Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [78]
He had no facts, no tangible evidence to link any of those events with his having become involved with the Watkins family. He was perfectly willing to chalk them up to coincidence. Coincidences happen, more regularly than we like to admit. What bothered him was that in his four years as a private detective he’d never had such things happen to him. It was the timing. They all coincided with his taking on the Watkins case.
He turned back to the question of Jeanine Montgomery. She now lived in the White House, at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, surrounded by security guards and shielded from anything unpleasant by layers of screeners. Fat chance of ever getting to ask her about the stabbing.
There was her father, Warren Montgomery, who lived right there in Savannah. Calling him and asking about it would probably result in Montgomery’s using his political clout to get his PI license revoked. The same with Ward Cardell. Titans of industry. Successful businessmen. Good at screwing people and getting their way.
Jack Felker’s death now loomed larger and more meaningful than ever. Here was a guy who might possibly have told what he knew about Cardell’s involvement in what had happened at Augie’s that summer night. It was a long shot but Felker, supposedly close to dying, conceivably could have provided some answers. Brixton had almost forgotten about Felker’s death as he grappled with the other questions that boomeranged around in his brain.
He was sure that Felker had been murdered. Was it because he knew too much and had agreed to meet with Brixton? That was a good possibility. No, it was even better than that. Why else kill the guy? It wasn’t a robbery gone wrong. Whoever rifled through his files wasn’t looking to steal something of value, something that could be peddled through Savannah’s underground of stolen goods. He was after information—just as Brixton had been. And he’d probably gotten what he was after. The empty file folder with WATKINS on the tab had obviously contained information. Sloppy to have left the empty folder behind. It might not have contained anything relevant but it did confirm to Brixton that Felker, who had been associated with Ward Cardell at the time, knew something about what had gone down with Louise Watkins. And it was reasonable to assume that Cardell did, too.
He saved what he’d written, closed the laptop, and emptied the wine bottle. He was brimming with energy, and anger, and felt as though he might burst at any second.
The phone rang. It was Flo.
“How was your fund-raiser?” he asked.
“Boring. How was your evening?”
“Not boring. Feel like a nightcap someplace?
“You okay?”
“I’m not sure. The lobby lounge at the Marriott Riverfront in a half hour? It’s usually quiet there. I need to vent.”
She said she’d meet him there.
As he prepared to leave the apartment he glanced at the slip of paper on which Will Sayers had written Mackensie Smith’s Washington phone number. He’d make that call first thing in the morning. He’d decided that there was only one person with whom he had a chance of finding out what had happened in Augie’s parking lot twenty years ago, and that was Mitzi Cardell.
Jesus!
CHAPTER 28
Brixton stayed at Flo’s house that night. When he awoke the following morning he felt strangely relieved and enjoyed a newfound sense of control.
The Watkins case had overwhelmed him. He’d decided on his way to meet Flo that he was in over his head, out of his element, and not up to the challenge of finding the answers sought by Eunice Watkins and her preacher-son, Lucas. But Flo lent an open ear, as she usually did when he was down in the dumps and feeling impotent. She also wasn’t the sort of woman who equated love and caring with agreeing with everything that he said. She questioned him, gently chided him for falling into an uncharacteristic funk, and challenged his conclusion that he’d never be able to follow through on Mrs. Watkins’s behalf.
“You owe it to her to keep trying,” she’d said over their