Now Jackson got up and went to the window. It overlooked an alley. Across it was another apartment building, with a restaurant on the ground floor, its sidewalk café bustling with customers.
“Are we through here?” Micki asked.
Jackson turned. “Did you know that Rosalie videotaped some of her johns?” he asked.
“Oh,” Micki said, “let’s not get into that.”
“Why not?” Jackson asked, retaking his seat.
“I told her she was playing with fire, but she wouldn’t listen. She said those tapes would be her ticket out of here someday.”
“She intended to blackmail her johns?” Mary said.
“Sure. That’s why she did it.”
“Had she?” Mary asked. “Used them to blackmail anyone?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Who else knew about the tapes?” Jackson asked.
Micki shrugged. “Nobody.”
“Just you? You really think you’re the only person she would have confided in?”
“Maybe.”
“What about you? Who did you tell about the tapes?”
“Nobody.”
“Oh, come on, Micki,” Jackson said. “I may be young, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“All right. Maybe I mentioned it to a couple of people.”
“The cops who were shaking you down?”
“I don’t remember. Yeah, one of them anyway.”
“And that same cop was shaking down Rosalie?”
She nodded. “Look, I really have things to do and—”
“Was Rosalie bisexual?” Jackson asked.
“Why ask me that?”
“Because we’ve been told that she was.”
Micki lit another cigarette—she’d gone through four of five since their arrival—and drew deeply on it. “Rosalie bisexual?” she said absently. “No, Rosalie wasn’t bisexual,” she said, “but she serviced a few women.”
“Really?” Mary said. “Women came to her as a prostitute? I’ve heard of women paying male prostitutes but—”
“I never got into that,” Micki said, proudly. “But Rosalie—hell, she’s not the only one—she had a few lesbian clients. I guess you can’t call them johns.” She laughed at her joke. “Janes maybe, huh?”
“Yeah, janes maybe,” Jackson said.
“We finished?” Micki asked.
“I want to know the names of the vice squad cops who were shaking you and Rosalie down,” Jackson said.
“It doesn’t matter,” she protested.
Jackson slammed his palm on the coffee table. “It matters to us, Micki,” he said in a voice louder than he’d intended. “Your friend, Rosalie, was murdered, damn it, beaten and strangled to death. We need help solving it.”
“Sorry, but I don’t remember any names. Besides, it’s all behind me. If you’re finished, I want to—”
“Don’t leave town, Micki,” Jackson said.
“I’m going home.”
“You’re going home when I say you’re going home. Want to come with us as a material witness and spend a few nights in a cell? You’ve been in a cell before.”
“You bastards are all the same.”
“No we’re not, Micki. Don’t play games. You leave D.C. and you’ll have cops knocking on your mother’s door in South Carolina.” To Mary: “Let’s go.”
As they opened the door, Jackson turned and said, “Did you kill Rosalie, Micki?”
“No.”
They left. Once back on the street, Jackson drew deep breaths to calm down. His annoyance at Micki’s lack of cooperation had surprised him. He seldom experienced anger, sometimes wondering whether it represented some sort of inadequacy in him.
“I like her,” Mary said.
“You do?”
“I think she’s gone through a tough time and is trying to maintain some dignity. She’s entitled to that.”
“Stay at my place tonight?” Matt asked.
“Yes.”
It was after they’d both changed into pajamas and were sitting in front of the TV that she asked, “There’s something really bothering you, isn’t there, Matt. What is it?”
“Those cops who were shaking down Micki and Rosalie.”
“What about them?”
“Hatcher worked vice before he switched over to homicide. Maybe he knows the guys who were hitting them up.”
“If he does, he’ll never rat them out.”
“You’re probably right. But we can ask.”
