Monument to Murder (18 page)

CHAPTER   25

Before leaving the office that afternoon Brixton called the restaurant owner who was looking to have a couple of his employees scrutinized and made an appointment to meet with him the following day. He was tempted to pass on the assignment, wanting to devote his full time to the Watkins case. But he knew that would be folly. He now had three thousand of the ten thousand dollars that Louise had given her mother and pledged to himself that he wouldn’t take more unless absolutely necessary. Louise Watkins had sold her soul for the ten grand, and possibly lost her life because of it. If he didn’t come up with the sort of information the mother sought, he’d bow out before taking more of what he considered blood money.

He had dinner at Lazzara’s before heading for his meeting with Jack Felker, and told the owner of having retrieved his camera and recorder.

“That’s great,” Lazzara said.

“Yeah, except that somebody took the disk from the camera that had photos on it from my last assignment.”

“Of the cheating wife?”

“Right. Put this on my tab, Ralph.”

He was about to tell his friend that the man in the photos at the motel was running for mayor but decided that it was better kept to himself. He was sorry that he’d told Cynthia. What he didn’t need at that moment was to become involved in some sordid political dustup. The fewer people who knew, the better.

As he drove to Felker’s house he formulated the questions he’d ask, hoping they would result in useful answers. The problem was that he didn’t know at that juncture what he was looking for. Coming up with evidence that definitively cleared Louise Watkins of the stabbing, and nailing down that she’d been paid to take legal responsibility, would be a home run. But he was pursuing Felker on the remote chance that his boss’s daughter, Mitzi Cardell, had in some way been involved, and that Felker would both know about it and elect to admit it.

And what if he
did
admit that Mitzi Cardell was somehow involved, laid it out all nice and neat as a deathbed mea culpa? What would he, Brixton, do with that information? Mitzi Cardell was a powerful figure in Washington, D.C., a close friend and confidante to the nation’s first lady.
Get real,
he told himself as he approached the address given him. Maybe it was time to admit failure and get back to what paid the bills, following wayward spouses and restaurant employees who cheated the house. He debated turning around and going home but something kept him from doing that, stubbornness or pigheadedness. Take your choice.

The question of Louise’s murder upon coming out of prison had been shunted to the back burner. Her family was less interested in solving it, which was good. Chances were slim to none that the twenty-year-old slaying would ever be resolved.

Felker’s house was in midtown Savannah, the Ardsley Park community of expensive mansions and craftsman-style bungalows. Felker’s residence was a house that fell in size between the mansions and the bungalows. Brixton parked at the curb and took in his surroundings. It was a well-lighted quiet street lined by Savannah’s famous live oak trees, from which heavy strands of Spanish moss hung low. Tourists were fond of taking home the moss, which gained its nutrients from the air, as a souvenir, often using it to stuff pillows. Bad decision. The moss contained mitelike creatures called red bugs, which cause intense rashes and itching.

He got out and slowly approached the front door, which was illuminated by a copper lantern above it. He took note of a red Corvette parked in the short driveway and a copy of that morning’s
Savannah Morning News
on the front step. As he was poised to ring the bell, he was again struck with the sinking feeling that the trip would be for naught. Felker had finally agreed to the meeting because Brixton had pressed the issue, and although Felker’s comment—“I have nothing to say about
that
”—said to Brixton that Felker did, indeed, know something about what had occurred twenty years ago, to think that he’d spill his knowledge of it to a stranger, a private investigator to boot, was more than unlikely.

He rang the bell and waited. When there was no response, he rang the bell again and pressed his ear to the door to make sure the bell was working. A faint chime came from somewhere inside. This time he both rang and knocked. Still nothing.

He came down off the step and moved to the side where he could see through a picture window whose purple drapes were open. The living room was well lighted by floor lamps and a small chandelier over a dining table. There was no sign of life. But as his eyes shifted from the larger room to a hallway leading from it to the rear of the house he saw the mound on the floor, a lump the size of a person, shrouded in the hallway’s shadows.

He went back to the door and tried it. That it opened and easily swung away was a surprise that startled him. He stepped over the threshold and went to the hallway where he confirmed that the mound he’d seen was a body, presumably that of Jack Felker.

Brixton knelt on one knee and touched his fingertips to the neck in search of a pulse. There was none. He peered closely at the man’s face, one side of which was exposed. There was no sign of blood or bruising. He wondered why Felker—and he had no doubt that’s who it was—was dressed in a bathrobe over red silk pajamas and was barefoot. Either he’d intended to greet Brixton in his nightclothes or he had died earlier in the day before changing into street clothes.

Brixton had seen plenty of dead bodies during his stints with the Washington, D.C., and Savannah police departments, and had witnessed many examinations by medical examiners. He used what knowledge he’d gained from those experiences to further examine the body. The corneas had begun to turn slightly milky, which told Brixton that he’d been dead for more than a few hours. He reached through the folds of the robe and pajama top and laid his palm against Felker’s chest. The body had begun to lose warmth, although it hadn’t become cold and clammy yet, leading Brixton to estimate that he’d died as many as six hours earlier. He placed his thumb on one of the deceased’s eyelids and pulled it back, revealing petechial hemorrhages, minute blood clots lining the surface of the eyelid, presumptive evidence that he’d been suffocated.

