He rode back to headquarters with Morey and Gibbs.
“Thanks for taking me along,” he told them.
“No problem, Brixton.”
“Say hello to Borgeldt for me.”
Brixton got into his car and drove back to the office. When he arrived, he interrupted a meeting that Mac Smith was having with a man Brixton pegged as a lawyer before even being introduced. His name was Richard Nichols, and he had been retained by Hal Gannon as his attorney. Mac explained Brixton’s role, and Nichols didn’t have a problem with him sitting in on the meeting.
“As I was saying,” Nichols said, “Congressman Gannon is amenable to taking a lie detector test, but only with a licensed lie detector expert of our choosing.”
“That’s short-sighted, isn’t it,” Smith said. “If the congressman passes it, the public will view such results with skepticism. I strongly urge that he consider being tested by someone cleared by the MPD and prosecutor’s office.”
Nichols, who sounded as though there was an obstruction in his nasal passages, shook his head. “I know that your clients, the Bennetts, have been pressing my client to take the test, and we’re cooperating. They should appreciate that. Congressman Gannon has willingly given multiple interviews to the authorities and has agreed to this lie detector test.”
“Frankly, they’re not in the frame of mind to appreciate anything the congressman does,” Smith said. “What about the MPD’s request that he give a DNA sample?”
“That’s an unnecessary intrusion into his privacy,” said Nichols.
“Laura Bennett’s murder was an unnecessary intrusion into her privacy,” Smith countered. “She hasn’t had a say into whether her DNA could be taken, which it has. Now there’s the apparent murder of Congressman Gannon’s press aide. Robert was with him last night. Why don’t you tell Mr. Nichols what Cody Watson told you, Robert.”
Brixton recounted what Watson had said about Gannon’s affair with Laura Bennett.
“That’s at least four, maybe five individuals who’ll testify to an affair having taken place,” Smith said.
Nichols guffawed. “All hearsay,” he said. “As far as Mr. Watson is concerned, the congressman has told me that he was on the verge of being fired, and had badmouthed the congressman to others on the staff, including the chief of staff, Ms. Simmons. As for other women coming forth to claim having had an affair with Mr. Gannon, their motives, to say nothing of their moral character, are certainly in question.”
“Moral character?” Smith said, incredulous. “Sounds to me as though you’re admitting that they willingly entered into a relationship with Gannon, a married man. Is that what you mean by their ‘moral character’?”
“What I’m saying, Mr. Smith, is that Congressman Gannon denies having had an affair with Ms. Bennett, or with anyone else, for that matter. Unless someone comes forward with irrefutable proof to demonstrate otherwise, the congressman’s word is good. He is, after all, an elected member of the United States House of Representatives.”
Nichols delivered that last line with exaggerated gravity, and Brixton turned his head to shield his smile.
The meeting ended with the two attorneys agreeing to talk after Nichols had again posed the question of his client taking a police-arranged lie detector test. “I already know the answer,” he said on his way out the door, “but I will pass it by him.”
With Nichols was gone, Brixton said, “Did I detect a little pomposity, Mac?”
Smith laughed. “He does come off that way, but he’s a good attorney who’s represented some heavy hitters. What did you come up with at Watson’s apartment?”
“Not much. Flo says I’ve had a half dozen calls from the press.”
“Join the celebrity crowd, Robert. Doris also has a long list of calls.”
“I want to talk to Gannon’s chief of staff again,” Brixton said, “find out whether what this attorney Nichols, said is true, that Gannon was about to fire him. I didn’t get that impression from Watson.”
“What about Gannon’s wife?” Smith mused.
“What about her?”
“She must know that the rumors about her husband’s sexual escapades are more than just rumors. I wonder if there’s some way to get to her.”
“She was standing tall with him on TV,” Brixton said.
“But she may get sick of playing that role,” said Smith. “Let’s think about it.”
“The Bennetts are friends with her,” Brixton said. “Maybe one of them can get her to open up.”
