Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [67]
“Whew!” was Cynthia’s response.
“Yeah, how about that.”
Cynthia returned to the reception area. Brixton swiveled in his chair, opened the briefcase, and pulled out the camera. He turned it on and the digital screen lit up. He pushed the button that retrieved photos from the camera’s disk. The message NO PHOTOS appeared in red.
“What the hell?” Brixton said.
He opened the camera to pull out the disk. The compartment was empty.
He got up and left the office.
“Where are you going?” Cynthia asked from behind her desk.
“A cigarette.”
“You really ought to think about quitting, Bob.”
He ignored her and went downstairs, where he dragged on a cigarette and tried to inject order into his jumbled thoughts.
What had happened to the photos he’d taken? Someone obviously had removed the disk. But why? They wouldn’t have bothered unless they knew what was on it. They’d unceremoniously dumped the briefcase and everything in it into a Dumpster, hadn’t even tried to sell the items, which meant that money wasn’t the motive behind the attack on him, nor was admiring the art of digital photography on their collective shrunken minds.
He almost never had two cigarettes in a row but automatically lit the second one.
Had his muggers linked up the photos on the disk with the newspaper picture—with Shepard Justin? He had to assume that they had. The next question was whether they had attacked him because they already knew what was in the camera or had discovered it by chance after the fact.
If those photos were now in the hands of Justin’s political enemies, they could be used to derail his mayoral ambitions. Not that Brixton cared whether Justin lost his bid to lead city hall. Serve him right, he thought, bedding another man’s wife. Another family values hypocrite.
Now Brixton’s thoughts shifted to whether the pictures that had been in the camera could be traced back to him. His name was on the camera, compliments of his Brother P-Touch label maker, and his name was displayed in other places inside the briefcase.
Who knew that he’d taken the photographs and that he had them in the briefcase?
The only people he could come up with were the husband who was being cuckolded and the husband’s attorney. Of course, Cynthia knew about the assignment, and he’d replayed the evening for his friend Ralph Lazzara after returning from the motel. But the assault had happened so soon after he’d taken the photos that he couldn’t conceive of anyone having been informed about it and told what he’d be carrying.
He eventually decided that whoever had taken the disk from the camera wasn’t interested in who’d taken the pictures. Chances were also better than good that they had looked at the photos, seen nothing of value in them, and tossed them in the trash. He lit a third cigarette as he came to these conclusions, looked at it, snuffed it out in an urn in front of the building, and went back upstairs, where Cynthia was packing up to leave.
“Hate to run out on you, Bob, but Jim called and said he needed to talk with me.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“Thanks. You’re a sweetheart.”
He was on his way out of the office when the phone rang.
“Dad. It’s Janet.”
“Hi, honey. How are you?”
“I’m okay but I’ve gotten myself into a little bit of a financial jam and need some money.”
“What kind of a jam?”
“Oh, I got—it really doesn’t matter, does it? I’ll pay it back. I promise. I have some great new concerts coming up and—”
“How much do you need, Janet?”
“Five hundred? I could use more but—”
“Are you in some sort of trouble?”
“No, Daddy, I’m not in any trouble.” Her tone hardened. “Look, if you don’t want to help me out I’ll—”
“I’ll see what I can do and send you a check. It’ll be a few days, though.”
She turned soft again. “Thanks, Dad. I really appreciate it and I’ll pay it back.”
“Sure, honey.”
“I have to run. You’re a doll.”
The line went dead and he sighed. It wasn’t the first time she’d called looking for money, nor was