“I’m going to have to be getting back soon,” Rollins announced after they’d finished the main course, a rack of lamb cooked perfectly pink, baby carrots, and lyonnaise potatoes.
“No dessert? Coffee?”
“Thank you, no. You mentioned when you called, Kevin, that there was something you, or the president, might be able to do concerning Samantha’s abduction. If there is something—tangible—I’d like to hear it.”
Ziegler sat back and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. They were alone in the room. The waitstaff had departed, the French doors were tightly closed. Ziegler leaned forward. “I don’t mean to insult you, Jerry, but by any chance did your detective friends convince you to wear some sort of recording device?”
Rollins’s laugh was involuntary. “No. Of course not.”
“Would you mind if I assured myself of that?”
“Yes, I would, as a matter of fact. But here.” Rollins stood and opened his jacket, revealing his mid-section. “You have insulted me, Kevin,” he said, closing the jacket and sitting.
“Just my naturally paranoid nature, I suppose,” said Ziegler. “My apologies.”
“Just what is it you have to say that shouldn’t be recorded for posterity?” Rollins asked, unable to keep the pique from his voice.
“All right,” Ziegler said, as though he would continue despite his better judgment. “Someone I know whose name shall not be mentioned here has been contacted by another party, who might be involved in the abduction of your daughter.”
The words struck Rollins like a punch. “Say that again,” he said.
“There is someone out there, Jerry, who might be able to—how shall I say it?—who might be instrumental in securing your daughter’s release.”
Rollins sat back and twisted in his chair, threw one leg over the other, waved a hand in front of his face as though to dissipate a cloud that had formed. He looked at Ziegler, who sat stoically, eyes fixed on his lunch guest.
“Who is this person?” Rollins demanded.
“I’m unable to tell you that, Jerry, but does it really matter? Get-ting Samantha back should be all that counts.”
Rollins stood and went to the windows. He could see a garden through the white gauzy drapes, distorted red and yellow and green shapes undulating in the breeze. “What is it you want?” he asked, his back to Ziegler.
“It isn’t what I want, Jerry, it’s what these other people want.”
Rollins spun around. “Stop talking about these so-called other people, Kevin. Stop it! Level with me. For God’s sake, there’s a seven-year-old girl’s life at stake. What do you want me to do, call in the detectives sitting outside and make you tell them how to get my daughter back?” It was a threat void of conviction, empty words.
“Sit down, Jerry.”
Rollins moved back to the table and slumped in his chair. He felt drained, lifeless.
“Good. You know, Jerry, one of many things I’ve always admired about you is your intellect, your ability to cut through to the essence of a problem. Yes, I do admire that in a man. I have little patience with those who do not possess that attribute. I’m sure you’ll appreciate my exhibiting the same quality. Your detectives would find your claim of my having knowledge of your daughter’s whereabouts to be specious, at best. So please, put that thought out of your mind.”
“Go on,” Rollins said.
“The people to whom I refer inform us that you have in your possession something that could be of great potential interest to the president.”
Rollins said nothing.
“I’m sure you know what that is, Jerry.”
An uncharacteristic feeling of panic overcame Rollins. He was desperate to run from the room, flee the house, and throw himself into the car with the detectives. He dug his nails into the palms of his hands and looked left and right… in search of what? Ziegler watched him dispassionately. When it appeared that a modicum of calm had prevailed, he said, “From what I’m told, Jerry, you have a videotape that our contacts say would be more beneficial to us than to you. True?”
Now, an intense anger returned, replaced Rollins’s dread. He extended his hand and pointed an index finger across the table. “My precious daughter has been kidnapped because of a videotape? You bastard. You filthy, rotten bastard!”
“If you can’t control yourself, Jerry, we’ll end this otherwise pleasant luncheon and I’ll have you driven back into town. I won’t sit here and be on the receiving end of vile accusations.”
“How will these people return Samantha to me?”
“That’s something I’ll pursue as soon as we part company, Jerry. I’m assured that they’re honorable people.” He laughed ruefully. “Honor among thieves, and kidnappers, and all that. In other words, I’m assured that they have no desire to harm your daughter, and have every intention of fulfilling their part of the bargain.” He paused. “You turn over the tape, and they turn over your daughter. It’s really quite that simple.”
The reality of his impotency set in heavily, and swiftly, on Rollins. He nodded.
“Good. There’s really no choice, is there?”
“No, there isn’t. When. And how?”
