Would he follow through on what he’d said that morning and leave his job behind, walk away in one piece and with his head held high for having made Washington a better, safer city? She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer that he would, before a stroke or heart attack or cancer dashed that dream.
FOUR
When Jackson and Hall arrived at headquarters on Indiana Avenue a little after noon, they were told that Hatcher was in a meeting upstairs with the white shirts. They passed the time talking with other detectives until Hatcher walked into the room at twelve-thirty.
“What’s up?” Hall asked.
“Nice outfit,” Hatcher said to Hall, referring to the black slacks and sweater she wore. “Goes nice with your black hair.”
“Thanks.”
Hatcher looked at Jackson. “You ever wear anything besides that jacket with the patches on the sleeves?”
“No,” Jackson replied, tempted to say that Hatcher’s suit looked like he’d slept in it.
“Here’s the drill,” Hatcher said. “Our esteemed leaders looked at the tapes, at least the portions I flagged for them. That cop at the academy, Mary, is Al Manfredi. There’s somebody else we didn’t recognize.” He consulted a note he’d written. “Lewis Archer. He’s a well-connected lobbyist with hooks into the White House. So, it looks like we’ve got a few jerks to interview.”
“Where do we start?” Jackson asked.
“With Congressman Slade Morrison, champion of the people of Arizona. I want you to call his office, Mary, and set up an appointment.”
“Why me?”
“A woman’s less threatening.”
Jackson saw the wisdom of having Mary make the call, but doubted that it had been Hatcher’s idea. More likely it came from one of the chiefs with whom Hatcher had been conferring. Approaching Congressman Morrison was sensitive; sensitivity wasn’t Hatcher’s strong suit.
“Here’s the number, Mary,” Hatcher said. “See if you can set up something for later today. In the meantime, the three of us will pay a visit to this Lewis Archer character. Depending on what happens with the congressman, you two get hold of Manfredi, maybe swing by the academy, remind him that you were a student, Mary, get him in a chatty mood, catch him with his pants down, too.” He chuckled at his witticism. “I’ll take care of Joe Yankavich. I know the creep. We on the same page?”
Hatcher and Jackson waited, and watched, while Mary made her call to Congressman Morrison’s office in the Cannon House Office Building.
“This is MPD Detective Mary Hall,” she told the staffer who answered. “Is the congressman available?”
There was a pause as Mary listened to the response. “It’s a police matter,” she said.
Another long pause. “Congressman Morrison? This is MPD Detective Mary Hall. We’d like to speak with you about a homicide last night in Adams Morgan.… That’s right. The victim was a Rosalie Curzon. She was a prostitute and… Oh, yes, sir, I am serious. We have reason to believe that… What?… Sir, all I’m asking is that we have the opportunity to sit down with you and ask a few questions.… Sir, I’m not accusing you of anything. If you’d prefer, we can just stop at your office and… No, sir, I’m not threatening anything.… What? Yes, I think sometime tomorrow would be acceptable.… What? You’ll pick the place?” (She glanced over at Hatcher, who nodded.) “Yes, sir, that will be fine.… You’ll call? Here’s my cell number, Congressman. I’ll expect to hear from you by the end of today. Thank you, sir.”
“Smooth, honey,” Hatcher said when Mary hung up.
“He sounded nervous,” Mary said.
“Good,” said Hatcher. “Make him squirm.” He laughed. “I hope it’s him, you know? I’d love to take down one of those arrogant congressional bastards.”
Before heading for Archer’s office on K Street—Washington lobbyists’ street of dreams—they Googled the name. Prior to joining a lobbying firm with six names, including his own, he’d been a two-term congressman from California. Defeated in a bid for a third term, he ended up with a cushy job in the Defense Department’s procurement branch. After eleven years buying $12,000 ashtrays and $14,000 toilet seats, he jumped to what had become known as the “fourth branch of government,” lobbying his former employer on behalf of defense-contractor clients. A photo of him prompted Hall to ask, “Do you figure those are his own teeth?”
“Bright, huh?” Hatcher said. “Break out the sunglasses.”
A receptionist told them that Mr. Archer was in a meeting.
“Get him out of it,” Hatcher said. “He’ll be meeting with us.”
His tone told the receptionist that to argue wasn’t prudent, nor would it accomplish anything. She left her desk and disappeared into the recesses of the firm. A few minutes later, Archer accompanied her to the reception area. The smile he flashed was as white as the monogrammed shirt he wore. “I understand you want to see me,” he said. “Is something wrong?”
“We just need a few minutes with you,” Jackson said, extending his hand and introducing Hatcher and Hall. “You have a conference room that’s not being used?”
“This won’t take long, will it?”
No one replied.
“This way,” he said, and led them to a large conference room, where they sat at a huge oblong cherry table. “What’s this about?” he asked once they’d settled in the guest chairs.
“We’re investigating a murder that happened last night,” Hatcher said. “In Adams Morgan.”
“A murder?” Archer said, brow furrowed. “That’s terrible. But what does it have to do with me?”
“The victim was a prostitute,” Jackson said. “Her name was Rosalie Curzon.”
