Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [12]
“Tomorrow?”
“Sounds fine with me long as it’s in the daytime. I’m out doing God’s work most nights.”
They agreed on a time, noon the following day, and he received directions.
“I’ll be in Atlanta tomorrow,” Brixton told Cynthia when she came into his office with checks to sign. He told her why.
“You’re really into this case, aren’t you?” she said.
“Just doing what I promised, looking for information about what happened to Mrs. Watkins’ daughter.”
“You buy her theory that her daughter was paid to go to prison?”
“Maybe. If it’s true, her murder might be linked to it.” He raised his hand against her reservations. “I know, I know, it’s all supposition at this point. But I owe it to my client to at least try and prove that she’s right. Will I? Prove it?” A shrug. “I’ll give it a week. If I haven’t made any headway, I’ll tell her I bombed and suggest she save the rest of the money her daughter gave her.”
The attorney’s office was too close to drive to but far enough that by the time Brixton walked there in the late-afternoon sun and humidity, his shirt stuck to his body and perspiration ran down his face. He’d put on a tie to look professional even though he knew it wasn’t necessary. Old habits die hard. Besides, he wasn’t pleased with society’s casual approach to dress these days. He’d been on airplanes where his seat companion, if male, was dressed as though he were going to a mud-wrestling contest. Females too often viewed a commercial flight as a teenage sleepover with plenty of skin showing. He had nothing against female skin, liked it as much as the next guy. But it was a matter of time and place, like going to see a potential client wearing a tie.
He knew the lawyer by reputation, a matrimonial specialist with a not particularly savory image. Probably needs a tail on a philandering husband or wife to see whether the guy really did go bowling with his buddies every Tuesday night, or whether she actually attended weekly Tupperware parties at a girlfriend’s house. He had done his share of those assignments since opening his agency and never felt clean when one was concluded and he’d turned over his notes, photographs, videos, or audio files. But that kind of work was bread-and-butter for most PIs, and he’d invested in some pretty esoteric electronic equipment to stay competitive with larger agencies. That he charged less than those bigger agencies gave him a certain advantage.
His expectation was correct: the attorney had a client, a husband, who was convinced that the missus was cheating on him and wanted proof before he filed for divorce. Brixton didn’t care who slept with whom, no matter who they were, everyday Joes or hot-shot celebrities. The tabloid mentality that TV, newspapers, and magazines had adopted left him cold. But he didn’t write the rules when it came to divorces. A buck was a buck, and he’d been successful in rationalizing those assignments, and compartmentalizing them from real life, his own real life.
He accepted the assignment, got an up-front on the fee, and left the office. He didn’t like the guy the moment they shook hands, sized him up as smarmy, one of those attorneys who’ll deliberately prolong a divorce case to keep the fee meter running. The guy had giggled rather than laughed, and spent part of the meeting telling Brixton about some of his juicy cases, which Brixton didn’t want to hear. It turned out that the husband who wanted his wife followed owned a fairly popular restaurant down on River Street. Brixton knew the place from his days on the PD, and had eaten there a few times since retiring. He wouldn’t go again.
He debated grabbing a taxi back to the office but decided instead to stop in a bar and grill a block from the lawyer’s office building. It was a dark, quiet place, at the perfect time, too early for the happy-hour revelers and long after the lunch crowd had departed. The bar’s AC was operating full-blast, which turned Brixton’s damp shirt cold and clammy. He pulled off his tie and settled