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Authors: Margaret Truman
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of two days?
He’d been followed by the good ol’ boy in the red truck. A stranger had shown up at Lazzara’s asking for him. Someone had broken into his office, gone through his files, and left without the laptop tucked under his arm. And now this.
These incidents were enough to make him believe that his taking on the Louise Watkins case was, one way or another, connected. He couldn’t conjure why that would be, but it was too compelling to be dismissed. It was all too much to process during the ride back. His broken nose throbbed and his head ached. On top of his injuries, there was the theft of his attaché case. The camera and digital recorder were insured, covered under the policy he carried on his office. But there was no insurance on the photos of the restaurant owner’s cheating wife and her lover-boy.
He thought back to what he’d captured with the camera. The photos were of no use to anyone except the husband and his attorney. They’d have to be content with Brixton’s written report of what he had witnessed the wife doing. But chances were that they wouldn’t accept it as proof and that he’d have to follow her again, using a new camera. Maybe they’d feel sorry for him because he’d sustained injuries in the line of duty. On second thought, the attorney wasn’t the sort of guy who’d feel sorry for anyone.
Lazzara unlocked the restaurant door and put on the overheads. Brixton sat at the bar. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked. Smoking was prohibited in all restaurants in which food was the primary draw.
“No, go ahead,” Lazzara said, sliding an ashtray that hadn’t been used in years across the bar. “Drink?”
“Yeah, that’d be great. Scotch, neat.”
Lazzara joined him. “How you feeling?”
“All right.”
“You want me to call Flo?”
“No. No sense worrying her. I’ll talk to her in the morning.”
“You gonna call the cops and report it?”
“Tomorrow. I have to file a report on the break-in anyway. Might as well do both at once.”
They lingered at the bar for another half hour, when Brixton announced that he was going home. Lazzara locked up again and walked him to the entrance of his building.
“Sure you’re okay?” he asked as they stood inside the cramped lobby that served the building’s six apartments.
“I’m fine. Thanks, Ralph. I owe you.”
Lazzara laughed. “I’ll put it on your bill.”
“Yeah, you do that. Thanks again.”
As Lazzara walked back to where he’d parked his car, he passed the scene of the attack on his friend. He looked down at the red stain left by Brixton’s blood on the sidewalk and hoped that it wasn’t a down payment on worse things to come.
CHAPTER 8
Brixton woke at six the following morning on his couch, where he’d collapsed the night before. He hadn’t bothered to undress, just kicked off his shoes and curled up; sleep had come in seconds.
He went to the bathroom and examined his bruised face in the mirror. One side was swollen and had turned purple and green. His nose, which he always thought was one of his better features, was puffed and discolored. Other than that, he was his usual handsome self.
He showered, dressed in chinos and a pale yellow button-down shirt that he thought went nicely with his wounds, and added a light blue linen blazer. He checked himself in the mirror again and knew that people would want to know what had happened to him: “Walk into a tree?” they’d ask.
He wouldn’t reply, “You should see the other guy.”
He called Cynthia at home to tell her that he’d be in late, asked her to call the handyman they’d used before to repair the door, and headed out, stopping for a bacon-and-egg sandwich and coffee, which he carried to a small park across the street from the Metro barracks at Habersham and Oglethorpe. When he finished eating, he paused in front of a statue of a man in uniform; the sign read ABOVE AND BEYOND, LEST WE FORGET . A list of Savannah police officers who’d
He’d been followed by the good ol’ boy in the red truck. A stranger had shown up at Lazzara’s asking for him. Someone had broken into his office, gone through his files, and left without the laptop tucked under his arm. And now this.
These incidents were enough to make him believe that his taking on the Louise Watkins case was, one way or another, connected. He couldn’t conjure why that would be, but it was too compelling to be dismissed. It was all too much to process during the ride back. His broken nose throbbed and his head ached. On top of his injuries, there was the theft of his attaché case. The camera and digital recorder were insured, covered under the policy he carried on his office. But there was no insurance on the photos of the restaurant owner’s cheating wife and her lover-boy.
He thought back to what he’d captured with the camera. The photos were of no use to anyone except the husband and his attorney. They’d have to be content with Brixton’s written report of what he had witnessed the wife doing. But chances were that they wouldn’t accept it as proof and that he’d have to follow her again, using a new camera. Maybe they’d feel sorry for him because he’d sustained injuries in the line of duty. On second thought, the attorney wasn’t the sort of guy who’d feel sorry for anyone.
Lazzara unlocked the restaurant door and put on the overheads. Brixton sat at the bar. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked. Smoking was prohibited in all restaurants in which food was the primary draw.
“No, go ahead,” Lazzara said, sliding an ashtray that hadn’t been used in years across the bar. “Drink?”
“Yeah, that’d be great. Scotch, neat.”
Lazzara joined him. “How you feeling?”
“All right.”
“You want me to call Flo?”
“No. No sense worrying her. I’ll talk to her in the morning.”
“You gonna call the cops and report it?”
“Tomorrow. I have to file a report on the break-in anyway. Might as well do both at once.”
They lingered at the bar for another half hour, when Brixton announced that he was going home. Lazzara locked up again and walked him to the entrance of his building.
“Sure you’re okay?” he asked as they stood inside the cramped lobby that served the building’s six apartments.
“I’m fine. Thanks, Ralph. I owe you.”
Lazzara laughed. “I’ll put it on your bill.”
“Yeah, you do that. Thanks again.”
As Lazzara walked back to where he’d parked his car, he passed the scene of the attack on his friend. He looked down at the red stain left by Brixton’s blood on the sidewalk and hoped that it wasn’t a down payment on worse things to come.
CHAPTER 8
Brixton woke at six the following morning on his couch, where he’d collapsed the night before. He hadn’t bothered to undress, just kicked off his shoes and curled up; sleep had come in seconds.
He went to the bathroom and examined his bruised face in the mirror. One side was swollen and had turned purple and green. His nose, which he always thought was one of his better features, was puffed and discolored. Other than that, he was his usual handsome self.
He showered, dressed in chinos and a pale yellow button-down shirt that he thought went nicely with his wounds, and added a light blue linen blazer. He checked himself in the mirror again and knew that people would want to know what had happened to him: “Walk into a tree?” they’d ask.
He wouldn’t reply, “You should see the other guy.”
He called Cynthia at home to tell her that he’d be in late, asked her to call the handyman they’d used before to repair the door, and headed out, stopping for a bacon-and-egg sandwich and coffee, which he carried to a small park across the street from the Metro barracks at Habersham and Oglethorpe. When he finished eating, he paused in front of a statue of a man in uniform; the sign read ABOVE AND BEYOND, LEST WE FORGET . A list of Savannah police officers who’d
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