Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [63]
“Meaning?”
“You’ll have an abortion—and we’ll be a hell of a lot more careful from now on. Roll over.”
It had worked exactly the way he’d choreographed it. Claire and their son stood proudly at his side as he announced to the public that he and his wife were parting, “But not as enemies, as is too often the case with divorcing couples these days,” he intoned. “We’ve loved and honored each other for many years but now it’s time for us to go our separate ways. Claire, as you know, has been extremely active in a variety of causes, each contributing to a better America. She will continue to serve the public good in these capacities—with my unbridled support, I might add. And I will continue to lead the great state of Georgia in new directions that will ensure a better life for all its citizens. I pledge to you that I will do everything in my power to bring back to Georgia the level of civility and morality that its people deserve.”
Claire Jamison beamed. Their son pumped a fist into the air.
“Only Fletcher Jamison would dare to speak of getting a divorce and morality in the same speech,” a veteran political reporter commented to a colleague.
“And nobody cares,” was his colleague’s reply. “I need a drink.”
• • •
Jeanine and Fletcher Jamison bid good night to their distinguished visitors from Israel and retired to their private quarters.
“She’s charming,” he commented as he undressed.
“She’s all show,” was Jeanine’s response.
“Oh?”
“A quarter inch deep. You were taken with her flashy beauty.”
“She is a beautiful woman.”
“According to some definitions,” Jeanine said as she changed from her evening dress to a designer lavender jumpsuit and slippers.
“Where are you going?” her husband asked.
“Down to my office. I have some personal e-mails to catch up on.”
“Do it in the morning,” he said during a yawn.
“I want to do it now.”
She kissed him on the cheek and padded downstairs, where her chief of staff, Lance Millius, sat hunched over a computer. He looked up at her entrance.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “It’s late.”
“I suppose I could ask the same of you,” he said lightly, not wanting to appear confrontational.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“How’d the dinner go?”
“All right. Crushingly boring, but all right. Did you find out anything about the man I mentioned to you, Robert Brixton?”
He rolled his chair back and turned to face her. “Yes, I did.”
“I’m listening,” she said as she perched on the edge of a replica eighteenth-century desk. She’d replaced all the desks in her suite of offices with replicas of antiques shortly after moving in.
“I had a search run on Mr. Robert Brixton—work history, e-mails, phone records, credit cards, banking info, tax records—the works.” He consulted a sheet of paper. “Let’s see,” he said. “Robert Brixton. Age fifty. Born in Brooklyn, attended City College of New York, graduated with a degree in business administration. Tried to join the NYPD but wasn’t hired. Came to Washington, D.C., and became a cop here. Lasted four years. Married a Marylee Greene from Maryland, had two kids. Divorced. Quit the force here and went to Savannah, where he joined that city’s police department. Retired in 2006, went into the private detective business. Runs his own one-man agency. Owes some back taxes but nothing major. Occasional traffic ticket. Had a reputation with the Savannah PD as a bit of a loose cannon. Tends to be a loner, has been identified as seeing a woman named Florence Combes, Jewish, also from New York. Here’s a couple of photos of him.”
“I’m impressed,” Jeanine said.
“With what?”
“How much you’ve come up with in such a short amount of time.”
“Just took a phone call.” He handed her the paper.
“Did whoever you called want to know why you were looking for information on him?”
Millius shook his head. “Never came up.” Now he cocked his head. “Why your interest in this guy anyway?”
“No special reason.”
She glanced at the wall clock. Eleven fifteen. Not too late to call