Murder Inside the Beltway

by Margaret Truman

  Jill delivered Hatch’s food.

  “No tab,” Tommy told her. There never was a tab for Hatcher, but he always tipped big.

  “I bet there’s a few guys around town looking over their shoulders, huh?” Tommy said.

  Hatcher agreed through his first mouthful of bread and clams.

  “I know a couple of regulars here are hoping she didn’t keep a little black book.”

  Hatcher said nothing.

  “Did she, Hatch? Keep a book with her johns’ names in it?”

  “I don’t think so, Tommy. No, she didn’t.”

  Tommy’s expression said he didn’t buy it, but he didn’t press.

  “Anyway,” he said, “you should take a couple’a days off, stay in bed, get rid’a the flu. Best thing is to stay in bed, plenty’a liquids.”

  “I’ll do that, Tommy,” Hatcher said, breaking off a piece of crunchy Italian bread and using it to mop up garlic sauce. “Thanks.”

  “Hey, pal, for you, anytime. Ciao.” He joined a knot of customers at the bar, leaving Hatcher with his half-filled glass of bourbon, and his thoughts.

  • • •

  At headquarters, Matt Jackson was busy writing up the interview they’d done with Rosalie Curzon’s father, while Mary Hall ran through a database of names in the D.C. area. She came up with dozens of Thompsons, but only two with the first name “Craig”: one married and employed by the Department of Agriculture, the other single and living in the District. His occupation was listed as “Consultant.” Although they wouldn’t rule out either man, chances were that it was the bachelor who’d been involved with the victim. He’d be first on their list.

  Mary, instructed by Hatcher to reach the senatorial aide, James Patmos, who’d allegedly introduced the lobbyist Lewis Archer to Rosalie Curzon, called Senator William Barrett’s office in the Russell Building at First and C Streets, NE, and asked for Jim Patmos.

  “He’s not here,” she was told.

  “Do you expect him back today?”

  The woman laughed. “One never knows,” she said. “Can I take a message?”

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll try him again tomorrow.”

  “No luck?” Matt said after she’d hung up.

  “He wasn’t there. I didn’t want to leave my name.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’d rather he not have time to come up with a story.”

  “We didn’t worry about that when you called the congressman.”

  “Hatcher didn’t worry about it, Matt, but I do.”

  • • •

  Deborah Colgate’s limo driver dropped her and Connie Bennett in front of the Colgates’ Georgetown townhouse. The events at which she’d spoken had gone well, plenty of checks written, and even more money pledged to the Colgate campaign for president. Deborah hated the fundraising aspect of running for elected office, found it demeaning and even fraudulent in what it promised to donors. Why did they contribute, she wondered, especially those whose checks were for small amounts? Did they expect something in return besides the psychic payoff of having put their money where their beliefs lie? The big donors certainly expected a bang for their bucks—access to the candidate once he or she was in office, and clout when it came to legislation that would affect their lives, especially their bottom lines. Politicians, she decided, were like televangelists, promising miraculous improvements in the lives of those who sent their money, salvation and freedom from disease and pain—or in the case of politicians, better jobs, lower taxes, and a sunny future.

  She and Connie went to the kitchen, where a housekeeper was preparing snacks in anticipation of their arrival, salmon with a dollop of horseradish sauce on crackers, and Deborah’s favorite, hummus on toast points.

  “We’ll be in the study,” Deborah told the housekeeper.

  “Cognac?” she asked Connie once they’d kicked off their shoes and were settled in the book-lined room at the front of the house.

  “Love one.”

  “Me too.”

  “You knocked them out today,” Connie said after they’d touched the rims of their snifters.

  “I’m getting better at it.”

  “You’ve always been good at it, Deb, going back to college. Remember when you rallied support for that professor who’d been let go? You not only fired up the students, you got the administration on your side.”

  Deborah laughed. “Silly student stuff,” she said.

