Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [81]
Brixton didn’t confirm or deny.
“And I further assume that you have been able to identify the people in the photos.”
“You assume a lot of things,” Brixton said.
“I’m paid to do that, Mr. Brixton. Let me cut to the chase, which I also assume you would appreciate. As I said earlier, my client is prepared to pay you a handsome sum for—”
“For photos I don’t have.”
“For forgetting that you ever took them.”
“Oh, I get it,” Brixton said. “Your client might be embarrassed if the public got to see those pictures, might cost him a few votes.”
Brixton’s comment obviously resonated with Wilson, and Brixton had a moment of doubt about having indicated that he knew who the attorney’s client was, the same man in the photo kissing the restaurateur’s straying wife—Shepard Justin, candidate for mayor of Savannah. But he immediately resolved that it didn’t matter. He was tired of the cat-and-mouse game Wilson was playing, had had enough of assuming.
“I’ve been told that you tend to be a man who enjoys straight talk. That was your reputation when you were a police officer.”
Brixton nodded.
“And since you evidently know my client’s identity and his reason for having retained me to represent his interests, you are probably sitting there confident that you have the upper hand.”
“No, you’re wrong. The only thing I’m confident of is that you wasted a trip here.” He realized that his voice had begun to reflect the anger he felt and worked to modify it. He leaned forward on his desk and spoke in the sort of hushed tone that he might use with a friend to whom he was giving advice. “Let me put it this way, Mr. Wilson. I don’t give a damn about those pictures or your client. But I’ll ask you a question. Who came to you with the disk? Whoever that was is the guy who beat me up and stole my camera.”
“An anonymous source, Mr. Brixton.”
“And you paid for it. Right?”
Wilson stood and dusted off lint that wasn’t there. “I have come here today to make you a very generous offer.”
“A very generous bribe, you mean.”
“Call it what you will. I am prepared to offer you twenty thousand dollars for your assurance that you will forget that you ever took those photos.”
“I’ve already forgotten about them,” Brixton said.
“Or perhaps you have a duplicate set and don’t feel that twenty thousand is enough for them. I also find your dismissal to be foolhardy, Mr. Brixton. We aren’t dealing here with a run-of-the-mill situation. We are talking about a man’s political future as well as the future of this city. I sincerely hope that you don’t regret your brash, unwise decision. It could have unfortunate consequences.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Good day, sir.”
“Good day to you, sir. Take your money and tell your slimy client that screwing another man’s wife doesn’t strike me as the sort of trait I look for in my elected officials. Not that I expect anything better from them. Thanks for stopping by, Mr. Wilson. Should be an interesting election.”
Wilson gave another insidious smile, did a little bow, and left. After he had, Brixton went downstairs, lit a cigarette, and reviewed the conversation. If Cynthia had been privy to it, she would have told him that he’d been stupid not to take the money and run. In retrospect, she might have been right. He didn’t have a duplicate set of the photos, nor did he have any intention of telling anyone that the man at the motel was the same one running for mayor. He could have taken the money for doing what he’d intended to do all along—nothing.
But he also knew where Wilson and his client, Shepard Justin, were coming from. Whoever had mugged him and stolen the camera realized after looking at the disk that the guy smooching in front of the motel room was Shepard Justin, future mayoral candidate, and approached Justin’s campaign people with an offer to sell them