Margaret Truman's Internship in Murder

by Margaret Truman

  * * *

  Brixton brought Flo to the office that morning and got her settled behind the desk, her injured leg in a comfortable horizontal position. He checked in with Mac Smith, who informed him that the Russian immigrant, Anatoly Klimov, had been arrested and charged in the murders of the two young women in Rock Creek Park.

  “Any link to the Laura Bennett case?” Brixton asked. “He was considered a suspect.”

  “Not according to Borgeldt. No connection at all. Luke Bennett called to vent about the Gannon interview on CNN. He’s flying to Washington to see if he can help put pressure on the congressman.”

  “Pressure to do what?”

  “Come clean about having slept with his daughter and to fess up what he knows about her disappearance and death.”

  “He’s wasting his time,” Brixton said. “The one who knows about Gannon’s involvement is my pal with the ponytail. The way I figure it, Gannon hired this guy to make sure that Laura Bennett never talked about their affair.”

  “And Cody Watson, the congressman’s press aide?”

  “Same thing. Killing somebody—actually taking somebody’s life—isn’t Gannon’s style. Too messy, would get his hands dirty. But hiring it out isn’t hard. Look at the sicko wife who was willing to pay me forty grand to bump off her husband. Life’s cheap to lots of people, Mac, plenty of guys, and women, too, available to kill somebody for a buck. Gannon had a lot to lose.”

  Brixton spoke the truth, Mac knew.

  “What’s on your agenda today, Robert?”

  “I’m going to have coffee with my old pal from New York, Dick Sheridan, the drummer that Flo and I caught at Blues Alley the night we got run down. He’s leaving later to go on tour with his trio. And I’m having lunch with Will Sayers.”

  “Give him our best. He introduced us to you.”

  “For which I’ve thanked him many times. I’ll check in later.”

  Brixton met up with Dick Sheridan at a Georgetown coffee shop.

  “I still can’t believe what happened to you and your girlfriend,” Sheridan said.

  Brixton explained the circumstances surrounding the Laura Bennett case and his conviction that the driver of the car probably had a hand in her murder.

  “You should get into a different business,” Sheridan said.

  “Too late to learn to play the sax,” Brixton said.

  “Never too late. If you ever do, I’ll hire you, turn the trio into a quartet.”

  “It’s a deal,” Brixton said.

  They hugged on the street before Sheridan got into a taxi, and Brixton knew that they might never see each other again. The thought saddened him, and he was glad that he and Flo had caught his performance. Old friends were hard to come by.

  Sayers was in his usual expansive mood when they had lunch at Martin’s Tavern. Sayers had followed all the media coverage of the Gannon story but was not aware of the man with the ponytail.

  “And he actually tried to run you and Flo down?” Sayers said.

  “He sure as hell did. I’ve put together the pieces. Gannon hires this guy, whoever he is, to snuff out his intern to keep word of their affair from getting around and blowing up his phony family man façade. He finds out that his press aide is telling me tales out of school and sics the aging hippie on him for the same reason. Me, with my big mouth, goes around telling people, including the media, that I’m sure that Gannon was behind the murders. That adds me to the list of people that Gannon needs to get rid of.”

  Brixton also told Sayers that he’d spent time with the PI, Paul Wooster, who Sayers had checked on.

  “A charming fellow, I’m sure,” Sayers said.

  “I’m not sure I’d use that word,” Brixton said. “I think he’s a guy who’s comfortable playing both sides against the middle.”

  “Is he involved in any way in this scenario you’re painting?”

  “I can’t see how. He works for the Republican running against Gannon but seems cozy with some of Gannon’s people, too. Like I said, he’s a double-dipper.”

  Sayers indulged in his usual large lunch while Brixton contented himself with a chef salad with chicken. Flo had been on a healthy eating kick lately, and Brixton felt as though she was looking over his shoulder.

  Sayers’s healthy appetite always amazed Brixton. The corpulent former newspaper editor would duplicate at dinner what he’d had for lunch, with a few extra helpings tossed in, and Brixton always wondered whether he’d be attending his friend’s premature funeral one day soon. He hoped not.

