Monument to Murder by Margaret Truman Page B

lot.
    Here we go, Brixton said to himself as he took a parking spot two cars removed. He pulled an expensive digital camera with a monster telephoto lens from the case and rolled down his window. She got out of the car, fluffed her hair, straightened her miniskirt, and crossed the lot in the direction of the rooms. Brixton had never been to a Tupperware party but doubted whether women at them would be dressed the way she was.
    As trysts go, this one proved easy for Brixton. The door she paused at had a bright light over it that afforded plenty of illumination for the camera. Too, the motel’s name in red neon was low enough above the door to be in the frame. The wife turned before knocking, as though to make sure that no one was watching ( She should only know, Brixton thought), and he squeezed off a rapid-fire series of shots catching her full-face. The man with whom she was rendezvousing stepped outside to greet her with an embrace, giving Brixton a clear shot of him, too.
    They disappeared inside. Brixton checked to see that the photos had come out—they were excellent quality—and replaced the camera in the case. Two hours later, after dictating his observations and times in the digital recorder, he drove off with mixed emotions. He was pleased at how easy it had been. The husband would have proof of his wife’s infidelity, the attorney would look good for having hired the right PI, and Brixton was spared a succession of future evenings hoping to catch her in the act. On the other hand, he’d intruded into someone’s personal life, an intrusion that would result in pain for everyone involved. He felt anything but proud as he made his way back to the city but knew he’d feel better once he’d picked up the lawyer’s second check.
    Lazzara’s Restaurant was busier than when Brixton had been there earlier. All the tables were taken, and four of the five stools at the bar were occupied. Brixton took the vacant one and ordered a scotch and water. Lazzara, who was bartending, asked, “How’d it go?”
    “Fine. An easy one.”
    Lazzara leaned over the bar. “That guy who was in earlier looking for you came back. Not long after you left.”
    “Asking for me again?”
    “No. He had a drink and some pasta and left.”
    Brixton thought of his trashed office and wondered if there was a connection between this stranger and the break-in.
    “You want something to eat?” Lazzara asked.
    “Yeah, that’d be great.”
    “I’ve got an eggplant special.”
    “I don’t eat eggplant.”
    “That’s right. I forgot. The usual?”
    “That’ll be fine.”
    The couple next to him tried to engage him in conversation but he wasn’t in the mood for chitchat with strangers. He politely disengaged and focused on his veal parmigiana. The couple left, as did most of the diners at tables. Lazzara joined Brixton on his side of the bar.
    “Put it on my bill, Ralph.”
    “Sure. Tell me more about what happened at your office.”
    Brixton filled him in, and told him of his surveillance that night of the wayward wife without mentioning names. “Did the guy asking for me look like the type who’d break in someplace?”
    “Not the way he was dressed. Like I said, sharp dresser, expensive suit, fancy tie. You think there’s maybe a connection?”
    “Probably not.” Brixton stood and clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “The veal was great, Ralph. It’s been a long day.”
    “You look beat. Go crash. It’ll do you good.”
    Brixton took his case of electronic gear and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The rain that had soaked the city earlier had cleared, leaving Savannah in a soupy, humid mist that made it hard to breathe. He headed in the direction of the building in which his one-bedroom apartment was located, eager to strip down, take a shower, and bask in the AC. The street was quiet, the few small stores that lined his route closed for the night, heavy metal gates secured over their windows and doors.
    As he