“Male?”
“Female. He gave us her name.”
Jackson fished a slip of paper from his pocket and read from it: “Micki Simmons.”
“Mickey?”
“The female version. M-i-c-k-i.”
“You get an address for this female Mouse?”
“No. We just left the place.”
“I’ll follow up on it,” Hatcher said, taking the paper from Jackson. “What happened with Manfredi? You get to talk to him?”
They filled him in on their brief, abrasive encounter with the instructor.
“I’ll take it from here,” Hatcher said.
“We were about to call it quits for the night,” Hall said. “That okay with you?”
“Half a day, huh?” They stared at him. “Lots to do. See you at eight sharp.”
Hatcher watched them walk away and wondered if there might be more to their relationship than being cops. He’d had that suspicion before, but always dismissed it as implausible. They had nothing in common. They weren’t even the same color.
He went inside and found the Hispanic superintendent, whose expression at seeing the big, menacing Hatcher again was less than welcoming.
“You decide to be straight with me now, José?” Hatcher asked.
“I know nothing,” the super responded. “I swear it. She was a nice lady, that’s all I know. No money from her. I get no money.”
Hatcher grinned and patted the super on his shoulder. “Okay, amigo, relax. But what about the men who visited her, her customers? You must have seen lots of them.”
The super shrugged. “They come, they go, like everybody in the building.”
“You wouldn’t remember what any of them looked like if I showed you some pictures?”
He shook his head.
“You’re sure about that?”
“Sí. Yes.”
“All right, buddy,” Hatcher said, adding an additional slap on the shoulder, harder. “I’ll be back. We’ll talk again.”
Hatcher next drove to Constitution Avenue on Capitol Hill, where he pulled up in front of Charlie Palmer Steak House. He went inside and asked to see the manager, who happened to be the man he’d approached.
“Walt Hatcher, MPD,” Hatcher said, showing his gold badge.
“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”
“I need to know if a certain person had dinner here last night.”
“Who is that?”
“Lewis Archer. He’s a lobbyist. I understand a lot of them come here.”
The manager smiled. “Oh, yes, of course. Mr. Archer is a regular customer. He was here last night with his wife. Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong. I’m just touching all the bases. You remember what time he and his wife showed up?”
The manager frowned. “Let me check.” He returned a few minutes later holding a computer printout. “He got here at quarter of nine. They sat right over there. He likes that particular table.”
“They arrive together?”
“Ah, no, as a matter of fact. She got here first, but that’s not unusual. Mr. Archer tends to run late.” He laughed. “He has a very understanding wife.”
“I guess he does. Thanks for the info.”
“Anytime. I hope Mr. Archer isn’t in some sort of trouble.”
“Not at all. Just routine checking. Have a good night, pal.”
He preceded Mae to Amalfi’s and enjoyed a drink with one of the owners while waiting for her. She arrived on time and they were shown to a table.
“How was your day?” she asked.
“Nothing new and exciting. I’m glad I left early. Calamari to start?”
They ordered a bottle of Chianti with the calamari. A waiter poured the shimmering red wine into their glasses, and they touched rims. Mae observed him across the small corner table. Her husband of many years seemed to have aged unreasonably over the past year, gray bags beneath his eyes more pronounced now, the sparkle in his green eyes muted. He’d been taking medicine for an enlarged heart since his last physical, which was three years ago, and a nagging pain in his lower back, along with a knee that the orthopedist said needed replacing, caused him to walk differently. Hatcher was a stubborn man when it came to medicine—when it came to most things—and he seldom complained about his physical ailments. Of course, Mae reasoned, she was getting older, too, and undoubtedly didn’t look the same to him either.
But she didn’t suffer the strain and tensions of his job. She’d read many articles about how police work, particularly in large cities, took its toll on cops, and on their families, too. The divorce and suicide rates for cops were far above the average. To spend each day going to gruesome murder scenes was bound to change a man, she knew, and not for the better. The few friends they had through Hatch’s work were bitter and cynical, men hardened by their daily routines, their women cautious in the way they approached them.
“Florida’s looking better every day,” he said.
“I spoke with Christina today,” Mae said, pleased that the topic had come up. “I told her that you might retire and that we’d move to the house in Florida and—” He was frowning. “That’s okay, isn’t it, that I told her?”
“What? Yeah, sure. I stopped at Charlie Palmer Steak House on my way here, had to ask about some lobbyist who had dinner there last night. You know what they get for a steak there, a porterhouse? A zillion bucks, Mae. A lot of fat-cats eat there, dropping a bill or two on a meal.” He shook his head. “I got in the wrong business.”
She was sorry that the conversation had now veered in this direction without provocation. It was something he tended to dwell on when his spirits were low, the disparity in pay between people like cops and firemen, who actually did something good for the community, and those who became rich by simply pushing money around, or using it to buy influence.
She placed her hand on his. “I think you got into the right business, Walter. It’s something you always wanted to be, a detective helping people, putting the bad guys away so they can’t hurt anyone else. As for money, you’ve been a wonderful provider for me and our three children. The mortgage is paid off on both houses, the kids all graduated from college, and we can go out for dinner like this anytime we want. What more could we ask for?”
