Monument to Murder (29 page)

CHAPTER   45

The torching of Rose Silva’s house and her gruesome death in the inferno, and her son’s murder by James Brockman, set off a series of events in both Washington, D.C., and Savannah.

Brixton was kept overnight at the hospital, where he was given a transfusion to replace the blood he’d lost, and Mac and Annabel spent time with him there. A windswept rain had started again and pelted the window of his room.

“I’d seen the guy twice before,” Brixton told them after he’d called Flo, and after the police had taken a formal statement and left. “He sat down on a bench with me in Dupont Circle, and ended up at the Kennedy Center when I went there. I never thought anything of it.”

“He’d obviously targeted you,” Annabel said.

“Looks that way,” Brixton agreed. “The question is, why?”

“Has to be the case you’ve been working,” Mac said flatly.

“But who would have sicced him on me?” Brixton mused. “The only person in D.C. with a stake in this is Ms. Cardell, and I somehow can’t picture her hiring a hit man.” After a silence, he added, “And the first lady.”

“You mentioned that a convict back in Savannah claimed that someone who worked for Mitzi’s father had ordered the hit on your client’s daughter,” Annabel said.

“Ward Cardell is a tough, hard-nosed businessman, and there are plenty of stories about people he’s screwed,” Brixton said. “I’m sure she kept her father in the loop about me and what I was after.” He shrugged, causing his bandaged biceps to ache.

“It hurts,” Annabel said.

“Not as much as letting the creep get away with stabbing me. I’m getting old. I’m not as cautious as I used to be. The reflexes aren’t what they were.”

“You had no reason to anticipate that someone was out to kill you, Robert,” Mac said. “I’m just glad you forgot your raincoat.”

Brixton laughed, which also caused him pain. “Flo’s coming tomorrow to drive me home. She’s my lady friend.”

“Like to meet her,” Mac said. “I have a suggestion. We’ll pick you up tomorrow when they discharge you and take you to our apartment. Your lady, Flo, can meet up with you there and the two of you can swing by the hotel later to collect your things.”

“I don’t want to intrude,” Brixton said.

“Robert,” Mac said, laying a hand on Brixton’s shoulder, “you’ve already intruded, and it’s been one of the more interesting intrusions I can ever remember. No arguments. We’ll call you tomorrow.”

•  •  •

The Smiths picked Brixton up the following morning and brought him to their Watergate apartment. Brixton had given Flo directions and she planned to meet him there at two. There was much to talk about before her arrival.

The
Washington Post
carried a lengthy story about the fire in Virginia and the man who’d been killed, Emile Silva. According to the reporters covering it, the authorities suspected that the man who had shot Silva, James Brockman, had also set the fire, for reasons unknown. A woman identified as Rose Silva, the dead man’s mother, had died in the blaze. The investigation was ongoing.

But it wasn’t the article’s words that commanded the attention of Brixton and the Smiths. It was the photo of Emile Silva.

“That’s the guy,” Brixton said.

“Looks like him, although we didn’t get much of a look,” Annabel said.

“But I did,” Brixton said. “That’s him! No question about it.”

“What’s the link between this gunman, Brockman, and Silva’s attack on you?” Smith mused aloud.

No one had an answer.

Smith had invited Willis Sayers to join them and he arrived in time for lunch.

“You sure you’re really hurt, Robert,” Sayers said pleasantly, “or are you just looking for attention?”

“Want to see my wound?” Brixton replied as he threatened to remove his shirt and the bandage.

“No, please no,” Sayers said, “I don’t need you to pull an LBJ on me. So, fill me in, buddy. Tell me what happened.”

Brixton ran through the events of the preceding evening, including his conversation with Mitzi Cardell.

“She admitted it?” Sayers said.

“She admitted that her teenage girlfriend, Jeanine Montgomery, did the stabbing, and that her father, Ward Cardell, arranged to pay off Louise Watkins to go to prison for it.”

“Whew!” Sayers said. “The first lady of the land a murderer.”

“Whoa,” said Smith. “I think we should back up a little. Robert is right. Mitzi’s comments and answers to his questions leave little doubt that what he’s been saying is true. But as an attorney I should warn you that none of it would stand up in court.”

“Even with someone like you corroborating Robert’s claim?” Sayers asked.

“I’m not corroborating anything,” said Smith. “I wasn’t there as Mitzi’s attorney, but I am a lawyer who’s advised her on legal matters. I may not practice law anymore but I’m still a member of the bar. It would be inappropriate for me to testify to what was said last night.”

“So that leaves only Robert’s word.”

“Exactly,” Smith confirmed. “Also bear in mind that before she left she said that she’d deny all of it if asked by anyone who wasn’t in the room.”

Sayers turned to Brixton. “But there’s the word of your client, Louise Watkins’ mother.”

Brixton nodded. “Look, Will,” he said, “I told Ms. Cardell that I wasn’t out to turn this into a media event. I meant that. But you’re free to do whatever you wish, and I’ll help in any way I can.”

“I’m going to give Ms. Cardell a call again,” Sayers said.

“Good luck,” Brixton said. “If you want to talk with my client back in Savannah, give a yell.”

“Shall do,” replied Sayers. “I’d hate to see this story die.”

Brixton handed Sayers that morning’s
Post
. “See that picture?” he said. “That’s the guy who attacked me last night.”

“The story keeps getting better,” Sayers said.

“A story I could do without,” Brixton said as he rubbed his aching arm.

Flo arrived early and joined them at the table. She, too, wanted a play-by-play, but Brixton declined. “We’ve been through it already,” he said. “I’ll rerun it for you on the drive home.”

“I know one thing,” Smith said as Brixton and Flo prepared to leave.