The three detectives sat silently and waited for him to respond verbally, although anything he might say was negated by the knowing expression on his deeply tanned face.
“Are you suggesting that I knew this woman?” he finally said.
Hatcher offered what passed for a smile. “Are you suggesting that you didn’t know her, Mr. Archer?”
“What if I did? I mean, I had nothing to do with her murder, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“When did you last see her?” Jackson asked.
Archer pressed his eyes shut as though that would help jog his memory. When he opened them he said, “Months ago. At least two months ago.”
“Sure about that?” Mary Hall asked.
“I can’t be sure about a date,” he said, “but I know it was a long time ago. How did you know I knew her?”
“You starred in one of her movies,” Hatcher said.
“Her movies?” He slapped the side of his head. “Oh, no, don’t tell me she made tapes of her…”
“Johns,” Hatcher filled in for him.
“Jesus,” he muttered, and laughed. “I can’t believe this.”
“Where were you last night?” Hall asked.
“Last night?”
“That’s what the lady said,” Hatcher growled.
“I was… let me see… I was with my wife. Hey, there’s no need to drag my family into this… is there?”
“Where were you and your wife last night?” Hall followed up.
“We went out to dinner. I worked late and—”
“How late?”
“I don’t know, eight, eight-thirty.”
“Anybody here testify to that?” Jackson asked.
“Sure. No. I mean, the place cleared out around seven. I was here alone after that.”
“Sure you didn’t decide to drop in on Ms. Curzon before having dinner with your wife?” Hatcher said. “You know, get a piece before hooking up with the missus.”
“I resent that,” Archer said, not sounding as though he did. It seemed the thing to say.
“She resented getting her head bashed in,” Hatcher said. “How’d you end up with her, Mr. Archer? You look up hookers in the Yellow Pages?”
“I don’t think I should be talking to you,” Archer said. “I don’t like the way this is sounding.”
“Please answer Detective Hatcher’s question,” Jackson said. “How did you first become a client of Ms. Curzon’s?”
“A friend of mine told me about her.”
“Who was that?” Hall followed up.
“I don’t want to involve other people.”
“Suit yourself,” said Hatcher. “Maybe your wife will remember the names of your friends.”
“This is harassment,” Archer said.
They stared at him.
“All right, a friend of mine named Jimmy told me about Rosalie.”
“Jimmy have a last name?”
“Patmos. Jimmy Patmos. He’s Senator Barrett’s chief-of-staff.”
Hall noted the name on her pad.
“Look, if you talk to him, don’t say that I gave you his name, okay? I do a lot of business with him and the senator.”
“Know of anyone else who availed themselves of Ms. Curzon’s services?” Jackson asked.
“No.”
Hatcher stood and tossed his card on the table. “Give me a call if you think of anything else that might help us. By the way, where did you and the missus have dinner last night?”
“Charlie Palmer’s.”
“Expense account, huh?” Hatcher said.
“It is expensive,” Archer agreed.
“Have a good day, Mr. Archer,” Jackson said as they left the room.
“What’a you think?” Hatcher asked as they climbed into their car.
“I don’t think he killed her,” Hall offered.
“Based on what?” Hatcher asked as he pulled away.
“Gut feeling.”
“A woman’s instinct?” Hatcher said. “Not worth a damn.”
“If she feels that way,” Jackson said, “I think she’s entitled to it.”
“Right, and present that to a jury.” He added dramatically: “ ‘My instincts tell me, Your Honor, that the accused did it.’ Beautiful.”
The two younger detectives fell silent. Hall smiled. Jackson clenched his fists and looked out the window.
Jackson and Hall checked out an unmarked car at headquarters and headed for the Maurice T. Turner, Jr., Metropolitan Police Academy in Southwest.
“You okay?” Hall asked from the driver’s seat.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“He really gets to you, doesn’t he?”
“Hatch? I try not to let him.”
She laughed. “You should try a little harder, Matt.”
“He’s a racist.”
“That’s pretty harsh. He’s just old-school.”
“What’s that mean, lynching’s okay?”
“You know I don’t mean that.”
“Williams and Shrank are considering filing a bias complaint against him.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“He evidently got into it with them the other day, called them stupid, said there’s proof that blacks’ IQs are lower than whites’, the usual garbage from him.”
“Do you think they’ll follow through?”
“All I know is that I can’t wait to get transferred to another unit.”
“You won’t miss me?”
“Why? You planning on staying with him?”
“Hey, Matt, I’m no fan of Hatch either, but the job’s the thing. He’s a good cop.”
“A good old-school cop, as you say. That’s a whitewash, Mary.”
She fell silent. They’d had few conversations about their racial difference since becoming intimately involved. She knew and respected his sensitivity about the subject and avoided that topic.
He shifted gears. “How do we approach Manfredi?” he asked.
“I think Hatch is right. I’ll mention that I was one of his students, sort of like we’re just stopping in to say hello. I’ll keep it light and then you bring up the homicide.”
“Good cop, bad cop,” he muttered.
