Murder Inside the Beltway

by Margaret Truman

  His pleasant façade abruptly changed to stone. “About what?” he asked.

  “It’s about a homicide we caught last night,” Jackson said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Jackson said. “A prostitute in Adams Morgan, name Rosalie Curzon.”

  This time, Manfredi’s smile was forced. “Looks like you were in the wrong place, wrong time, huh? I’m glad I don’t catch cases any more; keep me up all night. Sorry, but I’ve got a ton of paperwork to do.”

  They followed him inside.

  “Officer Manfredi,” Jackson said as they walked closely behind him down a long hallway, “we have reason to believe that you were acquainted with the victim.”

  Manfredi slowed his pace like a mechanical figure whose batteries have run out, stopped, turned, and said, “What the hell are you two, IA?”

  “No, we’re not from Internal Affairs,” Jackson said. “Look, can we sit down someplace alone and go over this?”

  “Get lost,” the academy instructor said, resuming his march up the hallway, with Jackson and Hall in close pursuit.

  “We know you were one of the victim’s customers,” Jackson said loud enough to be heard over the sound of their shoes on the hard floor.

  Manfredi never broke stride as he walked through an open doorway and slammed the door shut. Hall and Jackson looked through the window and saw him disappear into another room.

  “I don’t think he wants to talk to us,” Jackson said.

  “Looks that way.”

  “Do we keep after him?”

  She shook her head. “We report back what transpired here and let the department handle it.”

  Her cell phone rang. She walked away from Jackson and spoke with the caller out of earshot. When she’d finished, she returned and said, “Congressman Morrison’s office. We’re on for eleven tomorrow, the Crystal City Marriott.”

  “A hotel?”

  “I suppose the congressman doesn’t want to be seen with us in the District. I’ll call Hatcher.”

  “He wants us to go back to Adams Morgan and help a team that’s canvassing the neighborhood,” she reported after talking to Hatcher. “We meet up with him in the morning, eight sharp. Come on, let’s get it over with. Dinner’s on me.”

  FIVE

  That morning, Deborah Colgate was escorted onto the Boeing 757 jet ahead of other passengers. She occupied the window seat in the front row of first class. The aisle seat had also been booked for her and would remain vacant for the duration of the flight from San Francisco to Washington Dulles International Airport. The two Secret Service agents assigned to her for this trip took up positions in the aisle seat across from her, and on the aisle in the row behind.

  The senior flight attendant who’d gotten her settled asked if she wanted something to drink.

  “Orange juice would be fine,” Deborah replied.

  She put on a set of earphones attached to her iPod, sipped her juice, placed the empty glass on her tray, and closed her eyes. It had been a hectic week; but then again, every week was hectic since her husband, Robert, had won his party’s primary and was now running for president against the incumbent.

  Deciding to run against Burton Pyle had come easily to Bob Colgate. He’d had his eye on the White House since first entering politics as a Maryland state legislator, advancing through the ranks to become the majority leader of the state senate, and then going on to the governorship. When his four-year term expired, he declined to seek reelection, instead quietly focusing on an eventual run for the White House, putting together a formidable team and calling in his chips, along with filling his campaign coffers with plenty of cash before tossing his hat into the crowded primary.

  He placed second in the Iowa caucuses and rolled to wins in New Hampshire and South Carolina. With those victories under his belt, the Colgate steamroller dominated the field in subsequent primaries, culminating in a rousing acceptance speech at his party’s convention that filled the faithful with confidence that “Handsome Bob” would crush the sitting president, whose administration was rife with scandal, military misadventures, diplomatic gaffes, and fiscal irresponsibility. That Colgate had chosen a woman as his running mate, Ohio Senator Maureen McDowell, only added to the ticket’s appeal, a melding of north and south, male and female, experience in managing a state and navigating Congress.

  What a team!

  Couldn’t miss!

  Or could it?

