Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [69]
“Where to?” Sayers asked when they were on the sidewalk beneath the Pabst Blue Ribbon sign that hadn’t been illuminated in years.
“How about Bella’s?” Brixton suggested. He was in the mood for Italian food and Bella’s made the best manicotti in Savannah, no surprise since the owner—who was not named Bella—was originally from Brooklyn. He was also conscious of his dwindling bank account and the call from Janet looking for money. Bella’s wouldn’t break the bank. Time for another advance from Eunice Watkins.
Settled at a table in a far corner away from other diners—there weren’t many—Brixton got to the point. He told him about the visit from Louise Watkins’s mother and her allegation that her daughter had taken the rap for someone else in the stabbing incident in Augie’s parking lot. Sayers listened attentively, but before Brixton could continue with the story, the big reporter interjected, “I remember that case, Bob. There always was a suspicion that she hadn’t done the deed. At least I heard that from some cop friends.”
“They were right,” Brixton said. “She got ten grand, which she gave to her mother. From what I hear she did well in prison, got her GED, found out she was good with numbers and wanted a job. She comes out of prison and—”
“And wham! She’s gunned down on the street.”
“Exactly. You remember that.”
Sayers nodded and refilled their glasses from their second bottle of Chianti.
“Okay,” Brixton said and continued recounting for Sayers other aspects of the Watkins story. He eventually mentioned the photo shown him by Louise’s mother of her daughter and two other black girls with three white girls on the CVA campus during a weekend retreat. “Mitzi Cardell was one of the white girls,” he added.
Sayers shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “What’s the connection?”
“I don’t know,” Brixton replied, “but I need to find out. To be honest, Cardell is the only possible link I can come up with. What I was wondering is whether you know anything that might help me get to her.”
Sayers ingested his final strands of spaghetti and patted his mouth with his red-and-white railroad handkerchief, which he’d tucked into his shirt collar. “No,” he said, shaking his large head for emphasis. “But maybe I can point you in a direction.”
The evening’s alcohol intake had caused fuzziness in Brixton’s brain, but the possibility raised by Sayers snapped him to attention. “Go on,” he said. “I’m listening.”
“Another bottle?” Sayers asked.
“No. I gotta work tomorrow.”
To Brixton’s chagrin, Sayers motioned for another bottle of Chianti. He leaned his elbows on the table and said, “First, my friend, I have some news for you. I’m leaving Savannah.”
“That is news,” Brixton said. “Retiring?”
“Hell no. The paper is sending me back to D.C. to open the bureau again.”
Willis Sayers had been assigned to Washington a few years back but had been recalled when the failing economy took its hit on newspapers. Closing bureaus had become routine. But, as Sayers explained, with a former Georgia governor in the White House and a Georgia peach as first lady, reopening the D.C. bureau was a no-brainer.
“Happy about it?” Brixton asked.
“Yes and no. Lots happening in D.C., a lot more than the drivel I end up covering here. But I never did like our nation’s capital or the people who make it run. Like Harry Truman said, if you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.”
Brixton laughed appropriately.
“Anyway,” Sayers continued, “I got to know a few good people when I was there, including a guy named Mackensie Smith. He was a top criminal lawyer until some drunken yahoo ran into the car his wife was driving and killed her and their kid. He packed up the practice and took a gig at GW Law School. A really solid guy, straight shooter. He’s comfortable with D.C.’s society crowd but marches to his own drummer. Married a knockout of a woman, Annabel, a ten. She was also a lawyer, mostly matrimonial, but threw in the towel, too, after marrying Smith. She owns an art gallery in Georgetown. I can give Mac a call and tell