“If you have a better suggestion I’ll—”
“No, no, that’s the way to go. Sure, you set him up and I’ll hit him with the real reason we’re there.”
• • •
After splitting off from Hall and Jackson, Hatcher drove to Adams Morgan and parked in front of Joe’s Bar and Grille. Its owner, Joe Yankavich, was behind the bar when Hatcher entered. He had the place to himself. The detective grabbed a stool at the far end of the bar. “Hello, Joe,” he said.
“Hello, Hatcher. You on duty? What, a Diet Coke or a Shirley Temple?”
“A Bloody Mary, Joe, and a burger. You got any chopped meat that hasn’t been in the freezer for a month?”
The burly owner ignored the comment and shouted through an opening to the kitchen.
“With fried onions,” Hatcher said.
“Fried onions on that burger,” Yankavich instructed.
Hatcher watched as Yankavich mixed his Bloody Mary and wondered what it would be liked to tangle with the bar owner. He was a bear of a man, with a barrel chest, shaved head, and massive arms that strained against the sleeves of the red shirt he wore. A bush of chest hair protruded through the open upper buttons. He plopped Hatcher’s drink down in front of him.
“Hey, Joe…” Hatcher said.
Yankavich turned and glared. “You here to break my chops today, Hatcher?”
Hatcher grinned. “Why would you say that, Joe? I never break chops.”
“And Congress isn’t on the take,” Yankavich snorted.
Hatcher waited until his burger had been served before saying anything else to Yankavich. He ate enthusiastically, having poured on plenty of ketchup. A few locals arrived and took tables to the rear of the place. Hatcher finished eating and summoned the owner.
“You want dessert, Hatcher?”
Hatcher shook his head.
“Good to see you,” said Yankavich. “The burger’s on me.” He pulled an envelope from the rear pocket of his pants and slid it across the bar. Hatcher picked it up and put it in his inside jacket pocket.
“We need to talk,” Hatcher said.
“About what?”
“In the back.”
Yankavich left the bar and retreated into a closet-sized back room that functioned as an office and storeroom. Hatcher followed. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, arms folded.
“You know a pretty lady named Rosalie, Joe?” Hatcher asked.
Yankavich looked up from his chair behind the desk. “Huh?”
“Rosalie Curzon,” Hatcher said. “She lived in the neighborhood.”
Yankavich exhaled loudly and sat back. “I heard,” he said. “It’s all over the street. Somebody whacked her last night, as I understand it.”
“You know her, Joe? She was a customer?”
“No. She never came in here.”
“So, you knew her.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“If you didn’t know her, Joe, how could you be sure she never came in here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I met her once or twice.”
“You send her customers?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hatcher.”
“Come on, now, Joe. We both know you run broads out of here, and some of that white stuff that goes up the nose. I mean, not you personally, but you—how shall I say it?—condone it. Right?”
“That’s what you want to talk about, Hatcher?”
“What’d she charge, Joe?”
“Huh?”
“Her fee for a trip to heaven. How much?”
“You’re blowing smoke, Hatcher.”
“You visit the lovely Ms. Curzon last night?”
“Hey, wait a minute, Hatcher. What the hell are you getting at?”
“We know you were a customer of hers, Joe. It’s on tape.”
“What?”
“Where were you last night?”
“Right here.”
“I suppose there’s an army who’ll testify to that.”
Yankavich’s grin was crooked, his large lips moist. “That’s right,” he
said.
“What’d she do, Joe, call you Godzilla or something?”
Yankavich stood. “Unless you got somebody who puts me at her place last night, I’ve got customers to take care of,” he said. He moved toward the door, but Hatcher stood his ground. They were a foot from each other.
“I’m just doing my job, Joe, that’s all. Somebody gets murdered, I go find who did it. I believe you when you say you weren’t with her last night, but if I find out different, I’ll do my job.”
Hatcher stepped aside to allow Yankavich to open the door and leave the tiny room. He extracted the envelope from his pocket, opened it, counted the bills it contained, returned it to his pocket, and stepped back into the restaurant. He went to where he’d been sitting and laid money on the bar. “Good burger, Joe. There’s a tip there, too. Thanks for the offer, but freebies are against the rules.”
• • •
Officer Al Manfredi was on a training field teaching a class in defensive maneuvers when Jackson and Hall arrived. He noticed them standing just outside the door but didn’t acknowledge them.
After ten minutes, he dismissed the class and fell in line with his students as they headed for the door.
“Officer Manfredi,” Mary Hall said as he approached.
“Yeah?”
“I’m Mary Hall. I was in your class a few years ago.”
“Oh, sure, Mary Hall. Hail Mary.” He laughed. “That’s what they used to call you.”
She, too, laughed. “I remember it well. This is my partner, Detective Jackson.”
Jackson and Manfredi shook hands. Jackson’s immediate thought was that up close, Manfredi looked like the comedian Don Rickles. A stiff wind over the open area sent the few strands of hair Manfredi possessed into action.
“So, what brings you back to the old stomping ground? Refresher course or just hanging out?”
“Actually,” Mary said, “we need to talk with you.”
Murder Inside the Beltway Page 3