  They were on coffee—with a slice of blueberry pie for Sayers—when Brixton’s cell rang.

  “Sorry to interrupt your lunch, Robert,” Mac Smith said, “but I just got a call from Zeke Borgeldt. He has some additional information about the guy with the ponytail. Seems that a woman, a regular at the bar where the bartender told the detectives he’d seen him, had stopped back in and got talking to that bartender. He told her that the authorities were looking for the man that she’d struck up a conversation with, which prompted her to contact the police.”

  “Did she get his name?”

  “Just the one we know was false. But she described him as having what she termed a ‘cultured way of speaking,’ almost an accent, like British or Scottish.”

  Brixton sighed. “I was hoping that they’d come up with more than that.”

  “It’s more than we had a few hours ago,” Mac said. “Oh, she also said that he left the bar at about ten that night to go to a business meeting.”

  “Maybe he’s a vampire.”

  “If he is, I suggest that you start wearing turtlenecks.”

  “I’ll ask Flo to buy me some. Thanks, Mac. I’ll be back in a half hour.”

  Sayers picked up the lunch tab. A family member with whom he hadn’t been particularly close had died and left a portion of her sizable state to him, which he’d graciously accepted.

  “She must have thought a lot of you,” Brixton said as they prepared to part outside Martin’s.

  “She found me amusing,” was the journalist’s comment. “Aunt Monique—her real name was Emma but she found that too pedestrian—was the quintessential free spirit, many lovers, never a husband, a house filled with cats and even a baby alligator that she kept in the bathtub. She loved the fact that I was a journalist, a calling she considered akin to sainthood. Anyway, her will was read, and to the chagrin of others I was named as a beneficiary. Life takes funny turns, huh?”

  “Screw those others who lost out,” Brixton said. “Your aunt Monique, or whatever her name was, did what made her happy. Enjoy the money, my friend, and thanks for lunch.”

  * * *

  Brixton had appointments after lunch, and by the time he returned to his office it was almost six. Flo wasn’t happy.

  “Sorry,” he said, kissing her cheek. “I got tied up.”

  “Sounds perverted,” she said.

  “Nothing that enjoyable,” he said.

  “When are you going to write that proposal for the man in Virginia?” she asked. “He called again while you were out being tied up.”

  “I’ll get around to it one of these days.”

  “You keep putting it off, Robert, and you’ll blow this job. The guy owns a defense-contacting company and is willing to spend big money to solve his security problem. It’s a win-win situation. All you have to do is come up with a plan for him to keep tabs on employees who he’s convinced are stealing from him. He pays you for the plan and you keep collecting to implement it.”

  “I know, I know. It’s just that this situation with Gannon is all-consuming.”

  “That’s understandable. But why not write the proposal and put it behind us? You’ve already figured out his problem. All you have to do is put it on paper. Tell you what. Let’s bring in food for dinner and get it done. You can dictate it to me.”

  “I’ll think about it,” he said, and disappeared into his office, where he spent the next half hour sorting through piles of paper on his desk.
When he emerged, he said that he had to run back to the apartment to pick up the file on the Virginia defense contractor that he’d forgotten to bring with him that morning. “You’re right about the proposal,” he told Flo. “We’ll get takeout when I come back—I’m in the mood for Chinese—and we’ll get it done.”

  He drove from their reserved space beneath the office building to the apartment, where he found what he was looking for, and stayed a few extra minutes to nibble on leftover lemon wafers. The salad at lunch had been good but not filling. He rode the elevator down to the ground floor and walked to the semilegal parking spot he’d found a half block from the building. Since the incident on Wisconsin Avenue that had almost taken their lives, he’d become especially aware of his surroundings, and looked up and down the darkening street before getting into his car. No tan man with a ponytail in sight.

  * * *

  But Bruce McGinnis was there, parked a block away, on the other side of the cross street, far enough away to not be seen but close enough to keep his eye on Brixton’s car. He eased into traffic and maintained a safe distance to avoid being spotted by Brixton in his rearview mirror.