TWENTY-TWO
It was a sparkling Saturday on the Mall and all of Washington seemed to have decided to take the day off and enjoy it. Frisbees caught the sun as they flew lazily overhead, lovers blissfully strolled hand in hand, as though men and women weren’t dying in Iraq and Afghanistan, and families poured onto the vast expanse of lawn that is the Nation’s Backyard. Stretching between 3rd and 14th Streets, with the Washington Monument at one end and the Capitol Building at the other, the Mall was the vision of Washington’s city planner Pierre L’Enfant, although he saw it more as a wide boulevard lined with mansions. It wasn’t until 1901 that this sprawling expanse of grass and pebbled pedestrian pathways was transformed into the city’s main gathering place and tourist attraction. Ringed by the Smithsonian’s many museums (the National Air and Space Museum is the world’s most popular museum, attracting more than ten million visitors each year), it is equally as famous as the scene of protest marches and demonstrations, and is the setting for concerts and festivals. It also features the city’s most utilized jogging track and the softball field on which congressional leagues vie.
Matt and Mary had slept late, enjoyed breakfast at the Diner, and decided to spend the afternoon at the National Museum of African Art, where an exhibit of works by the artist El Anatsui had opened earlier in the week. Matt had begun collecting African musical instruments and recordings, a modest collection, to be sure, but one in which he took increasing pride. He didn’t play the instruments but enjoyed the visual flair they provided his apartment.
For Walt Hatcher, not having to go into work meant time to get to a chore he’d been meaning to do for weeks, clean out the garage. He, too, had slept late, unusual for him, and lingered over breakfast with Mae. “I’m glad you got a good report from the doctor,” she said. “I’ve been so worried about you.”
“I told you it was nothing. Speaking of which, when are you due to see the doc again, Mae?”
“Not for six months.”
It was what he wanted to hear.
The Rollins household was up and active by seven that morning. Rollins was pleased that he’d decided to cancel his meeting with Bob Colgate to spend the day with Sue and Samantha. He’d been feeling increasingly guilty over the past few months as his unofficial role in the Colgate campaign ate up more and more of his time. His law practice had suffered, but not terminally. It was the time away from family that bothered him, and he made a silent pledge to rectify that situation once Colgate was elected, a foregone conclusion based upon every poll, and the legions of TV pundits who breathlessly reported them as if fact on a daily basis.
Sue packed a lunch, which Jerry put in a small cooler housed in a canvas bag with a shoulder strap. He loaded it into their family vehicle, a silver Volvo station wagon, along with two lightweight folding chairs and a small blanket. He wasn’t especially looking forward to a day of folk music. His musical passion was jazz, especially artists from the BeBop era—Miles, Dizzy, Charlie Parker, and other innovators—and he took pride in the large collection of LPs and CDs he’d amassed over the years. He’d played drums with a rock-’n’-roll garage band while in high school, and while listening to his idols on his car’s CD player often pictured himself grooving behind a drum set.
But the music genre wasn’t that day’s draw. It was enjoying leisure time with his wife and daughter that appealed. Although he wasn’t a sentimental man, there were times when the sheer beauty of the two women in his life, and the fact that they loved him,
were overwhelming. He suffered that exquisite feeling that morning as he watched mother and daughter work together in the kitchen, and had to leave the room lest the tear in his eye prompted a question.
He and Sue often joked that they had a patron saint of parking spaces looking over them. They seemed always to find a spot even in the most crowded of situations, and that morning was no exception. A car pulled away from the curb just as they were approaching, and Jerry deftly backed into the vacant space. They gave each other a high-five, and Samantha, giggling, included her hand in the celebration. The day was off to a good start.
They spent most of the morning strolling through the myriad performing areas and concessions scattered across the Mall. A few folk groups captured their attention, and they set up their chairs and took in the music, feet tapping, Samantha breaking into a charming dance on occasion.
