Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [64]
“Thanks, Lance, for getting me the info. Leaving soon?”
“No. I’m still working out details of your Savannah trip next week.”
“I could do without that trip,” she said. “Go on home and get some sleep.”
“Later,” he said.
He obviously intended to stay. “I’ll be in my office,” she said.
“Okay.”
She closed the door behind her and sat at her replica nineteenth-century desk, which contained only a telephone and a blank white legal pad with a pen carefully aligned with the pad’s blue lines. She hesitated to make the call with Millius in the next office but decided she could do it quietly.
“Mitzi? It’s Jeanine,” she said in a low voice. “Catch you at a bad time?”
“No. My guests just left. A painfully dull evening. The new head of the TSA is a pompous ass if I’ve ever met one.”
“Sorry. Mitzi, I think we should get together again soon about this—this Savannah project. You know I’m going there next week.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve come up with some information about the—about the man we discussed at lunch.”
“Oh. Something bad?”
“No, no, but we should talk. Can you come here to the White House tomorrow at four?”
“Four? That’s a problem. I have a meeting with the caterers for the Washington Opera party I’m hosting.”
“Postpone it, Mitzi!” Jeanine said sharply.
“I—of course I will. Can you tell me about this information you’ve come up with?”
“Not on the phone. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The first lady went to the outer office, where Millius continued to work on the computer.
“I think I’ll get some sleep,” she said.
“Good idea,” he said without looking up.
He waited a few minutes after she’d left before checking her phone to see what number she’d called. Mitzi Cardell! Of all the people Lance Millius disliked—and the numbers were sizable—Mitzi Cardell was at the top of the list.
He packed up to leave. Before he did so, he consulted a directory of political operatives in Georgia, especially in the Savannah area. Because the president and first lady were from Georgia and the president had once been governor of that state, the network of political friends there was extensive. After jotting down a few names from the directory, he added that note to other materials he was carrying home.
“Robert Brixton,” he muttered as he turned out the lights.
PART
THREE
CHAPTER 22
Cynthia Higgins was crying when Brixton walked into the office carrying a Styrofoam cup of coffee.
“Hey, what’s the matter?” he asked.
“Jim … got … fired … last … night,” she said, each word punctuated by a sob.
“Sorry to hear it,” he said. “What happened?”
She blew her nose with gusto and drew some deep breaths. “He got into a fight with a customer on the ghost tour, some big, fat older guy with a snootful of booze and with a girl young enough to be his daughter.”
“Always nice to see fathers treat their daughters to a night out.”
“Daughter? Hell! Anyway, this drunk starts giving Jim a hard time, telling him the tour stinks and that Jim doesn’t know squat about Savannah ghosts.”
Brixton saw it coming and grimaced.
“So Jim tells him off in no uncertain terms, and the drunk calls the tour agency and they ream Jim out. Turns out this slob has political and business connections in Georgia and threatened to put the agency out of business. That’s it! Jim gets canned.”
“Well,” Brixton said, “Jim is—was—in the people business.”
Cynthia flared. “Which doesn’t mean he has to take guff from anybody.”
Brixton held up his hands. “No, of course not,” he agreed. “I’m sure he’ll find another job soon. There’s got to be a dozen ghost-tour operators in the city.”
“His boss told him he needs anger management classes.”
“Yeah, well, maybe he should look for another line of work.”
“Maybe I should look for another husband. Sorry. I know it’s not your problem, Bob. These calls came in earlier this morning.”
Brixton took the slips of paper she handed him into his office and sat behind his desk, feet up on it. Two of the messages promised new clients, including another restaurant owner who wanted to establish surveillance on two employees