  When McGinnis had followed Brixton from the office and saw that he’d gone inside his apartment building, he considered confronting Brixton there. But there were too many people coming and going, and he decided to wait for a more opportune moment. What he knew for certain was that it had to be done that night before his flight back to Tampa. He was eager to get home.

  He found a parking place a dozen spots from Brixton’s office building, turned off the engine, put on earphones attached to his iPod, listened to classical music he’d downloaded, and formulated his plan for the rest of the day and evening.

  If Brixton remained in his office after others had closed, he’d go there and get it over with. If he left the office, he would follow him, hoping that an opportunity would present itself on the street. And if Brixton returned to his apartment for the night, it would have to be accomplished there.

  Of course Brixton’s lady friend, Flo Combes, presented a complication. The assignment did not include her, and ideally he could corner Brixton when he was alone. But her presence hadn’t stopped him from aiming his rented car at both of them when they’d exited Blues Alley. Sometimes the innocent became victims, too; the military termed it collateral damage. He knew that she’d been injured—he’d seen Brixton help her into the apartment building the day he’d brought her back from the hospital, her leg swathed in bandages and encased in a large, cumbersome brace. He’d missed following Brixton the first day that he’d brought Flo to the office, having gotten tied up in a traffic jam, and had also missed him this morning when he’d overslept. But as far as he knew she was confined to the apartment and couldn’t pose a problem should he kill Brixton in his office or on the street.

  * * *

  Brixton and Flo were about to start preparing the proposal for the Virginia defense contractor when Mac Smith interrupted.

  “Robert, I’m meeting with a client, who it turns out could make good use of your talents. Come on in and meet her. She has an interesting story, and case.”

  Brixton shrugged and said to Flo, “Back in a jif, hon, and we’ll wrap up the proposal.”

  He returned an hour later. “Sorry,” he said, “but Mac was right. I think I’ve got a fascinating new case. This new client of his is a—”

  “The proposal,” Flo said flatly.

  “Oh, right, the proposal,” Brixton said. “I started to write something the other day. It’s in this file I grabbed from the apartment. Start inputting it. You’ve got to be hungry. I know I am. Mac’s working late, too. I’ll see if he wants some Chinese and run to that little take-out joint behind the building. The usual? General Tso’s chicken? Shrimp fried rice? Maybe some steamed dumplings with peanut sauce?”

  “Just as long as it’s quick,” she said.

  Smith put in his bid for beef with snow peas and a container of hot-and-sour soup. Brixton phoned in the order and left the office. When he stepped out of the elevator in the underground parking garage, he realized that he hadn’t locked the office door on his way out. Since learning that he was a target in the Bennett case, he and Flo had made it a habit to lock up, although they didn’t always remember to do it. Should he call Flo and ask her to do it? He decided against having her haul her braced leg from the comfort of her desk. Run back up? He’d only be away a few minutes. The food order had already been phoned in and would be waiting for him. He quickened his pace and went through a rear door.

  * * *

  McGinnis surveyed the windows in the office building. Many lights had been extinguished. In one office suite he saw a cleaning crew doing its job. He didn’t know whether Brixton’s office faced front or overlooked the rear, but it didn’t matter. The private investigator had entered and hadn’t left. The flow of people in and out of the lobby had waned to just an occasional few. This was a good a time as any, he reasoned. He took off his earphones and checked the pockets of his sport jacket to be sure his knife with its pencil-thin blade was where it should be. He reached down and patted his ankle holster in which his Glock 29SF semiautomatic handgun was nestled. He preferred to not use the weapon—too loud. He also satisfied himself that the leather pouch filled with lead was readily available. That was what he’d used on Laura Bennett and Cody Watson.

  Killing her had been one of the most difficult assignments he’d fulfilled in recent days. He hated smashing in such a pretty head. On top of that, his instructions had been to not only silence her; he also was to dispose of the body in such a way as to delay its discovery. He’d followed her into the Congressional Cemetery where she’d gone for a jog and attacked her close to the vault, a perfect place to stash her. From the looks of things, no one ever went inside it.