“I’ll raise that with Luke when we talk.”
Brixton went to his office and called Gannon’s office, asked for Roseann Simmons.
“Ms. Simmons is out of town,” he was told.
“When do you expect her back?” Brixton asked.
“I don’t know,” was the response, which struck Brixton as odd. A congressman’s chief of staff is out of town and the office doesn’t know when she’ll return? Gannon would probably know, but Brixton didn’t suffer any illusions that the congressman would agree to speak with him again.
Brixton stayed for the two interviews held in Smith’s office, Millie Sparks and Rachel Montgomery. He felt sorry for Montgomery. She seemed like a nice woman who fell for Gannon’s masculine charms and in the process bought herself a few months of misguided belief that the relationship would go beyond Gannon’s self-serving romp in the sack. She wasn’t a kid; she should have known better, was the conclusion to which he came.
That night Brixton and Flo ordered in a pizza and hibernated in the apartment. They watched a movie, but Brixton kept switching to TV newscasts to see the latest on the Watson and Bennett murders. When the film ended, he said, “When I talked to Gannon’s chief of staff, she said she’d just gotten back from Tampa. Maybe that’s where she is now.”
“Are you thinking of going there?”
“Yeah.”
“To hunt for her? Tampa’s not a small place.”
“No, not to hunt for her, Flo. I’d like to catch up again with the private investigator, Paul Wooster. We got along okay. Hell, it’s to his benefit and to the people he works for to help nail Gannon. As far as I know he’s still looking for proof that Gannon is an adulterer and, more important, that he might be a murderer. Wooster gave me the name of the woman who was interviewed at Mac’s office, didn’t fight it.”
“When will you go?”
“Hopefully tomorrow. I’ll run it past Mac.”
“I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too. I’ll only be a few days. I’ll call Wooster first to make sure he’ll be there.”
They were about to go to bed when the phone rang. It was Brixton’s ex-wife, Marylee.
“Robert, we have to talk,” she said in a tone he remembered and was glad to be free of.
“About what?”
“Can you come here tomorrow?”
“Is Jill okay?”
“She’s fine. I need to see you.”
“I’m leaving town tomorrow, but I can make time in the morning. Ten o’clock all right?”
“That’s acceptable,” she said.
Brixton smiled. How nice that ten o’clock was “acceptable” to his former spouse.
“I hear that Tampa is nice,” Flo said as they cuddled in bed.
“I’ll find out. I know that they’re big on cigars there.”
“So?”
“Maybe I’ll buy some and start smoking again.”
“You do and I’m outta here.”
“Cigars give a man a certain status. Big shots smoke them.”
“You want to be a big shot?”
“Sure, why not?”
“But you already are,” she said sweetly, “in my eyes.”
Her comment melted him, and a half hour later, sweaty and sated, they fell asleep.
CHAPTER
30
Marylee Greene Lashka lived in a spacious tract home in suburban Maryland. Her mother, now deceased—who Brixton often said had cornered the market on p
omposity and self-righteousness—had purchased the house for her daughter when she and Robert divorced after a rocky four years of marriage. Brixton had met the blond, gushy Marylee while working as a uniformed cop in D.C., and it didn’t take long for the hormonal rush to be replaced by two infant daughters and Mrs. Greene’s constant criticism of her only child’s decision to marry a cop. Marylee’s father had been a successful businessman. When he died, he left his widow a sizable fortune. She bought the house, had a large wing added for her, and lived there until the day she died.
Brixton pulled up into the driveway at ten sharp. He hoped that his ex-wife’s new husband, a smarmy lawyer named Miles Lashka, wouldn’t be there, and was relieved when Marylee appeared at the door by herself. She led him into the kitchen, where the aroma of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies filled the air.
“I didn’t that know you baked,” Brixton said.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” she replied tartly as she pulled a cookie rack from the oven and placed it on a folded towel on the counter.
