Monument to Murder by Donald Bain

Author:Donald Bain [Bain, Donald]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9781429977470
Goodreads: 11479502
Publisher: Forge Books
Published: 2011-07-05T00:00:00+00:00

PART

THREE

CHAPTER 22

Cynthia Higgins was crying when Brixton walked into the office carrying a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” he asked.

“Jim … got … fired … last … night,” she said, each word punctuated by a sob.

“Sorry to hear it,” he said. “What happened?”

She blew her nose with gusto and drew some deep breaths. “He got into a fight with a customer on the ghost tour, some big, fat older guy with a snootful of booze and with a girl young enough to be his daughter.”

“Always nice to see fathers treat their daughters to a night out.”

“Daughter? Hell! Anyway, this drunk starts giving Jim a hard time, telling him the tour stinks and that Jim doesn’t know squat about Savannah ghosts.”

Brixton saw it coming and grimaced.

“So Jim tells him off in no uncertain terms, and the drunk calls the tour agency and they ream Jim out. Turns out this slob has political and business connections in Georgia and threatened to put the agency out of business. That’s it! Jim gets canned.”

“Well,” Brixton said, “Jim is—was—in the people business.”

Cynthia flared. “Which doesn’t mean he has to take guff from anybody.”

Brixton held up his hands. “No, of course not,” he agreed. “I’m sure he’ll find another job soon. There’s got to be a dozen ghost-tour operators in the city.”

“His boss told him he needs anger management classes.”

“Yeah, well, maybe he should look for another line of work.”

“Maybe I should look for another husband. Sorry. I know it’s not your problem, Bob. These calls came in earlier this morning.”

Brixton took the slips of paper she handed him into his office and sat behind his desk, feet up on it. Two of the messages promised new clients, including another restaurant owner who wanted to establish surveillance on two employees he suspected of skimming. The third was from Detective Wayne St. Pierre.

“Hello there,” St. Pierre said when Brixton returned the call. “And how are you, sir?”

“Not bad. You called.”

“As a matter of fact I did. I have good news for you.”

“I’m always up for good news.”

“We’ve found your missing camera and recorder.”

Brixton swung his feet off the desk and straightened up in his chair. “Where?”

“A pawnshop in the Lamara Heights district.”

“You canvassed them?”

“Not exactly. We did put out a bulletin to pawnshops describing the missing items. That doesn’t usually amount to anything, but this particular law-abiding owner called and said he had them. Obviously looking for the citizen-of-the-year award.”

“When did this happen?” Brixton asked.

“This morning. I thought you’d want to come with me to talk with the owner.”

“Yeah, I’d like that very much.”

St. Pierre gave him the address and they agreed to meet there in a half hour.

The pawnshop was in a row of seedy one-story buildings that had gone through a succession of owners and small businesses; gentrification wasn’t spoken there yet. St. Pierre and Brixton arrived at the same time and entered the shop, where a wizened old man stood behind a small counter protected by Plexiglas panels. St. Pierre announced who they were and why they were there and they were buzzed into the owner’s cramped domain.

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