Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [70]
“I’d appreciate that, Will.” Buying dinner was beginning to pay off.
“Here’s another guy you might look up. Ever hear of Jack Felker?”
“No. Who’s he?”
“Felker used to be the PR guy for Mitzi Cardell’s old man, Ward Cardell. A slick guy, smooth as a milk shake. Anyway, there’s always been a rumor floating around about Cardell.”
“What sort of rumor?”
“Hard to pin down. Cardell and the first lady’s father, Warren Montgomery, are close. Word has it that Cardell owns Montgomery.”
“Owns him?”
“Yeah. Seems Cardell did Montgomery a big favor years ago and—”
“What sort of favor?”
Sayers shrugged his large shoulders. “I don’t know,” he said and sipped wine. “It’s all very hush-hush, underground stuff.”
“You mentioned Cardell’s PR guy, this Felker.”
“Right, right. I’m told that Felker was mostly responsible for keeping his boss’s name out of the papers. Cardell cut some pretty nasty deals along the way is how I hear it.”
“Is Felker still working for him?”
“No. I heard just a few weeks ago that Mr. Felker is dying of cancer.”
“Oh.”
“I also hear that he’s been telling friends about some of Cardell’s deals that he had to keep sub rosa. Knowing you’re dying tends to make some people want to fess up to past sins. You might want to look him up.”
“I will,” said Brixton.
As they parted in front of the restaurant, Sayers promised to call Mac Smith in Washington to alert him that he’d be receiving a call from Brixton.
“Can’t thank you enough,” Brixton said.
“Dinner was thanks enough, my friend. If you come up with a bombshell about Mitzi Cardell and the first lady, I get it first.”
“Count on it,” Brixton promised.
And then he went home, dreading the hangover that was sure to follow.
CHAPTER 24
Rain splattering against the window woke Brixton the following morning. He sat up and immediately fell back onto the pillow. His head pulsated and his knee ached from having been in the wrong position while he slept. He reached for a bottle of Tums he kept at his bedside and downed two.
A cup of black coffee and a bowl of fruit that was on the cusp of turning into an alcoholic punch settled his stomach down, and a shower helped with the headache, supplemented by two Tylenol.
He called Flo, whose voice testified that she was not happy.
“Sorry about last night,” he said.
“You should be,” she said. “I spent my birthday with Marla.”
“Your birthday? No!”
“Yes! How was your dinner with the reporter?”
“Look, I’m really sorry about last night. I mean, my dinner with Sayers from the Morning News paid off big, I think. He gave me some leads to follow up on and—”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
She lightened up. “I was expecting a ten-carat diamond broach as a present from you last night.”
Relieved, he said through a chuckle, “I have it right here with me. Dinner tonight? The Pink House?”
“Sounds good. Don’t forget the broach.”
He called Eunice Watkins and told her that he’d need another thousand up-front. “I’ve developed some promising leads, Mrs. Watkins.”
“That’s good to hear,” she said. “Shall I bring a check to your office later today?”
“That’d be fine, Mrs. Watkins. If I’m not there just give it to my assistant, Cynthia.” She sounded perfectly content, didn’t have that change in tone people often adopt when asked for money. “Better make it two thousand if you don’t mind. I may have to spend some time out of town and—”
“Of course.”
Headache, sour stomach, aching knee, and a downpour were the only negatives to what otherwise was shaping up to be a good day—money in the bank and a not-too-angry Flo Combes. Buy a card and a present before tonight, he reminded himself as he left the apartment and headed for his offices.
He told Cynthia about having blown Flo’s birthday. After rummaging through a desk drawer he found the slip of paper on which he’d written the names of Flo’s favorite bath items—Fantasia Violet Soap and Cleopatra Body Wash. She was a fancy-soap addict, so she always smelled good. “Do me a favor,” he said to Cynthia, handing her the note. “Run over to the