A grin crossed Hatcher’s broad face. “You always see the bright side, don’t you, Mae?”
“Only because—”
“No, I mean that as a compliment. For you, the glass is always half-full, and that’s a good thing. Maybe if I turn in the badge and soak up some of that Florida sun, I’ll see things the way you do.”
“That would be great,” she said, beaming. “Are you having the usual, osso buco?”
“Yeah. You, shrimp scampi?”
“Yes. We know each other pretty well, don’t we, Walt?”
“After all these years, we’d better,” he said, not stating his second thought, that he was lucky to have her as his wife.
EIGHT
Like every other step in the campaign, the announcement of Colgate’s endorsement by the nation’s teachers was smoothly choreographed. It was held on the steps of an inner-city public school, in a predominately black neighborhood. The school had recently been cited for the excellence of its teaching staff, and many of them were on hand at eleven o’clock that morning, along with a select group of students turned out in their Sunday best. With a half-dozen American flags flapping in the background, the association’s president took to a portable podium and welcomed the assembled. Bob and Deborah Colgate stood to the side, the kids grouped in front of them, allowing Colgate to banter with them and to occasionally run a hand over a head, all of which was dutifully captured by video and still photographers. Deborah wore a stunning beige suit, white blouse, and an equally stunning perpetual smile.
“Where’s Jerry?” Colgate whispered to his wife. “I thought he was supposed to be here.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she replied.
The association presi
dent was winding up his comments.
“…and so, my friends, after four years of neglect of our crucially important education system, it is with considerable pleasure that I am able to deliver to the next president of the United States the enthusiastic endorsement of more than three million dedicated men and women in whose classrooms the future leaders of this great nation are taught and nurtured.” His voice rose to a shout. “Robert Colgate!”
A Dixieland band broke into a spirited tune as Colgate and his wife came to the podium. He raised his hands high, his campaign smile ensuring that all was well and that there would be happy times ahead for the nation’s education system. After allowing the applause to ebb and the music to trail off, he launched into a fifteen-minute speech that sounded off-the-cuff, but that had been carefully crafted well in advance. He was good at sounding spontaneous. He ended by thanking the teacher’s union for its faith in him and the vision he had for the nation, particularly in its classrooms. He placed his arm around Deborah’s waist and gave a final wave before being led away to the waiting limousine.
Their Secret Service detail piled into two nearby cars. The chief agent assigned to the Colgate campaign had lobbied to have at least one agent in vehicles with the candidate and his wife at all times, but Colgate adamantly disagreed. “I need some private time,” he’d said, “and the backseat of a car provides it. No agents with us in cars!” He prevailed.
“Went well,” he commented after he and Deborah were in the secure confines of the limo.
“Did you expect it not to go well?” Deborah asked, her eyes fixed on the scene outside as the vehicle inched through the crowd.
“You never know,” he said, grabbing her hand. “Loosen up, Deb. We’re on a roll.”
She slid her hand from beneath his and said absently, her attention still focused on the passing scene, “I have a luncheon to get to. What’s next for you?”
“Interview at the Post.”
“They’ll ask about us.”
His laugh was forced. “They always do, and the answer is always the same.”
“Yes, it always is, isn’t it?”
He dialed Jerry Rollins’s number on his cell phone. “I thought you were planning to be at the teachers’ endorsement,” Colgate said sharply.
“I had a meeting come up at the last minute. Sorry. I saw some of it on TV. Looked like a home run, Bob.”
“I need to talk to you.”
They arranged to meet at Colgate’s Georgetown home at four.
Deborah was dropped off at the Ritz-Carlton in Georgetown, while her husband proceeded to the Washington Post’s offices on 15th Street, NW, where his press secretary, Linda Chu, waited with others. The interview lasted an hour. As expected, the question of whether there was a serious, potentially terminal rift in the Colgate marriage came up.
Colgate responded through a smile: “Deborah and I love each other and are totally committed to our marriage. She’ll make a terrific first lady, and I’m looking forward to enjoying the White House together for the next eight years.”
He returned to the house, went to the library, draped his jacket over a chair, kicked off his shoes, and dove into a new set of briefing papers and talking points provided by members of his staff. He was due to leave the following day for a two-day campaign swing through the Midwest. After an hour of digesting the material, he turned to the New York Times and Washington Post. A speech on the economy delivered by President Pyle received front page coverage in both publications, with the Post devoting two full columns. The reporters covering the speech pointed to inconsistencies in some of Pyle’s claims, which pleased Colgate and led him to a moment of introspection.
Colgate couldn’t imagine a weaker opponent to run against than the incumbent, Pyle, whose administration was viewed as perhaps the worst in modern history. The president’s approval numbers were in the mid-twenties, and there recently had been calls for his impeachment. While Pyle’s vulnerability was pleasing to Colgate from a pragmatic view—he’d have to stumble badly to lose to Pyle—it also served to reinforce his belief that he was the best person to lead the country and to undo the series of blunders made by the Pyle administration. There were no moments of self-doubt in the middle of the night, no questioning whether he was up to the job of president of the United States. As many voters and pundits said, anything—anyone—would do a better job of setting America back on course than Burton Pyle, a paranoid man whose visions were, at best, shortsighted and whose brain was putty in the hands of advisors.