“This is wonderful,” Sue said into the air, leaning back in her chair, closing her eyes, and allowing the sun to play over her face. Jerry looked at her and smiled at the vision. She was as beautiful as the first day they’d met on the campus of the U of Maryland, where she was a freshman and he was in his last year of law school. She’d majored in English, had gone on to earn a Masters in library science, and still worked three days a week at the Cleveland Park Public Library. She was a voracious reader with eclectic interests, from literary fiction to biographies, politics to historical romance novels. Her passion for books had rubbed off on Samantha, who fell asleep each night with an open book beside her on the bed. My two beautiful women, Rollins mused, as the trio onstage sang of shattered dreams.
By noon, they were hungry and set up their mini-picnic beneath a tree alongside one of the performing sites. Samantha happily played hostess, carefully removing items from the cooler and positioning them on the blanket, alongside plastic knives and forks, plates and cups. She poured lemonade from a thermos, taking care not to allow any to drip on the blanket, and unwrapped cheese-and-tomato sandwiches.
“This is awesome,” she announced as she plopped down on the blanket, removed her sandals, and joined her parents in a toast to a good day, touching rims of the cups.
After they’d eaten, Samantha wandered to the front of the stage to watch and listen to a new group that had taken the microphone.
“She’s going to be a knockout when she grows up,” Sue said to Jerry.
“She already is,” he countered. “That’s what worries me.”
Sue laughed. “Spoken like a true and loving father. I pity the young men who date her, having to pass your muster.”
“Aside from the metal detector and X-ray machine at the front door, and the FBI background check, they’ll be welcome.”
Her smiling face turned serious. “It always is a worry, isn’t it?” she said absently.
“Unfortunately.”
“Was Bob disappointed that you canceled with him today?”
“Angry is more like it. He’s acting lately as though his campaign is in trouble. As far as I can see, unless he…”
“Unless he’s caught in bed with someone other than Deb.”
“Yeah, that would not be good. Remember what Huey Long said: ‘The worst thing that can happen to a politician is to be caught in bed with a dead woman, or a live boy.’ ”
Their laughter at the Kingfish’s wit and wisdom trailed off, along with the final notes of the folk group’s song.
“Have you seen Deborah lately?” Sue asked nonchalantly.
“No. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. She’s been keeping pretty much to herself these days.”
“Probably just as well. The press is all over her whenever she makes an appearance, always bringing up the rumors.”
“Are they? Just rumors?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Come on, Jerry. You two are close. Surely he’s confided in you.”
“Confided in me? Yeah, he does, about many things. But his sex life is off-limits. Don’t buy into that myth that sex is all buddies talk about. Not true.”
“We talk about sex,” Sue said. “My friends and I.”
“About your own sex lives?”
“Sometimes. Of course, I have nothing to offer those conversations.” She looked left and right before leaning toward him and saying, “One of our little circle has had affairs.”
He held up his hand and laughed. “Don’t tell me.”
“I didn’t intend to. Incredible how many politicians are brought down by their extracurricular sex lives.”
“More today with a no-holds-barred attitude by the media. Politicians used to get a free pass from the press when it came to their dalliances. Those days are gone forever.”
“Gary Hart might have been president.”
“Might have.”
“He might have been a good president.”
“We’ll never know.”
Their conversation was interrupted by Samantha. “Let’s go over there,” she said, pointing to another area of the Mall, close to where they’d parked the car. “There’s an awesome band playing, not old folksy music like this, really cool.”
Sue and Jerry smiled. “Okay, princess,” he said, starting to put things back into the cooler, and emptying trash into a nearby pail. The cleanup completed, they folded the chairs and headed in the direction of a large crowd gathered in another performing space. Samantha was right; the music was more of the rock-’n’-roll variety, the band’s large amps pumping the dissonance out to the audience. As they walked, Jerry turned suddenly when he sensed that someone was watching them. It was a nondescript man, middle-aged, wearing jeans, a maroon sweatshirt, and with a baseball cap with a large bill pulled down low over his forehead. He didn’t look familiar. As Rollins turned, the man swiveled his head to look in another direction.
“Someone you know?” Sue asked.
“No.”