  The campaign had become ugly. Deborah Colgate’s husband’s reputation as a ladies’ man and serial adulterer had been kept front-and-center by Pyle’s people. The Pyle reelection team was headed by the president’s longtime political guru, Kevin Ziegler. Ziegler had masterminded Pyle’s political climb from his earliest days as the son of a wealthy Florida businessman who’d made his fortunes in shipbuilding, an international food trading company, and as owner of two professional sports franchises. Burton had shown little interest in following in his father’s business footsteps, and dabbled in various pursuits until someone suggested he run for state office. He won handily, outspending his opponent tenfold, and by following the instructions at every turn offered by his campaign manager, Ziegler, with whom he’d become friendly.

  Ziegler had been enthralled by politics since his teen years, and graduated at the top of his class as an undergraduate in political science at the University of Miami. He achieved the same ranking when earning his MBA and Ph.D in the same discipline at the University of Chicago. He lived and breathed politics, although his interest was not in holding elected office. For him, the power didn’t rest with elected officials. The power, the real power, was vested in those behind the throne who pulled the strings and achieved their goals through officeholders. It seemed to Ziegler that he had in Pyle the perfect specimen—and he viewed him in those terms—to put into play what had become by now his keenly honed views of how the nation, and the world, should be, and could be reshaped. Pyle was personable and easygoing, a comfortable glad-hander, the sort of candidate voters might enjoy having a beer with, or joining in a friendly softball game. He wasn’t stupid, but lacked intellectual curiosity, disinterested in delving beneath the surface of any issue. In a word, he was malleable, the most important trait from Ziegler’s point of view. Too, there was the Pyle family money to draw upon. Old man Pyle was impressed when Ziegler first broached the subject with him of his son seeking higher office, perhaps reaching for something as lofty as president. While he had always been disdainful of the way Joe Kennedy had used his wealth and power to help his sons achieve high political office, his view of that family had more to do with Kennedy politics than the process. This was different. Ziegler espoused a political viewpoint that matched that of the elder Pyle, and he eagerly signed on to the packaging and nurturing of his son, Burton Pyle, who sometimes seemed bewildered by it but who happily went along.

  It worked. Through Ziegler’s careful attention to every detail, every speech, every position paper, every aspect of fundraising, he built an organization that propelled his “specimen” to the pinnacle of politics in America, the presidency of the United States.

  That the first Pyle administration had botched things at almost every turn meant little to Ziegler as the drive for a second term commenced. The administration’s failures weren’t the issue, not as long as you had a candidate like Robert Colgate, whose politics were anathema to Ziegler, and whose personal life was ripe for picking, for slandering, for raising doubts about the sort of moral leadership, or lack of it, he would bring to the highest office in the land. Keeping the ineffectual Pyle in the White House for a second term had become an obsession for the obsessive Ziegler.

  His surrogates had leaked reports by “knowledgeable sources within the Colgate campaign” that Colgate and his wife were close to splitting. These same “knowledgeable sources” reported late-night screaming matches between the couple, thrown objects, vile language. No matter how much Colgate denied the rumors, they had legs. One columnist, on Ziegler’s payroll, wen
t so far as to say that a Colgate presidency would turn 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue into a house of ill-repute.

  Accusations by women from Colgate’s days as governor of Maryland only fanned the flames. There were times when Deborah considered giving credence to the rumors by bailing out of both the campaign and the marriage. But to give in to personal considerations at this juncture would derail the other dimension of her partnership with Bob Colgate. She’d been as seduced by the lure of political power as he’d been, from the earliest days of their courtship and then marriage and throughout the rigors of elected office. You didn’t just walk away from being within months of occupying the White House, the wife of the most powerful leader in the world.