He stood and returned to the living room. Why were all the lights on? If Felker had died during daylight hours, the lights in all probability would have been off.

He went to the window and drew the drapes closed. He knew that he should immediately call the police and not disturb the scene, but he wanted a few minutes alone in the house.

Felker’s study was in a long, narrow room at the back of the house. Its lights, too, were on. Brixton had noticed that the living room was extremely neat and tidy and had made the same observation while glancing into the kitchen. Yet, the study was a mess, with file and desk drawers open and papers tossed onto the floor and desk. Someone else obviously had the same intentions as Brixton did, to see what he could find among Felker’s possessions. And that meant that Felker’s death had probably not resulted from natural causes. It also meant that whatever Brixton might hope to find had already been taken.

Still …

He went to the desk and flipped through the papers on it. Nothing of interest caught his eye and he turned to one of the open four-drawer file cabinets, pulling out folders at random. A battered, dog-eared, empty folder caught his attention. Written on the tab was “Watkins.” Judging from the file’s condition, it was old, possibly as old as twenty years. He folded it so that it would fit into the pocket of his sport jacket and was about to look at other items when the sound of a patrol car’s siren was heard from front of the house. Then, a second one sounded.

Brixton left the study and had just reached the living room when the front door was flung open and four uniformed Savannah officers burst into the room, followed by two plainclothes detectives, including Wayne St. Pierre. One of the officers drew his weapon.

“Hey, put that damn thing down,” Brixton said.

“
You’re
here?” St. Pierre said.

“Looks like it,” Brixton said.

St. Pierre’s colleague went to the body in the hallway. “He’s dead,” he called out.

“Did you call it in?” St. Pierre asked Brixton.

“No. When was it called in?”

“Fifteen minutes ago,” St. Pierre replied. “Anonymous call, suspicious death at this address.”

“It’s Felker, right?” Brixton said.

St. Pierre looked at Brixton quizzically. “How did you get in?” he asked.

Brixton recounted having rung a few times, looking through the window, and trying the door, which was unlocked.

St. Pierre looked at the drapes pulled tight over the window. “How did you see in with the drapes closed?”

Brixton sighed and sat on the couch. “I closed them,” he said.

“Why?”

Brixton shrugged.

“What else did you touch, Bobby?”

“Nothing.” Brixton got up and headed for the door.

“Whoa,” St. Pierre said.

“I want a cigarette,” Brixton said, opening the door and stepping out onto the small landing. St. Pierre followed. Brixton lit up.

“You have to admit, Bobby, that these are strange circumstances.”

“How so?” Brixton asked, taking a long, satisfying drag. “Aside from the body in there, there’s nothing strange about it. You gave me Felker’s contact info. I called him and made a date to meet here at his house. I arrived and found him dead on the floor.” Brixton waved off St. Pierre’s next comment. “No, wait, there
is
something strange,” he said. “You say somebody called in a suspicious death at this address fifteen minutes ago. It wasn’t me. So, who was it, somebody who’d followed me here, or somebody who knew I’d be at the house at a certain time?”

“Were you followed?” St. Pierre asked.

“Not that I noticed, although I really wasn’t paying attention. Getting sloppy in my old age.”

“Who knew when you’d be here?”

Brixton ground out the butt with his shoe. “Nobody, Wayne. You were the only one I told that I wanted to speak with him, and that’s it.”

A van from the medical examiner’s office pulled up, followed immediately by a Metro forensics vehicle. St. Pierre directed them inside. When he and Brixton were alone again, St. Pierre asked, “Who told you about Jack Felker, Bobby?”

“Knock off the ‘Bobby’ stuff, Wayne. If you’re trying to get under my skin, you’re succeeding. As for who told me about Felker, it doesn’t matter.”

“Your call, Robert. But you’re going to have to come down to Metro and give a statement.”

“Why? It happened just like I told you.”

“Why did you want to meet with Felker?” St. Pierre asked. “You said it had to do with the Watkins case you’re working on. What possible connection could Felker have with that?”

“He worked for Ward Cardell.”

“And?”

“I wanted to see if there was any connection between Cardell’s daughter, Mitzi, and what happened to Louise Watkins.”

“Really, Robert, what possible connection could there be?”

“Maybe there isn’t, but I want to follow up on every possible lead. I owe it to Louise’s mother.”

“I still don’t understand how—”

Brixton was about to tell St. Pierre about the photograph of Mitzi with Louise at the retreat at the Christian Vision Academy, and the folded file folder in his pocket, but decided against it. “Forget about it, Wayne. You want a statement from me? Fine. I’m available anytime.”

“We’ll leave from here,” St. Pierre said.

“By the way,” Brixton said as St. Pierre was about to return inside, “take a look at Felker’s study. It’s a mess. Whoever killed him was looking for something.”

“‘Killed him?’ What leads you to that conclusion?”

“The mess in his study. Pretty obvious to me.”