“Hey, Jerry.”
“But this guy I know,” Rollins said, shaking hands with an attorney and his wife with whom he and Sue had been friends for years.
“Dad,” Samantha said, pulling him by the hand in the direction of the group onstage.
“You go ahead, sweetheart,” Rollins said, “but don’t go far.”
After a few minutes of banter, the Rollinses went to where Samantha had secured a spot from which she could see the performers. “Isn’t it cool?” she asked, beaming.
“Yes, it certainly is,” Rollins replied, wincing against the audio assault and wishing it had been jazz instead of folk and rock. He took comfort that there would be a jazz fest later that month at Wolf Trap; he’d already gotten tickets for it.
They’d tired by mid-afternoon and decided to call it a day. Rollins was pleased that they were relatively close to their parked car.
They’d almost reached it when they were approached by another set of friends.
“Give me the keys, Daddy,” Samantha said. “I’ll open the car.”
“Enjoy the music?” one of their friends asked.
“What?” Rollins said. “Oh, yes, very much, but you know—”
Samantha poked his arm.
“Oh, sure, honey, here,” he said, handing her the keys.
Their conversation with friends lasted only a few minutes more.
“Great seeing you,” Rollins said. The women pressed their cheeks to each other and the men shook hands. Rollins and Sue took steps toward the car.
“Samantha?” he called.
Sue turned. “Samantha?” she said.
“Where the hell—?”
Sue came to his side. “Where is she?”
“Look,” Rollins said, pointing to the ground near the rear of the car. The keys he’d given his daughter rested in a clump of grass.
“Samantha!” he shouted, and repeated it two more times.
Sue pushed through a crowd of tourists on the sidewalk, frantically looking for their daughter. Her voice carried over the din of the music and car horns and chattering people—“S-A-M-A-N-T-H-A!”
&n
bsp; TWENTY-THREE
It had gone easier than expected.
They’d pulled the car, a nondescript tan four-door sedan, up next to the Rollinses wagon. The man and woman got out through the rear doors. The driver stayed behind the wheel, the engine running. The man and woman noticed that Samantha’s parents were preoccupied with another couple, saw the girl run to the car, keys outstretched, and observed that there was no one else at that moment in the immediate vicinity. It helped, too, that she came around to the rear of the station wagon and started to open the tailgate, keeping her out of the path of anyone who might stroll by. It took only an instant for the man to sweep the girl up, a hand over her mouth, and toss her into the backseat. The driver pulled away, easily, slowly, so as not to arouse attention. As far as they could tell, no one had even noticed the abduction. If someone had, they hadn’t started to make a fuss about it.
The man wearing the maroon sweatshirt and baseball cap had one hand on Samantha’s throat; the woman pressed a handkerchief into her mouth. She struggled.
“Cut it out, kid,” he growled.
“Calm down,” the woman told the child. “Take it easy. We don’t want to hurt you. Just stop kicking.”
“Watch your speed,” the maroon sweatshirt told the driver, a younger man, wearing a suit and tie on this leisurely Saturday. “Don’t get us stopped.”
They crossed the Potomac on the George Mason Memorial Bridge into Virginia, and continued on I-395, passing the Pentagon and proceeding to exit seven, where they turned onto Route 120, taking them in a northwesterly direction. At Ballston, they turned left on Wilson Boulevard and proceeded through Arlington until reaching Seven Corners, their final destination, a well-kept small one-story gray stucco house set far back from the road. A row of seven-feet-high hedges close to the house spanned the front, shielding it from street view.
By now, Samantha had stopped struggling, reduced to whimpering and occasional outbursts of full-fledged wailing. During the trip, the man had secured her hands and ankles with black duct tape and affixed a large, clean, powder-blue handkerchief across her eyes. They quickly carried her from the car to the house, entering through the front door and locking it behind them. The driver, who’d remained in the car, turned it around and drove away.
Murder Inside the Beltway Page 17