  “It wasn’t silly at all. The guy might have been odd in his thinking, but he was a good teacher. He deserved to stay—and he did, thanks in part to you.”

  “He was a pervert.”

  “He was not. Besides, if he was a pervert, why did you champion his cause?”

  “I guess I was into perversion at the time.”

  Connie smiled. “I miss those days, Deb.”

  “So do I, although lately I feel as if I’m back there.”

  “How so?”

  “Back when perversion was on my mind.”

  Connie’s expression said she didn’t understand.

  “My whole life these days is perverted, Connie.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m living a life of lies.”

  “That’s not true, Deb.”

  “Yes it is. My marriage to Bob has been a lie for a very long time. Isn’t that one definition of perversion, living a life of lies?”

  “Maybe. I wouldn’t know. What I do know is that you and Bob have forged a remarkable life together. You’re about to become the first family of this country, Deb. First Lady of the land.”

  “At what price?” She sighed deeply and drank.

  Connie didn’t respond, and Deborah continued. “Connie, I’ve made a decision.”

  Her friend’s laugh was forced. “Any decision is better than no decision,” she said, lightly, a smile on her face. “Isn’t that what the shrinks say?” Her expression now turned serious. “You aren’t saying… ?”

  “I’m afraid I am. I can’t do this anymore, Connie. I can’t keep putting on this campaign face, pretending as though everything is wonderful between Bob and me, asking people for money to fund what is, in reality, one great big sham. I’m dropping out of the marriage and the campaign.”

  Connie’s glass slipped from her hand as she suddenly got up and stood over her friend. “Don’t say that, Deb,” she said. She picked up the glass from the floor and ran her foot over the cognac that had stained the beige carpet. “Sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t worry about the carpet,” Deborah said.

  Connie used a small napkin the housekeeper had provided with the snacks.

  “I said, don’t worry about it!” Deborah said sharply, causing Connie to look up, surprised at her friend’s icy tone.

  “I intend to tell Bob of my decision when he gets back from his Midwest swing,” Deborah said. “Frankly, I don’t care what his reaction is. Oh, I can certainly anticipate it. He’ll talk about how the pressures of campaigning have me on edge, and how once the campaign is over, we’ll be able to settle back into the life we once had, how we can’t do this to the kids—kids? they’re all grown—and how the country needs us to undo the damage Pyle has done to the nation. It’s all bullshit, Connie. I’ve had it.”

  “I need a refill,” Connie said, going to a leather-fronted freestanding bar and refreshing her drink. “Deb?”

  “What? No, nothing more for me.”

  Connie resumed her chair opposite her friend. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” she said, “or that you mean it. You’ll absolutely destroy Bob’s run for the White House, and no matter how angry you are about what’s going on inside your marriage, there’s a nation to think about.”

  Deborah guffawed. “You sound like one of his speechwriters or strategists, Connie. The hell with the good of the country. What I’ve come to care about is what’s good for me, and staying married and continuing to campaign isn’t. You haven’t had to live it, the rumors about Bob’s affairs, the pitiful loo
ks at me as a woman who stands by her man either because she’s too weak to leave, or because she’s power-hungry and sticks with him to get to the White House.” She energetically shook her head, sending her blond hair in motion. “I can’t do it anymore, Connie. I just can’t.”

  The tears flowed. Connie wrapped her arms around Deborah as though to provide a shield against the hurt her friend was suffering. “You’re exhausted,” she said softly. “You need some time off.” She pulled back and her voice stiffened. “But don’t jump ship now, Deb. Please, go away for a day or two, a spa, New York and a few Broadway musicals, anything to change the dynamic. If you want to go through with it after that, there’s nothing I can do to stop you. But please, Deb, sleep on it.”

  “All right,” Deborah said.

  “Have you discussed this with anyone else?” Connie asked. “Anyone in the campaign?”

  “No.” Deborah managed a smile. “You’re stuck with being my only sounding board.”

  “And proud to be,” Connie said. “I have to run.”

