Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [102]
“Maybe I ought to just pack up and forget about getting people to talk,” he said as he picked at a bowl of fresh fruit and the remains of a Danish pastry.
“That’s one possibility,” Sayers said, “but it doesn’t sound like you.”
“What does sound like me?” Brixton said, more to the fruit bowl than to his breakfast companion. “Tilting at windmills? Chasing my tail in circles? I couldn’t sleep last night because I kept thinking that even if I could nail down that Mitzi Cardell and her father had something to do with the murder, and paying off Louise Watkins to go to prison, what’s the end result? Nobody’s going to indict them back in Savannah. The statute of limitations ran itself out long ago. What’s to be gained? It makes for a juicy story, puts a dent in Mitzi Cardell’s reputation, but so what? I’m not out to hurt her or her father.”
“I thought you wanted to find out what really happened for your client, the kid’s mother.”
“Yeah, that would be nice, give her a sense of closure. That’s what’s been keeping me going, to do right by her. But is it worth it?”
“Only you know that, Robert. Why don’t you pick up the phone and call Mitzi directly?”
“Oh, I thought of doing that when Mac Smith offered to give it a try. Fat chance she’d talk to me after she blew off you and Smith.”
“Well,” Sayers said, wiping his mouth on the red-and-white railroad handkerchief he always carried, “I’d at least give it a try before you throw in the towel.” He motioned to the waiter for a coffee refill as Brixton’s cell phone rang.
“Bob, it’s Cynthia. You actually have your phone on.”
“I never turned it off from last night. What’s up?”
“Detective Cleland called twice. He says it’s important that he speak with you.”
“You give him my cell number?”
“I didn’t want to do that until I talked with you.”
“It’s okay. Give it to him. You getting ready to leave town?”
“We put it off a week.”
“What else is happening?”
“Not much. How are things going with you?”
“They’re not. Going anywhere, I mean. I’ll stay in touch.”
Brixton and Sayers were about to leave the restaurant when Brixton’s phone sounded again.
“Robert, it’s Joe Cleland.”
“Hey, Joe. Cynthia said you’d called. What’s up?”
“Something I thought you ought to know. Sitting down?”
“Yeah, I’m sitting down.”
“Seems like the obit section of the Morning News gets read by lots of people, including the prison population over at Coastal State, in Garden City. Catch this, my friend. There an inmate there, name’s—” He read from a piece of paper. “Name’s Ginell Johnson, doing thirty to life for a homicide. Looks like he’s coming to the end of his sentence, the life portion. The Big C, terminal. Anyway, I hear from an old buddy who works there that this Johnson found God a few years back, turned into a born-again something or other. Looks like he wants to copper his bet when he gets to the Pearly Gates by confessing to other murders he committed but was never accused of.”
Sayers started to say something but Brixton waved him off as he listened to what Cleland had to say next. “Johnson claims that he was hired to kill a young gal whose name happens to be Louise Watkins.”
Brixton sat back and exhaled a stream of air. Sayers’s raised eyebrows asked what was going on. Brixton raised an index finger. “What else?” he asked Cleland.
“Johnson says he was given the contract for the hit on Ms. Watkins by none other than Mr. Jack Felker.”
“Whew!”
“I thought that would grab your attention.”
“It sure as hell does, Joe. Felker worked for Ward Cardell.”
“I’m well aware of that, Robert, only I wouldn’t necessarily go overboard in linking Cardell to this.”
“Is this guy Johnson credible?”
“According to my buddy. He’s got nothing to gain by claiming it, no plea deal in the works unless it’s to put in a good word upstairs—way upstairs.”