“What’s that?” Brixton asked.

“I doubt if we’re still on Mitzi Cardell’s A-list.”

Brixton and Flo gathered his belongings from the hotel and were on their way back to Savannah by four that afternoon.

•  •  •

A few days later, Brockman was arraigned on the charge of first-degree murder, as well as with the torching of the house. He denied the latter, of course, and his court-appointed attorney expressed confidence that evidence was lacking to link him to the arson. Brockman told the arresting authorities that he’d killed Silva on orders from a paramilitary group headed by a man named Dexter—a patriotic group, he claimed—which was met with skepticism and scorn. He directed them to the office building used as a front where he’d received part of his indoctrination, but before anyone visited there in search of the mysterious man called Dexter, word came down from the highest echelons of government that any investigation of the firm Z-Stat was off-limits for national security reasons. Brockman’s attorney was informed that there was no person at Z-Stat named Dexter and that his client was delusional: “Maybe you can get him off with an insanity plea,” the prosecutor joked with the defense attorney, an old buddy, and they shared a good laugh over it.

As it turned out, there was no need to enter a plea for Brockman. He was found hanging in his cell by a sheet. A few questions were asked about why corrections officers hadn’t taken steps to prevent his suicide, but these queries soon evaporated.

•  •  •

Brixton got up the morning after returning to Savannah and went to the window. It promised to be a scorcher in Georgia’s first city and his adopted home. Everything ached, thanks in part to the long car ride from D.C. He turned and looked at Flo, who slept peacefully, a tiny smile on her pretty face. Brixton smiled, too. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her, and made a silent pledge to treat her to a special dinner for sticking by him.

Showering was a slow, painful process; he had to be careful not to get his bandage wet and accomplished that by wrapping Saran Wrap around it. He dressed in a beige linen shirt, which he didn’t tuck into his blue slacks, and wore a pair of tan desert boots he’d forgotten that he’d left in the back of one of Flo’s closets.

“I’m going to the office,” he said, kissing her brow.

She stirred, looked up, and grinned. “I am so glad you’re home,” she said.

“Me, too.”

She sat up. “You’re feeling up to going to work?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll call later. How about dinner out tonight?”

“Sounds yummy.” They kissed, and she snuggled her head back into the pillow.

Cynthia was at the office when he walked in.

“You look like hell,” she said.

“Thank you, madam. Come on in and I’ll tell you about my adventures.”

She hung on every word as he recounted what had happened in Washington.

“So this Cardell character admitted that the first lady stabbed the guy, and that Cardell’s father paid off Louise Watkins?”

“Maybe not in so many words but it was obvious that that’s how it went down. Anything new here while I was getting sliced up?”

She handed him a sheaf of telephone messages. On top was a call from the Reverend Lucas Watkins.

“He say what he wants?”

“No, just said that it’s important that he speak with you.”

The second message slip concerned Will Sayers. “He called as I walked in this morning,” she said. “He’ll be here in Savannah by one and wants to see you.”

Brixton had intended to call Sayers and suggest that he come to Savannah to speak with Eunice Watkins and her son, Lucas. Whether the word of the mother and son would be sufficient for Sayers to pursue the story was conjecture—and not Brixton’s problem. He’d meant it when he said he was not out to create a media circus. But there was another side of him that cried out for some form of justice to be dispensed. Would it be enough for Louise’s mother simply to know that her daughter hadn’t committed the act to which she had confessed, and not have the need to share it with the wider world? If so, she was a better person than he was. If it had been his daughter, he’d want everyone to know that she hadn’t killed anyone, and that there were people who’d cruelly used their money to thwart the truth.

“When are you and Jim leaving?” he asked.

“Next week. I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too.”

“Thanks. This place will go to the dogs without me.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He spent the rest of the morning returning phone calls and going through the pile of mail, and e-mails on his computer. He promised the restaurant owner that he’d get started on his case within a day or two, and picked up another client, a divorce lawyer who wanted him to document the movements of a husband who the wife claimed was cheating. He hesitated before accepting the assignment, but a pile of recent bills culled from the larger group of envelopes made the decision for him.

He held off returning Lucas Watkins’s call until last. He’d decided to invite Sayers to join him on a visit to Eunice Watkins. Might as well have him hear what he had to report to her, and be there to gauge her reaction in person.

“Reverend Watkins,” Brixton said, “it’s Robert Brixton returning your call.”

“Yes, Mr. Brixton. You’re back from Washington.”

“That’s right. I’d like to get together with you and your mother sometime today.”

“I’m afraid that will be impossible,” he said in his deep, officious voice.

“Tomorrow then? I’ve learned things in Washington that I know you and your mother will want to know.”

“Mr. Brixton,” he said, “I’m afraid that we’ve misled you.”

“‘Misled me?’ What does that mean?”

“You see, Mother misunderstood what Louise had told her. Let me be direct. I believe you deserve directness. We’ve come to learn that it
was
Louise who fended off an attempted rape that night in the parking lot, and accidentally stabbed her attacker. All I can say is that we are deeply sorry to have put you to all this trouble. Naturally, we will pay any further fees you require, as well as expenses that you’ve incurred.”

Brixton was speechless.

“There’s really nothing more to say, Mr. Brixton. If you’ll send me a written breakdown of what we owe you, we’ll take care of it immediately.”

“Wait a minute, Reverend,” Brixton said. “I want to hear this from your mother.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mr. Brixton, She hasn’t been feeling well and has gone out of state to be with another family member. She won’t be back for some time. She’s not to be disturbed.”

“I’ll be damned,” Brixton muttered.

“I look forward to receiving your final bill,” Watkins said, “and thank you for understanding.”