  “And so do I. I’m having dinner with a couple of senators who’re backing Bob. The show must go on, huh?”

  “And so it must. Remember what I said. Find a break of a day or two and get away. It’ll do you wonders.”

  Deborah walked Connie to the front door and watched her cross the street to her car. She returned their glasses and plates to the kitchen, went back to the library, pulled her cell phone from her purse, and dialed.

  Jerry Rollins answered. “Hello?”

  “It’s Deborah.”

  “Hi.”

  “Can you talk?”

  “No. I’m in a meeting.”

  “When can we talk, Jerry?”

  “I don’t know, I—”

  “Jerry, we have to talk.”

  THIRTEEN

  With Matt Jackson still at her side, Mary called the first Craig Thompson on her list, the bachelor-consultant.

  “Mr. Thompson, this is Detective Mary Hall with the MPD. I’m trying to reach a Craig Thompson who was a friend of Rosalie Curzon. Ms. Curzon was a murder victim and—”

  “You’re calling about Rosalie?” he said quickly, his voice slightly distorted through the speakerphone.

  “That’s right, Mr. Thompson.”

  He cleared his throat. “I read about it in the papers, just a small piece. How did you know to call me?”

  “Ms. Curzon’s father was here at police headquarters this afternoon. He mentioned you.”

  Silence on Thompson’s end.

  “We understand that you and Ms. Curzon were romantically involved at one time.”

  Another silence, followed by, “We were engaged to be married.”

  “Engaged? Her father said you’d wanted to marry her, but I didn’t realize that you were formerly engaged.”

  “I don’t know whether it was a formal engagement,” he corrected. “I suppose what I meant to say was that we were serious about it.”

  “You knew that she worked as a prostitute,” Mary said.

  “Unfortunately.”

  “That was why you sought out her father and asked him for help in persuading her to give up that life.”

  “That’s right. He wasn’t helpful.”

  “So he admitted. Mr. Thompson. How long ago did you and Rosalie break off your relationship?”

  “A few years ago, not long after I returned from seeing her father. She was furious at me for doing that. I’d given her an ultimatum, but it was a waste of time. The minute she learned that I’d talked to her father, she ended the relationship. She felt I’d betrayed her.”

  As Mary thought of the next question to ask, Jackson jumped in. “Mr. Thompson, I’m Detective Jackson, Detective Hall’s partner in the investigation. Have you had any contact with Ms. Curzon since the breakup of the relationship?”

  “No,” was his quick, emphatic answer.

  Jackson looked at Hall, whose eyebrows went up.

  “No contact at all, sir?” Matt asked.

  “None. Absolutely none.”

  “Are you married, sir?” Mary asked.

  “Why are you asking me that?”

  “Just to get a more complete picture of whom I’m speaking with,” she replied.

  “Well, I haven’t married, and I haven’t seen Rosalie. Any other questions?”

  “Not at the moment,” Jackson said, “but we know where to find you if we do.”

  The line went dead.

  “What do you think?” Mary asked Matt.

  “I think I don’t especially like the guy. Let’s find out more about him.”

  They pulled up every file they could on Craig Thompson, including three photographs—on his driver’s license; a mug shot from his only arrest, for disturbing the peace outside a D.C. nightclub; and a picture from the Washington Post of Thompson with two other men, following a meeting at the Pentagon. Thompson was identified in the caption as having attended the meeting to discuss the progress of a new weapon being developed for the military.

  They studied the photos. Thompson was a chubby, middle-aged man, his face fleshy, his mouth weak.

  “So, how does he end up proposing marriage to a hooker?” Matt mused, placing the printed downloads in his briefcase. “He must have spent a lot of time with her, gotten to know her pretty well.”

  “More questions for him,” Mary said.

  “Yeah, more questions for him.”

  They were about to leave when a white shirt from upstairs came to where they sat. “Where’s Hatcher?” he asked.

  “He wasn’t feeling well,” Matt said.

