Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [89]
“Sounds intriguing. Does the CIA want to recruit me for some clandestine mission?”
“As a matter of fact they do, but that’s grist for a later call. Mitzi, I’ve been put in contact with a gentleman through a mutual friend. His name is Robert Brixton. He’s a private detective in Savannah, Georgia, and—”
Her frothy tone was gone as she said, “A private detective? Why would you be calling me about that?”
“He’s working on a case in Savannah that goes back more than twenty years. It has to do with a stabbing that took place in the parking lot of a nightclub there and—”
“Mac, I can’t possibly understand why you would be bothering me with something like this.”
“The reason I am, Mitzi, is that this Mr. Brixton would like a few minutes of your time to ask some questions. I said that since I knew you I would call and run it by you.”
There was a cold silence on the other end.
“Of course,” Smith said, “if you’d rather not take the time I—”
“That is precisely the point, Mac. I do not wish to take the time to speak with this private detective about some sordid stabbing that occurred aeons ago. It sounds as though this man is just looking to stir up trouble and I’m amazed that you would allow yourself to become involved.”
“I’m not involved, Mitzi, and I certainly understand you not wanting to take time from your busy schedule to meet with him.”
“I’m glad you understand, Mac. I’m sorry if I sounded critical of you, but to think that some ages-old common street crime involving black drug dealers—Savannah’s crime rate continues to rise, especially in the black community—would find its way here to Washington through this—what did you say his name was?”
“Brixton. Robert Brixton. His interest is in a young woman who might have been unfairly convicted of the crime.”
“I’ve never heard of him or this stabbing or of any young black woman. I really must run, dear. Please tell him that I am not available.”
“Of course,” said Smith. “Forget I ever mentioned it. But if you want to speak with him, he’s here in Washington, staying at the Hotel Rouge on Sixteenth.”
“I certainly intend to forget it, Mac. You and your lovely wife must join us again for dinner before much time passes. I’m putting together a party a few weeks from now that you and Annabel would fit into splendidly.”
“And we’d be pleased to attend. Thanks for your time, Mitzi.”
Smith had been making notes during their conversation, a habit honed during his years as a practicing criminal attorney. He focused on one line he’d written and put quote marks around it and underlined it: “… any young black woman.”
• • •
Mitzi, too, did something after ending her conversation. She called the White House.
“It’s Mitzi Cardell,” she told Lance Millius. “Please put me through to the first lady.” She’d taken a few minutes before placing the call to try to calm down, to bring her breathing under control.
“She’s not available, Ms. Cardell.”
“This is urgent. I need to speak with her now!”
“I’ll pass along your message, Ms. Cardell.”
“No, that’s not good enough. Find her!”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Cardell, but that is quite impossible. I’ll tell her of your call and mention that it’s important.”
“Yes, you do that.”
She slammed down the phone and was sorry that she had. Getting tough with Millius wouldn’t accomplish anything.
She waited anxiously for Jeanine to return the call, pacing rooms, curtly fending off questions by the household staff, and ignoring demands on her by outsiders. It was an hour later when the first lady returned her call.
“Jeanine, thank God it’s you.”
“What’s going on, Mitzi? You sound panicked.”
“Because I am, and you will be, too.”
“Do you think you can pull yourself together and tell me what this is all about?”
“Brixton, that private detective from Savannah.”
“Him again? What is it this time?”
“Yes, it’s him again, and it’s about the same thing.”
“This is ridiculous, Mitzi. What can he possibly know?”
“It’s obvious that he knows plenty, Jeanine. He had a friend call—Mackensie Smith—to try and set up a meeting with me.”
“Who