Margaret Truman's Internship in Murder

by Margaret Truman

  Brixton hadn’t wanted to subject Bennett to yet another claim that his daughter had been intimate with Congressman Gannon. He could only put himself in Bennett’s shoes; every claim had to hit the Tampa attorney hard in the gut. At the same time he knew that he hadn’t the right to withhold information from a paying client.

  “Gannon’s press aide confirmed to me that Laura and Gannon had been in a relationship,” Brixton said. “I also spoke with Watson’s partner—Watson was gay—who said that Watson had told him on numerous occasions about the affair.”

  “Damn him!” Bennett growled.

  “The problem is, Mr. Bennett, that unless Gannon admits it—and if he does he puts himself at the top of the suspect list in Laura’s murder—we only have hearsay.”

  “What the hell are the police doing? Why aren’t they putting pressure on Gannon to acknowledge the—acknowledge that he seduced Laura?”

  Brixton wasn’t sure that Laura’s father’s analysis of how the affair commenced was entirely accurate, but he wasn’t about to debate it.

  “The police are pulling out all the stops, Mr. Bennett. Mac is riding herd on them, and I have an in with their investigators. Have you been in touch with Gannon again?”

  “No. What’s the use? The man is a liar through and through. God, how could I have been so blind all these years?”

  “It happens to the best of us,” Brixton said. “What about Mrs. Gannon?”

  “She’s in Washington with him, isn’t she? That’s what I gather from the news.”

  “Tough position she’s in.”

  “She must know the truth.”

  “But it looks like she’s standing by her husband. I have to run to meet the investigator. I’ll check in with you again before I leave Tampa.”

  Brixton plugged 4302 West Boy Scout Boulevard into his rented car’s GPS and headed for the restaurant, following the woman’s recorded directions coming through the speaker. It wasn’t far south of the Tampa Airport, and he pulled into the parking lot twenty minutes early. The lot was full and so was the restaurant. Multiple TV sets hung up high carried myriad sporting events. The noise level was high, and Brixton questioned having this as a meeting place.

  He found the only available seat at the bar and ordered a beer. He was watching a game when he felt a pat on his shoulder.

  “Hello,” he told Wooster.

  “Come on,” Wooster said, “let’s grab a table.”

  Brixton paid his bar tab and they found a vacant table at the front of the place. Wooster ordered a gin and tonic from the attractive waitress. “Good flight?” he asked Brixton.

  “If you like that sort of thing. I felt like I was part of a cattle drive.”

  “Not like it used to be, huh? I hate flying these days.”

  “I swore after nine/eleven that I’d never get on a plane again,” Brixton said.

  “But here you are in Tampa, Florida, home of the Buccaneers, former center of cigar making, and the domain of the esteemed Congressman Harold Gannon. What’s new with the investigation? Or I should say investigations now that there’s been another murder of someone close to him?”

  “I got hold of Rachel Montgomery. She was interviewed by the police along with a college friend of Laura Bennett who’d been told about the affair.”

  “You told her that I was the source?”

  “No, never did. She seems like a nice lady. Pretty, too.”

  “Anything new and startling come out of it?”

  “No. How about you? Have you unearthed another Gannon paramour?”

  “No, but frankly I’m not as interested in his extracurricular sexual life as I am now with whether he’s a murderer.”

  “That’d be a first, wouldn’t it?” Brixton said. “A member of Congress convicted of murder. Then again, a lot of what they’ve done has killed plenty of innocent people, sending off young people to get killed in stupid wars, cutting off food for the hungry, you name it. What are they, legal murders?”

  They munched on sports bar staples, wings and sliders, while debating the state of politics.

  “Do you know people here in Tampa who work on Gannon’s campaign,” Brixton asked.

  “Sure. His campaign manager is Joe Selesky, a tough guy, won’t take losing as an answer.”

  “You know him pretty good?”

  Wooster laughed. “I’ve met him a few times, only I’m persona non grata with Selesky and his people. I work for the enemy.”