Had he responded, it would have been an opening for a tart exchange. He didn’t. Instead he said, “I’m here because you asked me to be. What’s up?”
“Coffee?” she asked.
“You still drink instant?”
“There’s nothing wrong with instant coffee.”
“Maybe not, but I still have standards. No on the coffee.”
She made herself a cup and sat at the kitchen table. He continued standing.
“I called you, Robert, because I’m going to write a book about Janet’s death.”
He pulled out a chair and joined her. “You’re right, Marylee,” he said. “There are things about you I don’t know. Since when did you become a writer?”
“I have a friend who is a literary agent in Washington.”
“Not Robert Barnett.”
“Of course not. I’m sure he wouldn’t be interested in representing me.”
“And I’m sure you’re right. So who is this agent?”
“That doesn’t matter at this moment,” she said. “The point is that the book will include what happened to you after the terrorist bombing that killed Janet.”
“Me? You want to write about that? About me?”
“You’re part of the story, although the emphasis will be on Janet. She deserves to have her life celebrated in a book.”
Brixton grunted. “Does this agent know that you’ve never written a book before?”
“Yes. He says that he can pair me up with one of the seasoned writers he represents.”
“A ghostwriter.”
“I suppose you could call it that.”
“What else would you call it?” Brixton said. “All I can say is that I wish you well.”
“I need more than your good wishes, Robert. The agent says that for the book to be what it should, it will have to have your input.”
“Oh, I see. You want me to write it with you and this—this ghostwriter.”
“Not write it with me, Robert, but agree to let the writer interview you about what you did following the bombing, shooting the congressman’s son, your adventure in Hawaii with the gunrunners, the sort of stories that make the book a best seller. The agent says he can smell a future motion picture deal.”
“He has a large nose?”
“Oh, stop it, Robert.”
“Well, Marylee, like I said, I wish you all the best, but it won’t include me. I’ve got other things to do.”
Her face morphed into a pout, an expression he didn’t miss. “You owe it to Janet,” she said angrily.
“What I owe our daughter is to love her and miss her every day, which I do. I’d better get going. You’re aware that I’m working on the intern murder, Laura Bennett. It’s been on the news.”
“Yes, I saw.”
“Good luck with the book, Marylee,” he said. “Mind if I have a cookie for the road? They smell good.”
She said nothing.
He plucked one from the rack, left, got into his car, and drove away. He’d been right. It was delicious.
As for Marylee’s proposed book, Brixton hadn’t been forthcoming with her. His friend, newspaperman Will Sayers, was in the process of writing a book proposal about illegal arms sales throughout the world and had mined Brixton’s experiences following the café bombing.
* * *
His flight to Tampa was scheduled to depart Reagan National Airport at three. He’d run taking the trip past Mac Smith, who’d readily agreed. A call to Paul Wooster accomplished what Brixton had wanted, a commitment by the Tampa private eye to meet with him.
That their relationship was a quid pro quo was a given. Both wanted to dig into Congressman Hal Gannon’s life and the role he might have played in Laura Bennett’s death, but they came at it from different directions. Wooster was out to hurt Gannon to the extent that he became a former member of Congress. For Brixton, it was a matter of fairness. Gannon’s affair with his intern and his hypocrisy should be made public. At the same time, if Gannon had had anything to do with Laura’s disappearance and murder, Brixton was determined that he wouldn’t get away with it, wouldn’t walk free. Had he become obsessed with Gannon? Sure, he had.
He called Mac Smith from his car phone to check on new developments.
“I spoke with Superintendent Borgeldt a few minutes ago,” Smith said. “Watson’s lover, Roy Ulano, had an alibi for the time that Watson was killed.”
“I’d like to talk to him,” Brixton said. “Did Borgeldt mention whether Ulano was aware that Watson had told me about Gannon’s affair with Laura Bennett?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Got a number for Ulano?”
“Hang on and I’ll get it for you.”
