Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [30]
“I understand that, but you see, I got beat up and—”
“I don’t need excuses, dammit, I need evidence, hard evidence. What you say doesn’t mean squat. What’d I hire, an amateur?”
“No, you hired a good PI who got his face busted up trying to keep a couple of bozos from stealing my expensive camera and your client’s pictures. I should have the check from my insurance agent within a week and I’ll follow her again once I buy a new camera.”
“I should have gone to a real agency,” the attorney growled, “somebody who knows what he’s doing.”
“You know what?” Brixton said. “I think that’s exactly what you should do, get somebody else.”
“What about the advance I paid you?”
“Sue me for it, pal. I consider it a down payment on my pain and suffering.”
He clicked off the phone.
It took Brixton a few minutes to calm down. His thoughts ran rampant. He considered going to the attorney’s office and punching him out, but he’d end up in jail if he did that. He thought of contacting the husband’s wife and telling her to cool it with her lover. That wouldn’t accomplish anything, he decided, and contented himself with having blown off the attorney and keeping the advance payment.
Eunice Watkins was home when Brixton dropped off the photograph. He didn’t stay.
Cynthia was packing up to leave by the time he walked into the office.
“Half a day?” he said.
“Very funny. I have errands to do,” she said. “It’s quiet around here. I mean, unless you want me to stay.”
“No, go on. I have to leave, too. Flo and I are going to St. Pierre’s place for a party tonight.”
“The way you look?”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. First thing in the morning go online and find out everything you can about a Mitzi Car-dell. She’s supposed to be some big-shot D.C. hostess who was friendly with the president’s wife.”
“Why?”
“Cynthia, I’m not in the mood for twenty questions. Just do it, okay?”
“Testy, aren’t we? I’ll take care of it. Enjoy the party. And lock up tight when you leave. I’d hate to have to go through this again.”
CHAPTER 10
Flo Combes owned the building in which she lived, a two-story row house constructed in the mid-1800s of large porous bricks known as “Savannah grays”; its second-floor balcony covered with scrolled ironwork typical of vintage Savannah houses. She occupied the top floor and rented the lower one to the owner of an art gallery that featured local artists, many of them products of the Savannah College of Art and Design, Wayne St. Pierre’s alma mater.
“You look terrific,” Brixton said when Flo opened the door dressed in a knee-length white silk sheath.
She winced at the sight of his face. “Oooh,” she said. “You really did a number on yourself.”
“I had nothing to do with it,” he said.
She gently touched the side of his face. “Hurt?” she asked.
“Only when I laugh. You look—different.”
“Like it?” she asked. “I had my hair done this afternoon and I told her to do something different with it. She came up with this shorter cut.”
“Looks great,” he said, and he meant it, although he preferred the longer version. Discretion prevailed and he didn’t say it. She’d been blessed with a mane of luxuriously full and healthy hair, so richly black that it gave off almost a purple sheen. It was the first thing he’d noticed about her the night they met.
“So,” she said, “why are we invited to this shindig? You and Wayne haven’t been close since you left Metro.”
“It’s this case I’m working on. He’s been helpful inside the department. Besides, I get a kick out of him, always have. He’s funny.”
“That’s not necessarily flattering.”
“No, I mean I like him. It’s just that I’ve never known another cop like him. It must be his money.”
“You used to wonder whether he was gay.”
“I don’t think he is. Not that it matters. He’s had plenty of girlfriends.”
“That doesn’t always mean anything,” she offered.
“Ready to go?”
“Do