When the DVD ended, Brixton turned to Asal and said, “I don’t get my jollies deflating anyone’s balloon, Asal. I know that you believed in Alvi because he supported you and your project. Maybe seeing what you just watched won’t make any difference to you. Maybe you’ll still revere him because he’s been generous with you. But now you also know that he’s a murderer. His victims include my daughter and lots of other daughters and sons. That’s why it’s important to me that you know this.”
She began to cry, fake tears Brixton thought.
“Sam Prisler on Maui was expecting me. I assumed it was a guy named Wayne who’d told him. But it was you, wasn’t it? Mac Smith told you where I’d gone. What did you do, pick up the phone and tell Alvi, and he told his buddy Prisler?”
She reached and grabbed his hand, squeezed tight. “Why do you think such terrible things about me, Robert? I knew nothing of Alvi except that he is an important man in Washington who does many good things for our people.”
“You can still say that? How is murdering innocent people doing good things?” Brixton asked, extricating his hand and standing.
“You don’t understand, do you?” she said. “My brother rots in an Iraqi prison. Alvi promised to help. My Islamic Partnership does good things, too,” she continued. “We open up the world to young men and women. We help them become educated and more accepting of all cultures.”
“Do any of these young people you help also carry bombs with them to blow up embassy workers?” Brixton said.
She stood and threw her arms about him. “Please, Robert, you must believe me. I did not know anything of Zafar’s involvement with terrorism.”
“Does he have a say in which young people come here to the States through your organization?”
“No, of course not.”
Brixton stepped back. “I want to believe you, Asal. There was a time when I did. But I don’t anymore.”
He retrieved the DVD and put it in his pocket. Her cheeks were dry now. The pleading look she’d assumed was replaced by a sober expression, her large brown eyes unblinking.
“I wish you well, Asal,” he said. “By the way, what you just watched is a dupe I had made in Hawaii. The FBI has the original.”
“You have told the FBI about me and my involvement with Zafar?”
“I had to. But if you didn’t do anything wrong, weren’t involved with any of his terrorist activities, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Time for me to go. You take care, Asal. I hope everything works out for you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she said angrily.
He looked at her pretty face and the soft curves of her body that he’d enjoyed holding.
“Whatever you want it to mean,” he said, shaking his head and walking out of the apartment.
CHAPTER
37
SIX MONTHS LATER
Brixton loaded apple juice, a banana, uncooked oatmeal, maple syrup, and a concoction containing multiple vitamins into the blender in his kitchen. He pushed the button and grimaced as he watched the mixture swirl into unappetizing glop. When it was finished he poured it into two glasses and carried them to the balcony, where Flo Combes sat reading that day’s Washington Post.
“Breakfast,” he announced.
“Thanks,” she said and took a sip. “Delicious,” she proclaimed.
“It’s like drinking soggy beach sand,” he said.
“But a lot healthier, Robert. Trust me. You’ll learn to love it.”
* * *
A lot had happened in the six months since his return to Washington from Maui.
When Brixton had played the DVD for Asal Banai at her apartment, she’d informed him that Zafar Alvi was away. That was true, but he hadn’t gotten very far. He was seated on a plane at New York’s JFK Airport preparing to depart for Cairo, when a team of FBI special agents boarded and took him off in cuffs. Various people in government kept Brixton abreast of the case being built against Alvi and his colleagues, but the wheels of justice turn notoriously slow. Alvi was being held in a federal prison, and from everything Brixton heard, he’d be there for a long time before ever facing trial.
As for Asal, Brixton never saw her again. He knew that she’d been questioned by the FBI, the CIA, and members of Homeland Security about her association with Alvi. Chief among the government’s concerns was the possible use of her Islamic Partnership as a conduit for bringing young suicide bombers to the United States, ostensibly to attend school but whose goals were more destructive than that, and decidedly shorter term. She evidently had provided the right answers, because eventually she was told that she was free to leave Washington. The last Brixton heard was that she’d moved to California. Maybe she’d become a movie star, Brixton mused. She certainly was beautiful enough and was a pretty good actress too.