  “I thought while I was in Tampa I might try and meet him.”

  “Lotsa luck, Brixton. Word’s around that you and the lawyer Luke Bennett hired are out to get Gannon. But hell, give him a call. You never know.”

  “We’re not out to get anybody,” Brixton said defensively. “Just doing our job.”

  The words sounded good but didn’t accurately reflect the reality, at least from Brixton’s perspective.

  “What about his chief of staff up in D.C.?” Brixton asked.

  “Roseann Simmons? I’ve met her. Tampa’s a small town when it comes to politics. She’s a cold cookie. She’s from here, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard. Cody Watson, Gannon’s press aide—former press aide—had a few things to say about her.”

  “Negative?”

  “Not necessarily. He painted her as kind of a mystery woman, has lots of money, comes from a wealthy and controversial family here in Tampa.”

  “All true. Why do you ask?”

  “I spent a little time with her and asked about Laura’s life outside the office. She claimed to know nothing about it, which I don’t buy.”

  “She’s a zealot when it comes to protecting her boss.”

  “Gannon’s office says that she’s out of town, and when I spoke with her she’d just gotten back from Tampa. I wonder if she’s here again.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Wooster. “Like I said, I’m not exactly welcome at Gannon headquarters.”

  “I’ll swing by there tomorrow before heading back.”

  They split the check and shook hands outside the restaurant.

  “You come up with anything, you fill me in. Right?” Wooster said.

  “It works two ways.”

  “You got it, pal. We’re a team.”

  Brixton wasn’t sure that he wanted to be a teammate of Paul Wooster, but it had been copacetic so far. It wasn’t so much that Wooster worked for a political organization that bothered Brixton. It was more that Wooster didn’t share Brixton’s fever to show Gannon up for what he was, and to solve the murder of a young woman who didn’t deserve to die. For Wooster, it was a payday, which Brixton couldn’t dismiss as an unreasonable motive. He’d taken on plenty of distasteful assignments himself in order to keep the lights on in his office and to avoid being evicted and consigned to the curb. He also couldn’t help but wonder about the case that caused Wooster to lose his Florida PI license. Ronald Reagan’s words came back to him as he drove in the direction of his hotel: “Trust but verify.”

  It was early when Brixton left the sports bar, and he was not ready for bed. Had he been in a more cosmopolitan city, he would have headed for a club that featured live jazz, like Blues Alley in D.C., the Blue Note in New York City, or Yoshi’s in San Francisco, caught a set or two, and let the music buoy his spirits. But he doubted Tampa had any jazz clubs, or clubs featuring what they considered good old American jazz, more likely bluegrass and country and western and fiddlers’ jam sessions. So he returned to the hotel, had a drink at the bar, ordered a second, which he carried to his room, and called Flo.

  “How’s it going, hon?” she asked.

  “Okay.” He filled her in on his meeting with Wooster, which he realized hadn’t accomplished anything except to keep the contact alive.

  “I’m going to see if I can connect tomorrow with Gannon’s campaign manager here in Tampa, a guy named Selesky.”

  “Why?”

  “A shot in the dark, I guess. I figure it can’t hurt as long as I’m here. What’s new at the o
ffice?”

  “Nothing much. Can I ask you something and not make you mad?”

  “Me? Get mad?”

  “Yes, you. Robert, do you think that you’re too obsessed with Gannon and the intern’s murder?”

  It was more of a snort than a laugh from him. “Funny you should ask that,” he said. “I’ve been thinking the same thing lately.”

  “Did you come to a conclusion?”

  “No. All I know, Flo, is that I feel like I’ve been spinning my wheels, and I need to talk to someone, anyone, who can link Gannon to what happened to Laura Bennett. And now there’s Cody Watson, his press aide or whatever he’s called. Press secretary? Mouthpiece? Spin doctor? Yeah, I am obsessed, but you know that’s in my genes. Remember the Watkins case back in Savannah? Talk about obsessed. I damn near got killed because of my obsession.”

