you plan to come for dinner?”

  “Annabel won’t mind a last-minute guest?”

  “No, she’s used to it. I’ve always said that the perfect wife is one who doesn’t mind last-minute guests, and who doesn’t let travel snafus throw her. That’s Annabel. Come by at seven.”

  Brixton had just returned to the balcony when the phone rang.

  “Robert, it’s Asal Banai.”

  “Hello, Asal. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, but I’m feeling some remorse.”

  “Over what?”

  “Over the way I acted at dinner the other night. I’m afraid I was testy and not very pleasant company.”

  He agreed, but knew that he wasn’t a scintillating dinner companion, either.

  “I enjoyed being with you anyway,” he said.

  “I suppose I’m asking for a rain check, another dinner, you know, to make amends.”

  “There’s no need for that, Asal, but I’d enjoy having dinner with you.”

  “Free tonight?”

  “No. I’m having dinner with the Smiths.”

  “Another time then.”

  “I’m sure the Smiths wouldn’t mind if I … well, if I brought you along. I’ll call Mac and ask, but I’m sure it’ll be all right.”

  As expected, Mac told Brixton that they would enjoy seeing Asal again. Brixton called her back at her office and arranged to pick her up at six.

  “I should mention,” he told her, “that I’ve asked Mac to go over some pap
ers with me. I want to pick his sizable legal brain. Shouldn’t take too long.”

  “I’m always happy to talk with Annabel. Maybe she’ll need help in the kitchen while you two huddle.

  “Maybe she will. I don’t think Mac spends a lot of time in the kitchen.”

  “What sort of papers?” she asked. “Or are they secret?”

  “I’ll fill you in later. Got to run. See you at six.”

  When he hung up he called Mike Kogan at SITQUAL. “Got a little time?” he asked.

  “Depends on what you want.”

  “I need to run some things by you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Not on the phone. Give me a half hour.”

  “Not now, Robert. Can you come by at five?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  It was three o’clock. Brixton went to the underground parking garage, shoved McQuaid’s papers under the spare tire in the trunk, and drove to the address Kogan had given him for Zafar Alvi, whose car Paul Skaggs had been driving prior to the café bombing. He didn’t have a plan of what to do once he got there, but he at least had to see where that car had come from, maybe gain a sense of this Zafar Alvi character.

  He parked across the street and took in the stately home through a small pair of binoculars he kept in the glove compartment. He saw no one until after a few minutes, two tall, muscular young men came through the front door and peered down at him. Brixton’s first instinct was to pull away. But he decided to stay and see what ensued. The men engaged in animated conversation before they started down. Brixton returned the binoculars to the glove compartment and waited.

  They came to the car. Brixton leaned out the open window and said, “Hello. Nice day, huh?”

  “Can we help you?” one of them asked.

  “No, just out for drive and admiring the architecture of the house. Who lives there?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  Brixton shrugged and laughed. “No special reason. Whoever lives there has good taste in houses, that’s for sure.”

  “I suggest you leave.”

  “Leave? Why? Who am I bothering parked here?”

  “We can call the police.”

  “Why would you do that? There’s no law against me sitting here, no signs saying it’s illegal to stand here. Come on, tell me who lives here.”

  The men glared at him before turning and heading back toward the stairs.

  “Hey,” Brixton yelled, “is this the house that Mr. Alvi lives in, you know, the bigwig in the Arab-American community?”

  They stopped, muttered something to each other, ascended the staircase, and disappeared inside the house.

  Brixton couldn’t help but grin. He’d obviously gotten their attention, and he sat patiently waiting to see what would happen next. Minutes later an MPD patrol car pulled up behind him and two officers got out and approached. Brixton did what he’d been taught to do in that circumstance. He placed his wrists on the steering wheel in plain sight to show that he wasn’t armed.

  “Driver’s license and registration,” one of the cops said.

  Brixton obliged.

  “You have business here?” Brixton was asked as his documents were returned.

  “No, just killing some time.”

  “We had a complaint from one of the homeowners in the area,” a cop said.

  “Mr. Alvi? He called and complained?”

  “Not Alvi himself. Look, I suggest you move on unless you’re visiting somebody.”

  “Of course, Officer. Don’t want to cause any problems.”

  The cop standing outside the driver’s side leaned a little closer to Brixton. “Are you the Brixton who shot the congressman’s kid?”

  “One and the same,” Brixton said pleasantly.

  “You got yourself in one big mess, huh?”

  “You might say that. Sorry to have caused you any trouble.”

  “Take it easy,” the cop said.

  Brixton watched in his rearview mirror as they left. He looked back at the house and saw the two men standing together at the top of the stairs. Brixton was tempted to extend a middle finger but stifled the urge.

  He was early for his meeting with Mike Kogan and passed the time browsing small shops on the same block as the Thai restaurant above which SITQUAL’s headquarters was located. At a quarter to five he went upstairs and saw that Kogan was meeting with Donna Salvos, whom he hadn’t seen in a while. Kogan waved him in. Donna kissed him on the cheek and asked how he was doing.

  “Janet’s funeral was today,” he said.

  “Must have been rough,” Kogan said.

