Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [79]
“I know,” he said, “but I’ve run out of ideas. It’s not like there are plenty of sources to give me the answers, locals, people who were there and know the truth. I thought that Felker might be one of those people but somebody made sure that he wasn’t. That leaves me with Cardell and his daughter, Mitzi. She’s now a big mucky-muck in D.C. Fat chance of getting to her.”
“Wait a minute, Robert,” Flo said. “You have this contact in Washington that Will Sayers gave you, Mackensie something or other.”
“Mackensie Smith. I intend to call him tomorrow. But what am I supposed to say, that I want him to use his influence to get Mitzi Cardell to sit down with me and admit what really happened twenty years ago? What if she was the one who stabbed the guy at Augie’s. Will she happily fess up? I don’t think so. And what if—I’ve been playing the what-if game all night—what if it was her buddy, Jeanine Montgomery, who poked the guy? She’s the first lady of the land, for Christ’s sake. I’m out of my league on this one, babe.”
“Maybe you are,” she said, “but that doesn’t mean throwing up your hands and slinking away. You have nothing to lose by contacting this Mackensie Smith, going to Washington, and seeing what can be accomplished there. If you fall on your face, so what? You can hold your head high for not having quit on Mrs. Watkins.”
They made love after returning to her house; at least his growing sense of impotency didn’t include that brand of it. As he fell asleep he pondered the conversation they’d had at the Marriott bar. He wanted to buy what she’d said, wanted to wave away all his doubts and forge ahead. It didn’t work, and he finally dozed off still filled with visions of failure.
But he felt different in the morning, full of resolve. Flo was amused that he hummed a tune while making breakfast, and he seemed lighter on his feet.
“Thanks,” he told her as he was about to leave.
“Go get ’em, tiger,” she said.
• • •
Cynthia had left a message on the answering machine. She wouldn’t be coming in until later in the day, something to do with meeting with their landlord to attempt to get out of their lease. That was all right with Brixton. He enjoyed being alone in the office with a cup of hot coffee from the downstairs food shop.
There had been other messages on the machine, including one from a man who said it was important that he speak with him that day. No name, but he left a phone number. Brixton returned that call before trying to reach Mac Smith in Washington.
“Thank you for getting back to me,” the man said. “Would it be convenient to meet with you later this morning?”
He sounded old, as though age had sapped his voice of energy.
“That depends. What’s it about?”
“It’s not something I wish to discuss on the phone.”
Brixton had heard that plenty of times before.
“I suppose I can squeeze you in today,” Brixton said. “Who am I speaking with?”
“What time will you be free?”
“Whoa, hold on. Who are you and why do you want to meet with me?”
“Let me just say, sir, that it has to do with a series of photographs.”
“What photographs?”
Brixton knew even before the words came out to what the man was referring—the shots he’d taken at the motel.
“Just name the time, sir,” the man said.
“An hour from now.”
“I’ll be there,” the man said and hung up.
The conversation sent Brixton’s mind racing in a direction other than Louise Watkins. The missing camera disk had always been in his thoughts but had never stayed front and center for very long. Now it was back and he cursed the distraction it created.
The number Sayers had given him for Mac Smith was Smith’s apartment in the Watergate. He answered on the first ring.
“Mr. Smith, my name is Robert Brixton. I’m a friend of Willis Sayers.”
“I’ve been expecting your call,” said Smith. “Will mentioned that I’d be hearing from you.”
“I’m not quite sure what it is I’m looking for in contacting you,” Brixton said, “but it has to do with a case I’m working on. I’m a private investigator.”
“So Will said. I don’t know what help I might be but I’m certainly