“The ME will determine cause of death, Robert.”

CHAPTER   26

“You know, Robert, you could be charged with criminal trespass and breaking and entering,” St. Pierre said after Brixton had provided a written statement. They sat in St. Pierre’s office at Metro.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Brixton said. “Do I look like the breaking-and-entering type?”

St. Pierre laughed. “I think the ridiculous one is you, Robert. Frankly, I’m concerned about you.”

“Why?”

“Ah get the feeling that you’ve gone off the deep end with this Watkins matter.”

“If you mean I’m working it as hard as I can, you’re right.”

“Working it
too
hard is the way I see it. It’s a solid brick wall you’re going up against.”

“Really?”

“All this about the Watkins girl havin’ been paid off to take the rap for a stabbing just doesn’t make sense, at least not to this humble southern boy.”

“Southern maybe, but I’d hardly call you humble.”

“Be that as it may. What you said earlier this evening about the Cardell family has me worried. You do realize that they are very powerful people here in Savannah
and
in Washington, D.C.”

“So?”

“How cavalier we can be,” said St. Pierre. “You obviously believe that what happened twenty years ago to a doomed black hooker and drug addict is more important than how good, decent people are treated.” Brixton started to respond but St. Pierre cut him off. “You’re flailing about, Robert, chasing ghosts from twenty years ago, and not the sort of ghosts we all love and admire here in Ghost Town USA—and I might add who provide a nice bit of change to our economy.”

“Know what, Wayne?” Brixton said as he stood to ease the pain in his back, “that doomed black hooker and addict named Louise Watkins was a human being, just like Mr. Ward Cardell and his family. The kid spent four years in the pen for something she didn’t do, and got herself gunned down on the street when she was released. She came out of prison with her GED and a shot at putting together a decent, productive life. She’s got a mother who loves her and a brother who does, too. They want her name cleared and that’s what I’m trying to do.”

“A noble undertaking to be sure, Robert, but a fool’s errand. Want mah advice? Of course you don’t, but I intend to give it anyway. You’re not getting any younger, my friend. Time’s afleeting. Go back home to Brooklyn or wherever it is that you’re from up there in New York. Take that lovely lady of yours with you. She’s from up north, too, isn’t she? Get yourself a cushy job in security with a bank or with the TSA at one a’ your airports up there. You’re out of your element here, my friend. Don’t get me wrong. Ah love you like a brother. Hell, we were brothers on the force for a lot a’ years. I’d miss you sure as the sun will rise tomorrow but what’s more important to me is that you do what’s right for you.”

“I’m touched, Wayne.”

“And ahm flattered that you are. Not easy touching the cement head you’ve become. Let’s both head on home now. Care to drop by for some libation?”

“No, thanks. Before I go, Wayne, you told me when I first contacted you that you’d taken a look at the Louise Watkins records from twenty years ago.”

“That’s right.”

“Nothing in them of interest, you said.”

“Right again.”

“I’d like to browse through them. You said there wasn’t much there.”

“To be honest, Robert, I didn’t do more than browse them myself. But sure, happy to oblige. When?”

“How about now?”

St. Pierre shook his head. “You are one stubborn man, Robert Brixton. You know where the records room is. I’ll call and tell them you’re on your way.”

“Thanks, Wayne. I appreciate it.”

St. Pierre made his call and escorted Brixton to the main lobby, where they shook hands.

“One last thing, Wayne,” Brixton said.

“You’ve changed your mind and will accompany me home for a drink?”

“No. This guy Felker was murdered. I checked his eyes. Tiny red spots, just like the forensics books describe them. Presumptive evidence of suffocation.”

“And the forensics books also point out that they can be caused by a number of other factors, none involving murder. Felker had terminal cancer, Robert. He died of his cancer. But the ME will confirm that. I’ll pass along his findings soon as I receive them. Adios, my friend. And at least consider what I said this evenin’.”

The officer in charge of the records room that shift had been there for years. He greeted Brixton warmly but said, “This ain’t exactly kosher, Detective.”

“Nice hearing me called Detective again,” Brixton said, slapping the officer on the shoulder. “I won’t be long.” He gave him the information necessary for the Watkins file to be located. Five minutes later he was handed a slim folder. “That’s all there is,” the officer said.

“Looks like I’ll be quicker than I thought,” said Brixton.

He sat in a far corner of the room at a small, scarred desk illuminated by a single gooseneck lamp. He adjusted the lamp and opened the folder. Had Louise Watkins pleaded not guilty and gone to trial, the folder would have been considerably thicker. He read the typed reports filed by various officers assigned to the stabbing and its follow-up and saw nothing of potential interest. Fifteen minutes later, he’d gone through every piece of paper in the folder and was about to call it quits. But he absently turned over one of the reports. On its reverse side were notes handwritten in pencil that were faded to the point of being almost illegible. One of the notes contained the names of a few people who’d been interviewed following the stabbing but who didn’t appear in the final typed report. One name screamed off the page at him:
Jeanine Montgomery
. Next to her name was written the date and time of an interview of her. Next to that was “Subject cleared.”