Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [85]
“I really don’t know, but we’ll find out soon enough.”
As the Smiths prepared dinner, Brixton was just getting out of the shower at the Hotel Rouge. He was glad he’d chosen to stay there. The room was spacious and nicely furnished, everything in various shades of red to reflect the hotel’s name. He also liked the location, on Washington Circle and close to DuPont Circle. He’d taken a walk shortly after checking in and was surprised at how much he enjoyed being back in Washington. It was a beautiful day, cooler than it had been in Savannah when he left. He’d never debated that the city was nice on the eyes. It was its people that he’d never been comfortable with, not the average citizen but those involved in government. And Washington, D.C., was a one-industry town—government and the politics that went with it.
Showered and dressed, he got into a taxi parked in front of the hotel and headed for the Watergate.
“It’s nice of you to invite me to dinner,” he said after drinks had been served on the balcony. The sun was beginning to go down, the red ball setting the waters of the Potomac on fire. “What a view!”
“That’s what sold us on the apartment,” Annabel said. “It changes hour by hour.”
“You were a police officer here in D.C.,” Mac said.
“A long time ago. I lasted four years. Got married, had two kids, got divorced, and headed for Savannah, where I’ve been for the past twenty-four years.”
“Why Savannah?” Annabel asked. “You said you were from New York.”
“Somebody told me they were looking for cops there. I heard it was a pretty nice city so I figured I’d give it a try. Twenty years on the Metro force. Took the retirement check and opened my agency.”
“How’s business?” Mac asked.
“Up and down. I catch enough cases to pay the rent. Right now I’m up to my neck in the case that brings me to D.C.”
He started to explain but Annabel said, “How about waiting until we’re through with dinner? I’m sure you’re hungry, Robert. I know I am.”
They fell into easy conversation during dinner—sports, politics-lite, television and movies—and Brixton felt very much at home, as though with old friends. It wasn’t until they’d returned to the balcony that he was asked to tell them about the case. He almost wished they could skip it. It had been a lovely evening and he didn’t want to ruin it by introducing what they might view as a wild-goose chase by an inept, naïve investigator.
He started from the beginning, recounting the visit from Eunice Watkins and her claim that her daughter, Louise, had been paid to plead guilty to a stabbing that she hadn’t committed. Mac and Annabel listened intently, hanging on his every word, nodding or asking for occasional clarification. He avoided mentioning Mitzi Cardell or Jeanine Jamison, referring to them only as two young white women who might possibly have been involved.
“Fascinating,” Smith said when Brixton had taken a pause for a coffee refill and to consider what to say next.
“You’re convinced that one of these girls was the one who stabbed the victim, and whose family paid off Louise to take the rap?”
“Yeah, I am,” Brixton said. “I was naturally skeptical at first, but things have happened that lead me to believe it.”
“What about these two other girls?” Smith asked. “Do you know their whereabouts?”
Brixton hesitated and sipped his coffee. Mac and Annabel waited for his response. Finally, Brixton said, “Yeah, I know where they are. They’re right here in Washington.”
“Oh?” Smith said. “Have you contacted them?”
“No. I was hoping you could help me do that.”
“Who are they?”
“One is Mitzi Cardell. The other is Jeanine Jamison.”
CHAPTER 30
What was intended to be an early-evening dinner turned into a lengthy discussion that lasted well into the night.
Up until the time Brixton mentioned Mitzi Cardell and Jeanine Jamison, Mac and Annabel had exhibited normal interest in Brixton’s tale and had asked few questions. But now, over snifters of Rémy Martin, the atmosphere had changed. The couple’s legal backgrounds kicked into gear and the questions were more frequent, and