Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [0]
Times are tough in Savannah for former cop and current PI Robert Brixton, so when he agrees to take on a 20 year-old murder case, he figures he’s got nothing to lose. It’s not long before the trail leads him deep into the corrupt underbelly of Savannah’s power elite, and right into the lap of a secret government organization that’s been offing “troublesome” politicians for decades. The cold case heats up when he joins forces with former attorneys Mackensie and Annabel Lee Smith to investigate the organization and the murders they committed in the name of patriotism.
With what he knows, Brixton can bring down Washington D.C.’s leading social hostess, if not the administration itself. But can he outwit an organization that is hell-bent on keeping its secrets--secrets that go all the way back to the assassinations of Jack and Bobby Kennedy?
Margaret Truman brings us into the corridors of Washington power as only she can, where the end too often justifies the means, where good people are destroyed by those for whom the only goal is survival… whatever the cost.
MONUMENT TO MURDER
A Novel by
Margaret Truman
Capital Crimes Series: Book 25
Copyright © 2011
by Margaret Truman
eISBN: 978-1-4299-7747-0
Published by
Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
Dedication
For my sons
PART
ONE
CHAPTER 1
Mrs. Eunice Watkins was seated in the cramped reception area when Bob Brixton walked in on that steamy Savannah August morning. He was late for the appointment. He always seemed to run late during Savannah summers, reluctant to leave the AC of his apartment until the last possible moment.
After telling Mrs. Watkins that he’d be with her in a few minutes, he entered his office, followed by Cynthia, his secretary, assistant, and foil.
“Bad night?’ she asked.
“Why do you always ask that?” he said. “I don’t have bad nights or good nights. They’re just nights. What’s your read on her?”
“Seems like a nice lady,” she replied in a drawl that seemed to thicken once summer arrived, like the humid air. “Very proper, didn’t say much.”
“No hint what she wants?”
Cynthia shook her head. “Where’s your coffee?”
“I was running late and didn’t stop. Send Mrs. Watkins in.”
She escorted his potential client into the office, asked if she wanted coffee or tea—“No, thank you, ma’am”—and went downstairs to get Brixton an iced coffee from the deli that occupied the ground floor of the two-story building.
“Please, have a seat,” Brixton said, indicating one of two green club chairs across the desk. He’d had only a fleeting glimpse of her as he passed through the anteroom. Now, he took a closer look. She was an attractive woman whose age he pegged at sixty, give or take a few years. She had probably been a beauty as a younger woman. Now, “handsome” was more apt. Her ebony face was relatively free of wrinkles, her gray hair carefully coiffed. She sat ramrod erect, hands folded on a purse that rested on her lap. Her carefully pressed dress had a tan-and-white floral pattern and she wore a lightweight white cardigan, hardly necessary considering Mother Nature’s sauna outside. She locked eyes with him as though doing some sizing up of her own. No smile. Waiting for him to say something.
“So, Mrs. Watkins, you’re obviously here because you feel I might be of help in some matter.”
“Yes, sir, that’s right.”
“A personal matter?”
She looked down, then back up. “A very personal matter, sir. You were an officer with the Savannah Police Department as I’m told.” She spoke slowly, deliberately. Brixton figured that she was a born-and-bred Georgian and her accent supported that.
“Uh-huh. A few years ago.”
“I thought that might be helpful.”
“How so?”
She gathered her thoughts before continuing. He had the feeling that she was girding against crying and gave her points for that. Weeping women always unsettled him.
“I was wondering if you might remember a case from a number of years ago. It involved my daughter, Louise Watkins.”
Brixton leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes in a display of trying