  “He really looked lousy,” Mary added. “He threw up this afternoon and—”

  “I don’t need the gory details. You two interviewed Officer Manfredi at the school?”

  “Right.”

  “Hatcher mentioned it was you two. It’s stayed here, right?”

  “Stayed here?” Jackson said. “If you mean did we tell anyone about it, the answer is no.”

  “Good. Keep it that way. When you talk to Hatcher, tell him the chief wants to see him ASAP.”

  “Okay.”

  Matt and Mary left headquarters and went to where they’d parked their cars.

  “Where for dinner?” he asked.

  “Mind if I beg off, Matt? I don’t feel great. Maybe I’m catching what Hatcher has.”

  “As long as you’re not catching his personality.”

  “Sure you don’t mind if I bail out? I know we should talk about what happened last night but—”

  After a quick glance about, he silenced her with a kiss on the lips. “We’ll talk another time. You go on home, drink some hot tea, and get in bed. I’ll see you back here in the morning.”

  As he turned to leave, she grabbed him and returned the kiss, harder and longer than his had been. “Take care, Matt. Enjoy an early night.”

  He got in his car and headed for Adams Morgan and his apartment. As he went, the comment by one of his superiors about Officer Al Manfredi stuck with him. Did the brass intend to cover up Manfredi’s involvement with the slain prostitute? Would they sweep it under the rug, turn their eyes away, for fear of tainting the department? It was a possibility. He’d seen it happen before when a cop, especially one higher in rank, got into some sort of trouble. Sure, there were departmental sanctions and punishments for misdeeds that embarrassed MPD, but that’s usually as far as it went. As the former FBI head J. Edgar Hoover famously said repeatedly, “Don’t embarrass the Bureau.” That was Hoover’s mantra, and God help any agent who violated it.

  But would MPD go that far if Manfredi was Rosalie Curzon’s killer? Matt couldn’t conceive of that, but if it happened, it would mark Matt Jackson’s last day as a cop.

  He decided on his way home to stop for something to eat. Chinese takeout was an option, but he preferred to eat a meal where it had been cooked. He settled on the Silver Veil, the restaurant and club around the corner from Rosalie Curzon’s apartment, where he’d first learned about Micki
Simmons. Word around the neighborhood was that it served decent Lebanese food, which appealed to him.

  Evidently, he was the only Washingtonian in the mood for Middle Eastern food that night. He had the place to himself. He was shown to a table and ordered a white wine. A middle-aged waitress brought him a menu. “Suggest something for me,” he said. She did, and he approved the choices—hummus b’tahini, rolled grape leaves, hot pita bread, and lamb kabobs.

  As he sipped his wine and nibbled at the bread, he saw the manager—or was he the owner?—eyeing him from where he stood near the entrance. The man came to the table. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, everything’s fine.”

  “You’re the detective who was here the other night.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you… ?”

  Matt waited for him to finish.

  “Did you find Ms. Simmons?”

  “Oh. Yes, I did.”

  “I hope you didn’t tell her where you heard about her.”

  Matt smiled and shook his head. “No, I didn’t mention you. I wouldn’t do that—unless it was absolutely necessary.” Matt took in the empty restaurant. “Care to join me?” he asked. “Looks like you have time on your hands.”

  The man surveyed the empty dining room. He shrugged. “Yes, thank you.”

  He was obviously of Middle Eastern origins, complexion swarthy, eyes almost black, and with a heavy beard line. There was no hint of an accent.

  He looked worried.

  “Everything okay?” Matt asked. “Business okay?”

  “It’s been slow lately. I appreciate that you didn’t tell her about me. I wouldn’t want to cause her any trouble, or cause myself trouble with the police.”

  “Why would you have trouble with the police?” Matt questioned. “All you did was help us.”

  The man looked around before saying, “It isn’t easy running a restaurant.”

  Matt laughed. “From what I’ve seen, it’s got to be one of the toughest businesses in the world.”

  The man nodded.

  “You own this place?” Matt asked.