  “I just hate to see you end up in a funk, that’s all,” she said.

  “I’ll do my best,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  He took his drink to go out on the small balcony. The sound of jets taking off was much louder outside the room, and he could see the lights on the planes as they came in and took off. Every time he watched the planes, he tried to imagine who was on them, passengers going someplace on business or to visit family and friends, men, women, little kids driving everyone crazy, old people who needed a wheelchair to navigate the airport and Jetway. Him someday. He sipped his drink and again wished that he still smoked. He’d quit in Savannah shortly before leaving there, and the urge, while having lessened, had never truly disappeared.

  He recognized that he was slipping into depression. Being depressed wasn’t anything new to Brixton. People subjected to his moods either chalked his behavior up to being a skeptic, a cynic, or someone who simply had become curmudgeonly before his time. The truth was that depression was never far from him, and he often had to give himself a pep talk to shift moods.

  It didn’t take much to depress Robert Brixton.

  A story about the mistreatment of four-legged animals would do it.

  The realization that an elected member of Congress put his or her own self-interests before the good of the nation was guaranteed to send him into a funk, usually short-lived because he knew that he, or anyone else, couldn’t and wouldn’t change it.

  Becoming involved in the Laura Bennett case through Mac Smith hadn’t triggered depression in Brixton. He liked being involved, and the case’s momentum—her disappearance, finding her body in the Congressional Cemetery, and now the murder of Cody Watson—had focused his mind on doing what he did best, investigate.

  But being alone on the balcony of the Marriott in Tampa, Florida, his morose set of genes kicked in. That horrible moment in the café when a terrorist suicide bomber had taken his daughter’s life and the lives of other innocents flooded him and he welled up. His daughter’s face occupied his vision, laughing, making fun of his quirks, basking in the joyous anticipation of her life and where it would lead.

  But then he saw Laura Bennett on his imaginary screen, also young, vivacious, a thousand-watt smile, the future hers to grasp, and anger began to displace the depression. He’d risked his own life to bring to justice those who had taken Janet from him, and now he was determined to do the same for the young woman he’d never met but whose photos told him who she was and why her life was precious.

  He swallowed the remains of his drink, went back into the room, stripped naked, and climbed beneath the sheets.

  Snap out of it, Brixton, he told himself before sleep came. You’ve got work to do.

  CHAPTER

  31

  Congressman Harold Gannon’s campaign headquarters was in a storefront on busy North Tampa Street, flanked by a bookstore and a luncheonette. Brixton stood in front and took in the campaign posters, huge blowups of Gannon (some with his wife and kids), and piles of literature in the window. He looked beyond the displays and saw a dozen desks manned by fresh-faced young men and women who were either on the phone or stuffing envelopes.

  He walked in and was immediately greeted by a middle-aged man dressed in a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt, tan slacks, and sandals. He wore a large VOTE FOR GANNON button on his chest.

  “Hello there,” he said through a large smile. “Welcome to Gannon Land.”

  “Gannon Land?” Brixton repeated.

  The man laughed. “That’s what we call it around here. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Are you a Gannon supporter, or on the fence? If you’re on the fence, we have some material that I think you’ll find very interesting. Congressman Gannon is one of those rare politicians who truly reaches across the aisle in the interest of getting things done for the American people. With all the lies and double-dealing in Washington, having someone of Hal Gannon’s character and devotion to rock-ribbed American virtues and beliefs is something we can’t afford to lose. Come with me. I have some reading material and—”

  “Before we do that,” Brixton said, “I was wondering if Mr. Selesky is in.”

  “Joe? Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but I’m sure he’ll want to speak with me.”

  “He’s up to his neck these days, as you can imagine. Congressman Gannon’s opponents will stoop to anything to deny him another term. The lies they tell are outrageous.”

  The man looked beyond Brixton, and his eyes indicated that he’d seen something of interest. Brixton turned and saw a stocky, bald, red-faced man with a small mustache emerge from an office. He looked all business with his tie lowered and collar unbuttoned, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to reveal thick forearms.

