Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [80]
Brixton hadn’t made definite plans to go there but Smith’s question forced the issue. “Yes, I will be coming, but I want to be sure that my trip will coincide with you being available.”
“My schedule’s pretty flexible,” Smith said, “and I don’t have plans to be away in the near future. Just give me a date when you’ll be here and I’ll make sure I’m open.”
“How about if I get back to you once I’ve firmed up my plans?”
“Makes sense to me. Look forward to meeting you.”
Brixton was buoyed by the call. Smith sounded like a nice guy. Flo was right: he should go to Washington to see what he could accomplish regarding Louise Watkins. If he came up a cropper, the trip wouldn’t be a total waste. He could arrange to visit his daughters in Maryland, something he hadn’t done in much too long a time.
The feeling of relative exuberance faded fast when his visitor arrived at ten thirty.
Brixton knew who he was, Scott Wilson, a lawyer who’d been practicing in Savannah far earlier than Brixton’s arrival. He’d seen him around the courthouse and had read profiles of him in the paper. Wilson was a white-collar attorney, never dirtying his hands with common criminals. His clients were business types and politicians, and he was known as a consummate, smooth-talking dealmaker. Few of his cases ever reached court. He also had a reputation as a foppish sort of dresser, and this morning testified to it: white suit, pale blue silk shirt, wildly patterned blue-and-green tie, and highly polished shoes with pointy toes that screamed French or Italian. He had a mane of flowing white hair, pink cheeks, and lively blue eyes. The first-cast southern attorney out of central casting.
They shook hands. “Scott Wilson,” the man said.
“I know who you are, Mr. Wilson. Have a seat.”
Brixton directed him to a chair across the desk. “What can I do for you?” he asked. “You mentioned photographs.”
“That’s correct.”
“Okay, so tell me about these photographs.”
Wilson’s smile was meant to be friendly but there was adversarial steel behind it. “Maybe it would be better if you told me about them, Mr. Brixton.”
Brixton recrossed his legs and returned the smile. “Hard for me to do,” he said, “without knowing what photos we’re talking about.”
“Oh, I think you know what I’m speakin’ of,” Wilson said. “I’m referrin’ to a series of pictures you took at a certain motel outside of town.”
Brixton’s laugh was as phony as Wilson’s had been. “Oh, those photos.”
“Yes, sir, those photos. I represent a client who has a specific interest in them.”
I bet you do, Brixton thought. “Who might that be?” he asked.
“My professional obligations prohibit me from divulging his identity,” Wilson said. “I have the feeling that you are a man who prefers direct talk, no beating around the bush.” He said it with one eyebrow cocked and Brixton wondered how he could get one to go up and not the other.
“My client has authorized me to pay a handsome sum for the photographs, Mr. Brixton.”
Brixton was confused and was sure that his expression mirrored it. Why would they think that he had the photos? They obviously had them. But even if they didn’t—even if someone else had possession of them and was attempting to blackmail Wilson’s client before turning them over—there was no reason to confront the one who had taken the pictures.
“I know the photos you’re referring to,” Brixton said, “but I don’t have them.”
Wilson’s face reflected skepticism.
“Somebody mugged me the night I took them and stole the camera. I eventually got the camera back but the disk was missing. No disk, no photos.”
“That may be, Mr. Brixton, but it doesn’t assure me that you don’t have a duplicate set.”
“Of course I don’t,” said Brixton, edginess creeping into his voice. “How could I have a set of dupes? The camera was stolen hours after I took them. I never had a chance to do anything with them.”
Wilson examined a crease in his trousers and then diverted attention to his polished fingernails. Brixton disliked polished fingernails