  The flight was uneventful, as most flights are, aside from a fellow passenger wanting to engage her in conversation. He was gently, but firmly, dissuaded by the agents. At times like this, the decision to fly commercially was brought into question. She would have been justified in using one of the campaign’s two leased 737s. After all, her trip to San Francisco was to address a woman’s fundraising dinner, which she’d done successfully—the event raised three-quarters of a million dollars, not bad for a night’s work. But it had been decided that making judicious use of commercial flights would add a needed common touch to the campaign, the future first lady rubbing elbows with the masses. Of course, “the masses” sat in the rear of the aircraft, their knees crushed by the seatbacks in front of them, their so-called snack lunch barely edible.

  As they began their descent, the flight attendant leaned across the vacant seat and said, “I probably shouldn’t be saying this, Mrs. Colgate, but you will be the prettiest first lady ever.”

  Deborah smiled and extended her hand. “Thank you so much. That’s very kind of you.”

  The flight attendant beamed. “Not only that,” she said, “I’m rooting for your husband.” She lowered her voice and leaned closer. “I don’t think President Pyle has been a very good president.”

  “I’ll pass that along to my husband,” Deborah said. “Thank you.”

  Two cars were at Dulles to meet her and the agents. They were driven into the District, where she was dropped off at the imposing townhouse she and her husband had purchased three years earlier. Although they maintained their home in suburban Bethesda, most of their time since the campaign started was spent in the more central Georgetown residence, one floor of which was used as an unofficial campaign strategy center.

  That evening, at a little before six, Deborah joined her husband in a private office off their bedroom.

  “I hear it went well,” he said.

  “Better than well,” she said, kicking off her shoes and settling in a large leather wing chair, feet drawn up beneath her. “They asked the right questions. The advance people did their job.”

  “The teachers’ union endorsement is tomorrow.”

  “Pyle’s record on education is abysmal.”

  “Did you catch up with Jerry while you were out there?”

  “Briefly. We crossed paths this morning.”

  Jerry Rollins, an inside-the-Beltway veteran of many political wars, was Colgate’s closest friend and advisor. Their relationship went back to Colgate’s earliest days in the Maryland senate. Rollins’s role in Colgate’s run for the presidency was unofficial, but everyone in the campaign knew that each important decision had to be cleared through him. Colleagues called Colgate and Rollins the “policy twins,” although their differences were obvious aside from parallel political beliefs. Colgate was movie star handsome, tall and trim and with a full head of sandy hair, penetrating blue eyes, and a boyish smile. He was also one of the best public speakers politics had seen in decades, someone who connected almost instantly with his audiences and who made each person in the audience feel he was talking directly to them. His grasp of the issues and their subtleties was impressive, as was his ability to turn every question, friendly or combative, into a positive for him.

  Rollins, considerably shorter than Colgate and reed thin, was quiet and introspective; no one ever applied the term “gregarious” to him. A lawyer, he’d forged a career in D.C. as a smooth negotiator and confidant, someone who kept secrets but who knew how to use them if necessary to advance a client’s agenda.

  “He’s due back anytime now,” Colgate said. “We’re meeting with people from the Congressional Black Caucus.”

  Deborah, who’d picked up a copy of the Washington Post from a table next to her chair, glanced up and said, “Good.”

  Colgate had been dressing for the evening. He finished adjusting his tie in the mirror and said, “You’ve got the night off. Lucky you.” He came to where she sat and leaned over to kiss her. She turned her head so that his lips only grazed her cheek. He started to say something, thought better of it, said he’d be late, and left the room.

  She sat staring at the newspaper, its words a blur as tears welled up. Soon, those tears rolled freely down her expertly made-up face. She got to her feet, threw the newspaper to the floor, went to the bedroom, where she stripped off her clothes, and got in the shower, the water as hot as she could stand it.

  SIX

  The meeting with six members of the Congressional Black Caucus was held at the home of one of Washington’s most influential African-American business leaders. Jerry Rollins was a half hour late and apologized. He’d come directly from the airport, with his luggage.

  They met for almost two hours. When it broke up, Colgate invited Rollins back to the house for a nightcap.