He’d just started to peruse the inside pages when a personal assistant came into the library to tell his boss that he’d almost finished packing for the Midwest trip but had a few questions. He started to ask them when the housekeeper interrupted: “Mr. Rollins is here, Governor.”
Rollins replaced the assistant in the room, closing the door behind him.
“Good day, huh, Bob?” Rollins said, shedding his jacket.
“Yes, it was. But I’m concerned about the debate next week.”
Rollins frowned and shifted in his chair. “Anything in particular?”
“The constant focus on Deborah and me, the rumors about our marriage.”
“I can understand your frustration,” Rollins said, “but I don’t believe it will be raised in the debate.”
“Maybe not by the moderators, but Pyle will find a way to work it into the conversation. I can hear him now, saying how important it is to have a strong and loving first lady in the White house. Hell, his wife’s numbers are a lot better than his.”
Rollins was a man who took long pauses before responding to comments or questions, a calculated indication of a thoughtful nature. When he didn’t immediately respond, Colgate added, “It’s Deborah, Jerry. She refuses to address the issue.”
“She feels that it’s better to remain above the fray on issues like this, Bob. I agree with her.”
“I did. I don’t anymore. I sometimes wonder if she’s out to sabotage the campaign.”
“That’s ridiculous, Bob! She’s out there working hard for you.”
“I know that. She’s all business, but like an automaton. These rumors can become cumulative, corrosive.”
“Have you spoken with her?” Rollins asked.
“Sure. She refuses to discuss it, takes that so-called high road, not lowering herself to rumormongers.”
“Are you asking me to do something?”
“Talk to her.”
“Why do you think she’ll listen to me if she won’t discuss it with you? You’re her husband.” His easy laugh softened the comment.
Colgate looked at him but said nothing.
“I’ll mention it to her, Bob, at an opportune time.”
“Good.”
They spent the next hour going over the position papers Colgate had been reading. Rollins agreed with most, but took issue with some, which convinced Colgate to discard those. As Rollins slipped into his jacket in preparation for leaving, he asked casually, “You couldn’t convince Deborah to accompany you tomorrow?”
“She prefers the events in Virginia and Maryland. Closer to home.”
And less awkward, Rollins thought.
“Did you catch Maureen’s talk at the Press Club today?” Rollins asked, referring to Colgate’s running mate, Senator Maureen McDowell.
“No, but the club is sending a DVD.”
“She was wonderful, Bob, very strong and on-message.”
“Glad to hear it. Do you get a sense, Jerry, that Pyle has something, or someone, waiting in the wings to spring on us?”
“Not that I know of,” Rollins replied, “although you never know.”
“That’s my point, Jerry. If he does, I’d like to know.”
Rollins nodded. “Anything else?”
“No. Thanks for coming by. Sue and Samantha okay?”
“They’re fine. Thanks for asking.” He slipped on his jacket. “I’d better be going. Travel safe.”
“I’ll stay in touch.”
Rollins went directly to his downtown law office, where a pile of phone messages awaited him. He shuffled through them, creating piles based upon relative importance, and returned those calls that he considered most urgent. His secretary joined him and asked whether she could leave. It was her husband’s birthday and they were meeting friends for dinner.
“Sure, go on, Helen. My best to Jim. Tell him the only reason he stays youthful is because he married you.”
She laughed and promised to convey the message.
She left as one of Rollins’s young associates, Brian Massie, poked his head in the door. “Got a second?” he asked.
Rollins had hired Massie a year ago after the young attorney had put in a stint in the civil rights division at Justice. His education had been top-notch, head of his graduating class at Harvard Law and editor of the Law Review. That he’d grown disillusioned at Justice was no surprise to Rollins. President Pyle had stacked the agency with cronies and supporters; it was the most politicized Justice Department in history. Political concerns ran rampant over the law at every turn. The decision to hire Massie had been a good one. He’d quickly proved himself able to grasp the most complex of legal issues, and had forged a close relationship with his boss.
“Okay, Brian, but make it quick.”
They spent ten minutes going over a brief Massie was due to file the following morning.
“Looks good,” Rollins said. “Nice job.”
“Thanks, Jerry. Anything else for me?”
“No. Have a good evening.”
Now alone, Rollins went to a James Vann neo-cubist painting of a jazz musician hanging on the wall—Smoke Gets in Your Eyes; Rollins was a devoted jazz lover. He took it down and opened the wall safe behind it. He reached beneath dozens of envelopes and assorted documents and withdrew a smaller sealed envelope, which he took to his desk. He sat quietly, the envelope in his hand, staring at it as though he might be able to see through the heavy paper. His fingers traced the contours of the flat, four-inch by seven-inch item contained inside.
He’d retrieved the envelope that morning from where he’d been instructed it would be. As he turned it over in his hands, he was stricken with a rare sort of inertia. He was known as a decisive man, someone who quickly summed up a situation and made the right decision.
Murder Inside the Beltway Page 5