  “That’s Joe,” the man told Brixton.

  “Thanks.”

  “Mr. Selesky,” Brixton said as he approached.

  Selesky stopped and stared at him.

  “Robert Brixton,” Brixton said, extending his hand.

  “Yeah, hello,” Selesky said, accepting the gesture. “You’re—?”

  “I work for the Bennett family. You know, their daughter Laura was murdered and—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know who you are. The private investigator.”

  “One and the same,” Brixton said pleasantly.

  Selesky looked around the large central room as though to see whether anyone else was interested in his exchange with Brixton. No one seemed to be except for the man who’d greeted Brixton when he entered.

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

  “A few minutes of your time,” said Brixton.

  “This is a busy day,” Selesky said. “I’m up to my eyeballs with work and—”

  “I think you ought to talk to me,” Brixton said. “Since you know who I am, you also know that I’ve been working as a PI for the Bennett family to prove that the congressman had an inappropriate relationship with his intern, Ms. Bennett.”

  “Jesus,” Selesky muttered.

  “I don’t think he’d be much help here,” Brixton said. “Let’s go where we can have a private chat. I promise not to take too much time from your busy schedule.”

  “Come in my office,” Selesky said grumpily, and led Brixton through the door.

  The campaign manager’s office defined cluttered. Campaign materials were everywhere, multiple boxes of campaign buttons with Gannon’s smiling face on them, thin booklets extolling the congressman’s legislative achievements, posters and flyers, everything in red, white, and blue, plenty of stars and stripes, boxes of small American flags piled high on the desk.

  “Looks like the campaign is in full gear,” Brixton commented.

  “What do you want?” Selesky asked, leaning against a wall, arms folded across his barrel chest.

  Until that point Brixton hadn’t decided what he would say or ask for once he was in Selesky’s company. “What do I want?” he said to buy think time. “What I want, Mr. Selesky, is to know what role Congressman Gannon’s affair with his in
tern, Laura Bennett, played in her disappearance and murder.”

  “In the first place,” Selesky said, “Congressman Gannon did not have an affair with Ms. Bennett. Once you get that through your skull, the rest of your comment is just plain stupid.”

  “You know about Gannon’s press aide being murdered.”

  “Of course.”

  “I was with him the night someone bashed his head in. He told me about the affair. Laura Bennett told her roommate about it, and did the same with her aunt. A college friend was also taken into her confidence.”

  “All part of the Washington rumor mill, generated by Congressman Gannon’s political enemies.” Selesky said it firmly, no room for debate.

  “You aren’t denying that the congressman has had a series of extramarital affairs, are you?”

  “You bet I am. If you came here to get my response to these scurrilous charges by an emotionally fragile young woman, you’ve gotten what you wanted. Anything else? I have other more realistic things to do today.”

  “What about the other women?”

  “As far as I know—and I follow the news carefully—there’s never been a woman to come out publicly and claim to have had an affair with Congressman Gannon.”

  “I’m working on it, Mr. Selesky.”

  “Why? What the hell are you getting out of it except money? What kind of an American are you? This nation needs the Hal Gannons of the world. He’s a stand-up guy in a Congress filled with namby-pambies, weak sisters who don’t have a bone of conviction in their bodies. Hal Gannon also happens to be a human being.”

  “What do you mean by that? That it’s only human for him to cheat on his wife?”

  “What I mean is that—”

  “Not that I disagree, Mr. Selesky. Sure, elected officials are human beings, and some cheat on their spouses. But they don’t prey on twenty-two-year-old interns. What did Ms. Bennett do, threaten to expose your guy? Show him to the world and the voters for what he really is?”

  “Your time is up, Mr. Brixton.”

  “Gannon’s time is up, too, if I have anything to say about it. Take this to the bank, Mr. Selesky. The truth about Congressman Harold Gannon will come out, and I’ll raise a glass to having made sure that it does.”