  “Another time, Bob. I need to get home and wash away the flight.” He smiled. “Ah, for the good old days before deregulation, when the airlines didn’t treat you like cattle, or worse. It’s disgraceful, an issue you might consider attacking. Deborah got back okay?”

  “Yeah. She said you two crossed paths this morning in San Francisco.”

  “She did? That’s right. In the hotel lobby.”

  “How did it go out there?”

  “Fine. Looks like things will run smoothly when you arrive next week. Everything’s in place.”

  “Good. Thanks, Jerry. If I pull this off, it’ll be because of you.”

  “I think you might have had something to do with it,” Rollins said. “Let’s go. I still haven’t been home.”

  Colgate’s limo, followed by a car containing two Secret Service agents, dropped Rollins in front of his home in Foggy Bottom before depositing the presidential candidate at his townhouse.

  “Is Mrs. Colgate still awake?” Bob asked one of the household staff.

  “No, sir. She said she was dog-tired from the trip and was going to bed early. Can I get you anything, sir?”

  “I’d love bourbon in a snifter,” he said. “I’ll be in the library.”

  Jerry Rollins unpacked in his bedroom, showered, dressed in pajamas and robe, and padded downstairs to the kitchen, where his wife, Sue, sat drinking decaf tea and reading that day’s Washington Post.

  “How was the trip?” she asked.

  “Successful but tiring. How was your day?”

  “The usual. Busy. I spent most of it chauffeuring Sammy from one activity to another, and a party, too, of course.”

  Rollins laughed as he came around behind and massaged her shoulders through her robe.

  He’d married later in life than most of his friends; Sue was twelve years his junior. Their daughter, Samantha, “Sammy” to friends and family, was a precocious seven. There were times, many of them, when Rollins found it hard to believe that the beautiful, bright, delightful little creature was actually his daughter, wide-eyed and trusting in his love and that of her mother. She’d never have to doubt their love and devotion. It was total and unconditional. The world, however, was another story. He sometimes wondered how any child grew up, considering the threats out there, illness, accidents, bad deeds. If he could, he would wrap her in an impenetrable sheath and never allow the world to touch her. If only that were an option.

  After downing his nightly ration of vitamin pills, h
e said he was going to bed. He stopped in front of Samantha’s bedroom and peered into the darkened room, the only illumination a clown night-light. He quietly stepped into the room and sat on the edge of her bed, observed her steady breathing and the small, sweet smile on her lips. Sensing his presence, she opened her eyes and said sleepily, “Daddy’s home.”

  “That’s right, sweetheart, Daddy’s home.”

  “Did you bring me something?”

  “Of course I did.” He hadn’t. “I left it at the office. I’ll bring it home tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “You go back to sleep now. I’ll see you at breakfast before you go to school.”

  “All right.”

  She turned over and buried her face in the pillow. He adjusted her covers and sat for a few minutes before going to the master bedroom and climbing into bed next to Sue. “Good night, hon,” he said.

  “Good night. Was Deborah there with you in San Francisco?”

  “Yes, but I only saw her briefly this morning.”

  “Good night,” she repeated. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  SEVEN

  Before meeting Mae for dinner at Amalfi’s, a family-owned restaurant not far from their home, Hatcher made a few stops after leaving Joe’s Bar and Grille.

  The first was the apartment building where Rosalie Curzon had been murdered. He was about to enter when Jackson and Hall approached. They’d been questioning residents of nearby buildings and were about to call it a day.

  “Pick up anything?” Hatcher asked.

  “No,” Mary Hall said, “except that the victim’s profession wasn’t a secret to some people.”

  “They knew she was turning tricks?”

  “Those willing to admit it,” said Jackson. “She evidently had a favorite hangout, The Silver Veil, around the corner.”

  “You checked with them?”

  “Yes. The owner—maybe he’s the manager—he says that she used to come in pretty regularly with a friend.”