Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [66]
“I didn’t do nothing wrong,” Vinnie said, fear etched on his face.
St. Pierre assured him that he hadn’t and repeated his question. Vinnie mentioned a Dumpster. St. Pierre told him to lead them to it. Vinnie did as instructed. The Dumpster was at the corner next to a building that was being demolished. “In there,” he said. “I found it in there.”
St. Pierre and Brixton peered over the edge of the Dumpster, which was filled with construction debris.
“Feel like getting dirty?” St. Pierre asked Brixton.
“No.”
“Nothing to be found here,” St. Pierre agreed.
They thanked Vinnie for his time and drove back to the pawnshop. As the owner was getting out, he asked, “What about the money I gave him? I’m out that money and don’t have the camera.”
“How much?” Brixton asked.
“Twenty.”
“You ripped him off,” Brixton said as he pulled out his wallet and handed the owner a twenty and a ten. “Thanks for calling it in.”
“Like I said, I’m a good citizen.”
Brixton accompanied St. Pierre to Metro, where the briefcase, camera, and recorder were dusted for prints. There weren’t any.
“Thanks,” Brixton said when he was handed back the briefcase and its contents.
“Mah pleasure, Robert,” St. Pierre said as they walked outside together. “Things progressing on the Watkins case?”
“Nothing new to report but I’m still working it.”
“No further sidewalk confrontations with the city’s lower species?”
“If you mean have I been mugged again, the answer is no. How are things at Metro?”
“The bureaucracy lives on, Robert. How is your lovely lady friend, Miss Flo?”
“She’s fine.”
“Well, glad you got back your tools of the trade. Hot enough for you?”
“More than hot enough, Wayne. This weather stinks. Thanks again.”
“Take care, Robert. Ciao.”
Brixton poured two shots of scotch upon returning to his office and shared the good news with Cynthia.
“That’s great,” she said. “Now you can give the pictures to that attorney.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Depends on how nice he is to me and how much money he comes up with. He’s not on my list of favorite people.” Brixton was good at understatement.
That day’s edition of the Savannah Morning News was on the desk where Cynthia had dropped it earlier. Brixton picked it up and took a look at the front page. Dominant was a large photograph of a man surrounded by men and women holding campaign signs. The caption indicated that the man, Shepard Justin, had just announced his candidacy in the upcoming Savannah mayoral race. His smiling wife and two kids, whom Brixton judged to be no older than eight or nine, stood next to him in the photo.
Brixton read the accompanying article. Justin, an alderman and member of the city council, had held a news conference to make his announcement. He was quoted as saying, “It’s time that this wonderful city had a mayor who understands the needs and aspirations of its citizens. I pledge to you that as your mayor I will restore dignity to city government, work in a nonpartisan way to bridge the gaps that have paralyzed important legislation, and establish a new and refreshing commitment to family values that have been neglected for far too long.”
Brixton leaned closer to the page and squinted to see the man’s face better. Although he wouldn’t swear to it under oath in court, he was almost positive that Shepard Justin was the man he’d photographed the night he’d followed the restaurant owner’s wife to the motel. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.
“You’ll be damned about what?” Cynthia asked.
“The guy in the picture, Justin, the alderman who’s running for mayor.”
“What about him?”
He told her of his conviction that