Investigators from the Maui police force traveled to Washington to question Brixton, Kamea, and Lalo Reyes about the death of Samuel Prisler. The story they received was straightforward and honest. Kamea had shot Prisler with Brixton’s weapon. Prisler and Akina were about to kill them. It was a clear-cut case of self-defense. Brixton later learned that the authorities on Maui hadn’t shed any tears over Prisler’s demise, nor did anyone from Washington’s Justice Department or CIA. The Hawaiians had never been enthusiastic about hosting a controversial cult and had been trying to build a case against him. The feds were glad to lop off one branch of arms smuggling. A single shot from Brixton’s handgun had done everyone a favor, and the Hawaiian police declined to prosecute Kamea for the killing.
Lalo Reyes returned to Barcelona as soon as the authorities allowed him to leave the country. Brixton believed him when he’d said that he didn’t know why he’d been instructed to identify homosexuals in embassies and report them to the large man with the shaved head. How Lalo would end up was anybody’s guess. All Brixton knew was that by jumping Akina, the skinny, doe-faced young Spaniard had saved his life and Kamea’s too.
Brixton took particular pleasure when news broke that two suspects had been arrested and charged in the murder of retired Justice Department attorney Charles McQuaid. A picture of the men being led from police headquarters to jail captured Brixton’s attention. One of them was the guy in the tan safari jacket whose penchant was for showing up too often to be a coincidence where Brixton was. Had he and his accomplice killed McQuaid on orders from Zafar Alvi? Brixton didn’t know but was determined to keep tabs on it through his contacts at MPD. McQuaid’s sister, Jeannette, kept in touch; she told Brixton that the new chemo regimen she was being administered seemed to be working, which brought a smile to his face.
Of everything that was happening in Brixton’s life, perhaps the most meaningful was his reconciliation with Flo Combes.
They’d spent considerable time hashing out the nettlesome problems that had led to their breakup in New York, and they decided to give it another try. Flo returned to New York to close down her apartment and to cancel plans to open a dress shop in Brooklyn. Annabel Smith found her a vacant small retail space in Georgetown, and with Mac and Annabel’s help, she arranged financing to get her business up and running. When Brixton wasn’t being questioned by authorities from what seemed like a dozen government agencies, he helped Flo whip the dress shop into shape. He had time for it because he was no longer an agent with SITQUAL. SITQUAL no longer existed. Congressman Walter Skaggs, whose committee oversaw the State Department, pushed through a bill stripping the quasi-governmental organization of funding, and the offices run by Mike Kogan were forced to cease operations. Brixton and Kogan had lunch after Kogan had gotten the news of the agency’s closure, and it was during that lunch that the next stage of Brixton’s life began to take shape.
“I’m really sorry about what happened,” Brixton told his former boss, “and I know it’s my fault. Congressman Skaggs was determined to get even with me for shooting his son. He closed you down so I wouldn’t have a job. As a result, a lot of good agents are unemployed.”
“Don’t
sweat it, Robert.”
“What are you going to do, Mike?”
“An old friend of mine, a private investigator, is retiring and selling his one-man agency. I think I’m going to buy it.”
Brixton laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“You going into that business,” he said. “I worked private in Savannah. Not always easy to make ends meet.”
“That was Savannah,” Kogan said. “This is D.C. With all the corruption, marital shenanigans, and scams going on in this town, there’s plenty of work. Maybe you should give it a try.”
“I don’t like Washington,” Brixton said.
“So why are you still here?”
“Because Flo likes it here. She’s opening a business in Georgetown.”
It was Kogan’s turn to laugh.
“Don’t say what you’re thinking,” said Brixton.
“Give it some thought,” Kogan said. “Maybe we can partner up.”
Brixton and Flo discussed the possibility at length. She encouraged him not to turn away an opportunity, but he had lingering reservations. He’d “been there, done that” in Savannah and remembered how he’d sometimes struggled to pay his bills. He also wondered whether he had the patience any longer to deal with the strange people who bought his services.