After his conversation with Mac, Brixton called the number for Roy Ulano, who answered on the first ring. Brixton explained who he was and asked if he could swing by, or treat the young man to a fast lunch.
“I’ve already been questioned by the police,” Ulano said.
“I know that, but I’m interested in things they might not have covered with you. I was with Cody the night he died.”
“What?”
“We met at the Hotel Lombardy. He wanted to tell me about Congressman Gannon’s relationship with the murdered intern, Laura Bennett.”
“He told you about that?”
“Right, and I assume that he also told you. Like I said, I work for the family of Ms. Bennett, and I would really appreciate hearing what Cody told you.”
“I told him to be careful,” Ulano said.
“Careful about what?”
“About telling people what he thought of Congressman Gannon. I didn’t want to see him lose his job. It was a good one.”
“Cody told me that you also work on the Hill.”
“That’s true.”
“You’re right about Cody’s job being a good one. I imagine that there are plenty of people who’d want it.”
Brixton heard a concerted effort to stifle tears on the other end.
“You there, Mr. Ulano?”
“Yes. Sorry. The impact of Cody being killed is just now hitting home.”
“I understand. Did Cody ever show you anything that might be considered evidence that the congressman and Ms. Bennett had an affair, a note from one of them, something Ms. Bennett might have said to you, a lovey-dovey card one sent the other?”
“No. I never even met Ms. Bennett.”
“But Cody did confirm to you that an affair was going on.”
“Many times. He hated the hypocrisy that Congressman Gannon represented.”
“Well, thanks for your time, Mr. Ulano, and I’m sorry for your loss,”
“It’s true, isn’t it? Cody is dead.”
“I’m afraid so. I’ll be in touch again.”
* * *
Brixton hated flying, and he boarded the plane to Tampa with trepidation. Because he’d booked late, he was wedged in between a heavyset woman who dominate
d the armrest on her side, and an older man with either terminal sinus problems or one hell of a head cold. Brixton was glad that he’d brought along a dog-eared paperback into which he could bury his face during the flight. He declined to purchase a bag of mixed nuts for three dollars but did pay for two miniature martinis with his credit card, which came with a package of stale multicolored chips. Ah, for the good old Coffee, Tea or Me? days of air travel.
He’d reserved a rental car and a room at the Tampa Airport Marriott. His meeting with Wooster was scheduled for eight o’clock at a restaurant and sports bar called Lee Roy Selmon’s, on Boy Scout Boulevard. Selmon, Brixton knew, had been the Tampa Bay Buccaneers’ very first draft pick and had gone on to become an NFL Hall of Famer. Whether the food served at his namesake restaurant matched his exploits on the gridiron remained to be seen.
Before leaving the hotel, Brixton called Luke Bennett, which he’d promised Mac Smith he would do while in Tampa.
“I understand that Gannon has agreed to take a lie detector test,” Bennett said, “but only one that he arranges.”
“That’s the latest word.”
“He’s afraid to take one administered by an impartial examiner.”
“A fair assumption,” said Brixton.
“I spoke with Mac earlier in the day,” Bennett said. “He told me you were coming to Tampa to meet with another private investigator.”
Brixton confirmed it and explained Paul Wooster’s connection with the campaign of the Republican Pete Solon.
“Do you think he can prove that Gannon and my daughter had an affair?”
“Proof is hard to come by, Luke, but Wooster has been doing some serious digging into Gannon’s personal life. I just thought it might be useful to compare notes.”
“I’d like to join you when you meet with him.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Brixton said, “but I’ll be sure to let you know what comes out of it.”
“What about the murder of Gannon’s press secretary?” Bennett asked. “Has any link been established between that and Laura’s death?”
“Not that I know of. Mac is keeping tabs on what’s being done at the MPD.”
“I saw a news report an hour ago that said that you spent time with Gannon’s aide the night he was killed.”
Margaret Truman's Internship in Murder Page 22
