Monument to Murder by Margaret Truman Page A

attorney, the party was supposed to start at eight, and he’d given Brixton the couple’s address as well as a photo of the wife and a description of the car she would be driving. The last thing Brixton wanted to do at that moment was to tail an adulterous woman. But he’d already received an advance. Besides, there were bills to pay. He was always amazed at how pragmatic he could be when necessary.
    He examined the office door and decided it would take more carpentry skill than a locksmith could provide. He’d call in a handyman in the morning. Whoever had broken in wasn’t likely to take an encore. He turned out the lights and walked out, carrying with him the attaché case holding the camera and recorder he would use that night.
    He showered at his apartment, changed into jeans, a black T-shirt, and sneakers, and stopped in at Lazzara’s, his neighborhood hangout, a small Italian restaurant and bar on the corner owned by a fellow transplant from New York. Ralph Lazzara had also married a southern girl and moved with her to Savannah. And, like Brixton, the marriage hadn’t lasted long. But by the time it disintegrated Ralph had already opened the restaurant and decided to stick with it. Living in Savannah was a lot cheaper than in Brooklyn.
    “Hey, look who’s here,” Lazzara said when Brixton walked in. “Sam Spade himself. How’s business?”
    “Could be better. Let me have a Swamp Fox and an order of calamari. I don’t have much time.”
    Lazzara plopped the bottle of locally brewed beer in front of Brixton and called in the calamari order to the kitchen. He joined Brixton at the bar. They were the only two people in the six-table restaurant.
    “There was somebody in here this afternoon looking for you,” Lazarra said.
    “Oh? Who?”
    “I didn’t get his name. Kind of a weasel type of guy, you know, narrow face like a ferret I used to own. Dressed nice.”
    “What did he say?”
    “He asked if I knew where Bobby Brixton lived, said he was an old buddy from Brooklyn.”
    “He called me Bobby?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “He sound like he was from Brooklyn?”
    Lazzara laughed. “He didn’t have any accent as far as I could tell, you know, he didn’t talk like they do here.”
    “What’d you tell him?”
    “I told him you were from the neighborhood but I didn’t know where you lived. I figured that’s what you’d want me to say.”
    “Somebody broke into my office last night.”
    “No? What’d they take?”
    “Nothing as far as I can see. The only stuff worth anything is some electronic paraphernalia I use now and then. Everything was still there. It wasn’t a burglary.”
    “Kids?”
    “I don’t think so. Where’s the calamari? I have an assignment.”
    Lazzara disappeared into the tiny kitchen and emerged carrying the platter.
    “Did this guy who was asking for me say anything else?” Brixton asked between bites.
    “No. He had a sweet tea, thanked me, and left.”
    “Has a big, sunburned guy with blond hair, almost orange, and driving a red pickup been around?”
    “A bubba?”
    Brixton nodded.
    “Doesn’t sound familiar but I’ll keep an eye out. What’s the assignment you’re on?”
    Brixton finished the calamari and beer and promised Lazzara that he’d stop back on his way home and tell him about it.
    He drove to the address given him by the attorney and parked a few houses down on the opposite side of the street. The wife’s car as described sat in the driveway. He looked at his watch: 7:45. The minute he looked up, the wife came from the house, got into her car, backed from the driveway, and drove off. Brixton fell in behind at a discreet distance.
    He assumed that if she was going to a girlfriend’s house, it wouldn’t be far. But as they continued to travel, the husband’s suspicions became more plausible. The route took them out of the residential area and to a highway leading south. It was twenty minutes past eight when she exited and turned into a motel parking