Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [71]
He spent the next hour writing checks against the promised infusion of two thousand dollars into his account, including one to his daughter Janet. Eunice Watkins arrived at ten thirty with the check.
“Thank you,” he said.
She nodded. “I spoke with Lucas this morning and told him that you had some leads. He wants to know what they are.”
“Well,” Brixton said, suddenly faced with the question of how much to reveal, “it involves some people who might know something that can help us. I’d rather not mention their names at this point.”
“You said you might have to leave town,” she said.
“Right. Washington, D.C.”
“Someone there might be helpful?” she asked, the first hint of incredulity he’d heard from her.
“That’s right.”
Silence filled the room.
“You’ll have to trust me,” he said. “Believe me, I’m doing all I can.”
“I do trust you, Mr. Brixton, but Lucas—well, he is more of a businessman than I am.”
A clergyman in a three-piece suit, Brixton thought.
She stood, straightened her dress, and said she looked forward to hearing from him. He assured her that she would.
He ran to the bank, deposited Eunice Watkin’s check, mailed his checks, and returned as Cynthia walked in holding her purchases from the Paris Market.
“Thanks,” he said. “You’re a doll.”
“Bob,” she said, “I have something to tell you.”
“Oh?”
“Jim and I are leaving Savannah.”
“Wow. Where are you going?”
“Iowa. Jim is from there. His uncle, Sydney, owns a community bank and has offered Jim a job as a teller.”
Brixton’s laugh wasn’t completely genuine. “Sounds good,” he said against the sinking feeling he was experiencing. “I just hope he keeps his anger in check when a customer gives him a hard time.” He knew the second he’d said it that it was wrong, and tried to cover with an even bigger, more manufactured laugh.
Cynthia let it go. “We’re leaving a week from now,” she said. “Sorry for the short notice but—”
“Hey,” he said, “nothing’s forever. I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too,” she said and walked out as the tears came.
Brixton closed the door to his office before calling Wayne St. Pierre at Metro.
“Hi-ho, Robert,” St. Pierre said.
“What do you know about a guy named Jack Felker?” Brixton asked. “He used to be Ward Cardell’s PR man.”
When St. Pierre didn’t respond, Brixton said, “You there?”
“Yes, I’m here, Robert. Why do you ask?”
“I’d like to ask him some questions. Know how I can reach him?”
“Ah—of course. Give me a minute.”
He returned with Felker’s phone number. “I should alert you, Robert, that Mr. Felker is quite ill.”
This time the silence was on Brixton’s end. It initially sounded as though St. Pierre didn’t know Felker. But here he was warning Brixton that the man was dying. Before he could ask how well St. Pierre knew Felker, the detective asked, “Does this have to do with the Watkins thing you’re working on?”
“Yeah, it does, Wayne.”
“Well, good luck. I must run now. Ciao!”
Brixton went over in his mind what he would say when he reached Felker. Once he had, he dialed the number. A man answered.
“Mr. Felker, my name is Robert Brixton. I’m a former Savannah detective who’s now a private investigator.”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering if you might be good enough to give me a few minutes of your time.”
“For what?” Felker replied in a weak voice.
Brixton pictured the man with whom he was speaking, riddled with cancer, emaciated, eyes sunken, hairless thanks to the chemo, fading fast.
“Well, sir,” he continued, “it might be best if we wait until we meet in person. Can we do that?”
“I don’t know. I’m not well.”
“Yes, sir, I’ve been told that, and I’m sorry for your troubles. Look, this has to do with a case I’m working on. It involves a young black woman who years ago was wrongly convicted of having stabbed someone to death. Her name was Louise Watkins.”
Felker’s voice gained strength as he said, “I have nothing to say about that.”
Bingo! Translation: I know about it but don’t wish to discuss it.
He hadn’t said, “That name means nothing to me,” or, “I have no idea who you’re talking about.