But then one night he received a call from Mac Smith.
“I’m calling inviting you and Flo to join us and a few other couples for a celebratory dinner,” Smith said.
“What is it, your birthday?” Brixton asked.
“It’s a surprise,” said the learned law professor. “You’ll find out tomorrow night.”
Mac had booked a private room at Johnny’s Half Shell on Capitol Street NW. Brixton and Flo were flattered to be included. The other guests were Mac’s colleagues at the George Washington University law school, and several higher-ups in the current administration. Once drinks had been served, Mac stood and held his glass aloft. “Annabel and I have made a decision,” he said.
“Don’t tell us you’re leaving Washington,” a man said.
“No, we’re rooted in this city,” Mac said. “But I am announcing this evening that I’ll be resigning my professorship and going back into private practice.”
Once the shock of the announcement wore off, the party became lively, with plenty of drinking and lobster for all.
A few days later Brixton sat with Mac in the soon-to-be-former law professor’s study and told him of Kogan’s suggestion that he become a private eye again, perhaps teaming up with his former boss.
“Not a bad idea, Robert,” said Smith. “If you do, I can promise plenty of work for you as my investigator.”
That settled it, although Brixton decided not to join forces with Kogan. Mac Smith advanced him the five-thousand-dollar bond he had to put up, and also loaned him enough money to lease a small office. Brixton passed the mandatory FBI background check and received his PI license from the Metro Police. He also renewed his license to carry a concealed weapon and bought a new Smith & Wesson 638 Airweight revolver to replace the one that had been confiscated by FBI Special Agent Mumford on Maui.
The Washington Post covered Mackensie Smith’s return to private law practice.
Flo Combes hosted a ribbon-cutting ceremony and party at the new offices of Robert Brixton: Private Investigator.
Brixton settled into a life of relative domestic bliss. He made regular calls to his daughter, Jill, and carved out the time to watch his only grandchild grow up.
He finally managed to swallow Flo’s healthy shakes without gagging.
Maybe I’ll even learn to stomach Washington, D.C., he told himself.
But I doubt it.
BY MARGARET TRUMAN
First Ladies
Bess W. Truman
Souvenir
Women of Courage
Harry S Truman
Letters from Father: The Truman Family’s Personal Correspondences
Where the Buck Stops
White House Pets
The President’s House
IN THE CAPITAL CRIMES SERIES
Murder in Foggy Bottom
Murder at the Library of Congress
Murder at the Watergate
Murder in the House
Murder at the National Gallery
Murder on the Potomac
Murder at the Pentagon
Murder in the Smithsonian
Murder at the National Cathedral
Murder at the Kennedy Center
Murder in the CIA
Murder in Georgetown
Murder at the FBI
Murder on Embassy Row
Murder in the Supreme Court
Murder on Capitol Hill
Murder in the White House
Murder in Havana
Murder at Ford’s Theater
Murder at Union Station
Murder at The Washington Tribune
Murder at the Opera
Murder on K Street
Monument to Murder
Experiment in Murder
Undiplomatic Murder
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
MARGARET TRUMAN won faithful readers with her biographies and her novels, particularly her Capital Crimes mysteries. Her books let readers into the corridors of power and privilege, poverty and pageantry, in the nation’s capital.
DONALD BAIN, the author of 115 books, including forty bestselling Murder, She Wrote novels, was a longtime friend of Margaret Truman. He worked closely with her on her novels, and more than anyone understood the spirit and substance of her books.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
MARGARET TRUMAN’S UNDIPLOMATIC MURDER:
A CAPITAL CRIMES NOVEL
Copyright © 2014 by Estate of Margaret Truman
All rights reserved.
Cover photography by Eye to Eye Video (background) and Getty Images (man)
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
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New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-3367-4 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-0424-1 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466804241
First Edition: July 2014
Margaret Truman's Undiplomatic Murder Page 33