  He got out of his car and approached the building’s entrance. He’d reconnoitered it earlier and knew that the man at the front desk, through which all visitors had to pass, went off duty at six. He stepped into the marble lobby and went to the directory, where he saw that Robert Brixton’s suite was on the second floor, directly across from the elevator. He also took note that the attorney, Mackensie Smith, had a suite that, based upon its number, was adjacent to Brixton’s.

  * * *

  As McGinnis pushed the button for the elevator, Brixton was sipping a glass of rice wine that the owner of the Chinese take-out shop had insisted he accept. Brixton was a familiar face there, and the owner often offered him a drink on the house, calling Brixton his péngyôu, his friend. To which Brixton always replied in the only Chinese he knew, xie xie, thanking the owner for his generosity.

  McGinnis reached the second floor, stepped from the elevator into the carpeted hallway, and cocked his head, searching for sounds. The whir of a vacuum cleaner could be heard in the distance, and music coming from an office a floor above reached his ears, some rock-and-roll song of the type he despised.

  He went to the door bearing Brixton’s suite number and paused. Brixton, a private investigator, was undoubtedly armed. McGinnis pulled the Glock from his ankle holster, drew a breath, and tried the door. He knew that it might possibly be locked and was surprised, and pleased, when the knob turned and the door opened.

  Flo Combes was at her desk typing in things that Brixton had written in longhand, her back to McGinnis. He took the few steps to close the gap between them and clamped his hand over her mouth, the Glock pointed at her neck. “Quiet,” he whispered into her ear. “Make any move and I’ll kill you.”

  He looked at the open doorway into Brixton’s office.

  “He’s in there?” he whispered again.

  His large hand over her mouth kept her from speaking, but she managed to shake her head.

  “He’s not there?” McGinnis repeated, his tone mirroring his surprise.

  Flo shook her head again.

  “Where is he?”

  She tried to answer but her words came out garbled, a series of grunts.

  He eased
his grip on her and said, “One word from you, one scream, and you are a very dead young lady.”

  “I won’t—I—who are you?”

  As she looked at him she answered her own question. His ponytail said it all.

  “Why do you—?”

  He put his finger to his lips. “Where is he? When is he coming back?”

  “He went out to get dinner. He’s—”

  “Dinner? What dinner? Where?”

  She started to say that he was bringing back Chinese food but stopped herself. It sounded as though he thought that he’d gone to a restaurant and wouldn’t be back for a while. Let him think that.

  McGinnis looked at the door leading to Mac Smith’s office, the Glock still leveled at Flo’s head. While Smith and Brixton’s offices had separate entrances off the hallway, the large suite that had been carved up to accommodate both men contained an inner door that provided easy back-and-forth access.

  Smith had stayed late to redraft a document for a client. He’d told Doris that she needn’t stay, that she could prepare the final version the next day. As he often did when alone in the office, he’d put on a CD, this evening a compilation album of familiar Broadway melodies performed by the National Symphony Orchestra. The faint strains of “Some Enchanted Evening” could be heard.

  “Who’s in there?” McGinnis asked Flo.

  “A lawyer, Mac—”

  Brixton would be walking in at any moment, she knew, and wished that she were able to call him, to warn him to stay away. She was consumed with that thought when the door to Smith’s office opened and he stepped through it, the louder music following. McGinnis turned the Glock on Mac, who froze.

  “What the hell is going on?” Smith blurted, although he knew the answer before the words came out. He was face-to-face with the man with the ponytail.

  “Over there!” McGinnis commanded, indicating with his head that he wanted Smith to move to a corner of the reception area. “Move! Move!”

  * * *

  Brixton left the Chinese restaurant carrying a large plastic bag with the dinners in it. He realized that he’d taken more time than he’d intended and quickly crossed the street and headed for the rear door to the parking garage. He entered and crossed the large space, his footsteps reverberating on the concrete floor. He stood in front of the elevator and saw on the display above the door that the car was stopped at the second floor. He pushed the button and the car slowly descended, bypassing the lobby level and coming to the garage. He stepped in and rode up. As the doors opened and he stepped from the car, a tickle in his throat that had been bothering him all day caused him to cough.