  “It’s been rough ever since the day that crazy young woman and Skaggs’s son blew up the café,” he said.

  “I’ll leave you two,” Donna said.

  “No, stay,” Brixton said. “You’ll be interested in a couple of things I’ve come up with.”

  Kogan asked, “Any progress on linking Skaggs to the bombing?”

  “Lots of intriguing stuff, but nothing tied up in a neat bow. You remember when we interviewed Lalo Reyes about the Müller murder?” he asked Donna.

  “Sure.”

  “I caught up with him again.”

  “Why?” Kogan asked, and Brixton knew that his boss was concerned that he’d done something official even though he’d been suspended.

  “I remembered when we talked to him that he said he’d once lived in Hawaii. Seems that Paul Skaggs, the congressman’s son, lived there, too, in a cult run by Samuel Prisler. Mr. Lalo Reyes also spent time in that cult. Not only that, he’s on his way back there.”

  Donna’s and Kogan’s expressions were blank.

  “Congressman Skaggs’s daughter is also a member of that cult.”

  Kogan asked, “How do you know that Reyes is going back?”

  “I had a pleasant little chat with him,” Brixton said. He addressed Salvos. “You know a guy named Charles McQuaid? You do, Mike.” He explained to Donna, “A retired Justice Department lawyer. At least he was until he died.”

  “You told me that you were getting together with him, Robert,” Kogan said. “He died just the other day. There was a small obit in The Post. Something about a drowning accident?”

  “He was murdered,” Brixton said flatly.

  “How do you know that?” Donna asked.

  “I just know, okay? Prisler, the arms dealer and cult leader—you told me that you know about him, Mike—Prisler was on McQuaid’s radar screen when he was with Justice. He built one hell of a case file against him. I have that file.”

  Kogan’s phone rang. He picked up, heard who was calling, and said, “I’m busy right now. I’ll call back.” He replaced the phone in its cradle and said to Brixton, “I know you’re under the gun, Robert, but are you sure you’re not going off the deep end?”

  “I don’t blame you for wondering that,” Brixton said, “but these seemingly unconnected things are starting to come together for me. Ready for another?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You told me about the Skaggs kid getting a traffic ticket while he was driving somebody else’s car, this guy named Zafar Alvi.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “There were references to Alvi in McQuaid’s papers.”

  “In connection with Prisler?”

  “Right.”

  “What’s the link?”

  “That maybe Prisler funnels his illegal arms to militants around the world through Alvi.”

  “‘Maybe’?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Hardly a solid case, Robert. Alvi is an important guy in D.C. He’s close to people in Congress.”

  “Buys them off, you mean, the way Prisler does?”

  “I’m just saying that unless you have solid evidence of wrongdoing, you’re on shaky turf.”

  “I know the puzzle is still in pieces,” Brixton said, “but it’s enough to keep me going. Look, you were good enough to check on how and when Paul Skaggs got to D.C. from Hawaii, and told me about the
traffic ticket. I need another favor from MPD.”

  “What is it?”

  “I need to talk to somebody in Homicide about McQuaid’s murder, convince them that it was a murder and not an accident.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “Get a forensics team down to McQuaid’s boat, check it out. One of McQuaid’s neighbors says he saw two guys in a boat pulled up next to McQuaid the day he died. I’m telling you Mike, Charlie McQuaid was murdered!”

  “Because of giving you papers that could be incriminating for certain people?” Kogan said.

  “I hope not, but that’s a good possibility,” said Brixton.

  “If that’s the case, you’re playing with some very powerful people,” Kogan offered.

  “Yeah, and not of my choosing,” Brixton said. “Look, if you’ll put me in touch with somebody at MPD, I’d really appreciate it. In the meantime I intend to do some digging into this Zafar Alvi and his possible connection to Prisler, Skaggs—hell, with everybody.”

  As Brixton prepared to leave, Donna said, “By the way, there’s been another embassy murder.”

  “Open season on them, huh?” Brixton said. “Who this time?”

  “A guy from the Danish embassy. His body was found this morning in his apartment, single gunshot to the back of his head, gangland style.”

  “I’m afraid to ask,” Brixton said. “Was he straight or gay?”

  “Gay. The Post is working on a feature story linking all the embassy murders together. They’re concluding that the killings are bias crimes, the work of a homophobe. The Frenchman who got it was also gay.”

  “Except that not only were the victims gay or lesbian, they also all worked for foreign embassies.”

  “So what’s the motive?” Donna asked. “Homophobia, or somebody who has it in for foreign embassies?”

  “You bought the bias-crime angle from the very beginning,” Kogan said to Brixton.

  “And I gave up on it. What about the café bombing? One of the victims was that gal who’s a leader in the gay community.”

  “It was also a popular hangout for State Department workers,” Donna said.

  “I don’t buy it,” Brixton said. “The MO is different. The café bombing was a classic terrorist act: Take down as many people as you can in one swoop. Knocking off individual embassy workers is something else. Not only that, every murder victim worked for a different embassy—German, French, Italian, Polish, and now Danish. It would make sense if somebody had it in for a particular country, but this is all over the map.”