“I’ll need a day, perhaps two. I know that your phones are monitored by the police, so that form of communication is out of the question. I suggest this: As you know, there is the question of arranging the Miami debate between your Governor Colgate and the president. So many sticking points to be resolved. It’s been in the press. I suggest that we make a public display of getting together—say, day after tomorrow, on the pretense of ironing out those sticking points. We’ll meet at my office. By then, I’ll hopefully have worked out the logistics of your daughter’s return, and you can deliver the tape to me. Make sense?”
“What if I decide to not go through with this?” Rollins asked, surprised that he had.
A noncommittal shrug from Ziegler. “In that case, Jerry, the resolution of your daughter’s disappearance would be out of my hands. As I say, I don’t know these people, nor do I have any control over them, should you make that decision, which, I might add, would be unthinkable.”
“All right,” Rollins said.
“Splendid. I’ll have our people put out a release about our upcoming debate meeting. I assume you’ll have no trouble with the good Governor Colgate about arranging such a confab.”
“I’ll worry about that.”
“Good. And Jerry, you do understand that this must never go further than between us—no police, no family discussions, strictly between two professionals who understand and respect each other.”
Rollins ignored him and got up from the table. “Can we go?”
“Of course.”
“One question, Kevin.”
“Yes?”
“How did you know I had the tape?”
Ziegler came up behind Rollins and slapped his hand on his shoulder. “That should be obvious, Jerry. The same person who sold it to you offered it to us first. We dismissed it out-of-hand. He had nothing, simply a promise that he could put his filthy hands on it for a princely sum. We told him to get lost. Obviously, you didn’t. Cost a king’s ransom?”
Rollins opened the French doors and stepped into the main house, followed by Ziegler. A young man escorted them to the waiting Town Car. The detectives fell in behind, and the trip back into the District was quick and without incident—silence.
TWENTY-NINE
The cleaning crew at Tommy G’s had awakened Hatcher at five Sunday morning, and he’d struggled home, explaining to Mae that he’d pulled an all-night shift because of the Rollins kidnapping. She didn’t press, although from the look of him, that all-nighter had included a night of serious drinking at one of his downtown watering holes. He slept most of the morning, and spent the afternoon watching the Nationals–Cubs game on TV. She knew to give him a wide berth on days like this, and busied herself buying plants at a local nursery and arranging them in the small flower garden out back, in which she took consid
erable pride.
He went to bed early Sunday night and was up Monday at six. He considered calling in sick. With his regular squad assigned elsewhere, he was certain he’d have to spend the day back at Missing Persons, trying to find a link between some long-ago abduction and the Rollins case. But he wasn’t comfortable being away from Metro, the center of information about what was going down in the case. Having Jackson and Hall so close to Rollins made his usual sour stomach even worse. Better to be there and stay in the loop, keep tabs on things.
He’d no sooner walked in when Wally, another veteran homicide detective, grabbed him. “Hey, Hatch, where the hell you been?”
Hatcher looked up at a cracked wall clock that kept pretty good time. “Hell, I’m only twenty minutes late.”
“Yeah, well, we’re pairing up today. We’ve got a homicide just called in, a drive-by.”
“Where?”
“First Street, Southeast.”
“Daylight drive-by?”
“Twenty minutes ago. Come on. I’ve got the car.”
They drove to the scene, a rough-and-tumble street beneath the shadow and noise of I-295. After passing a series of taxi companies, auto repair shops, and what seemed an endless succession of battered chain-link fences behind which abandoned vehicles, discarded kitchen appliances, and other trash was heaped, they pulled up in front of a first-floor X-rated video store nestled next to a topless club. Uniformed officers who’d already responded were busy stringing yellow crime scene tape to cordon off the sidewalk directly in front of the shop. A dozen bystanders ringed the action. The marked police cars, lights flashing, had blocked off the street. As Hatcher and Wally approached, they saw the victim sprawled on the sidewalk, facedown, arms akimbo, large rings of blood from multiple wounds where it had seeped into the porous, chipped concrete.
“You ID him?” Hatcher asked one of the uniforms.
“No. We just got here.”
“Anybody see it happen?”
“Or admit they did?” Wally added.
The cop pointed to a man standing in the doorway of the porn shop. “You see what went down?” Hatcher asked him.
“He walks outside, a car comes past, slow, very slow, two guys in it, young maybe, I don’t know, but two of ’em, and one sticks his hand out and boom, boom, boom, like that, one, two, three, maybe four, and he goes down. Jesus.”
“What kind of car?”
A shrug. “Sedan, four doors, I think. Maybe brown, or black. Happened fast.”
“You know him?”
“Who?”
“Who the hell do you think I’m talking about? The guy who was in here and who’s laying dead on your sidewalk.”
“Yeah, I knew him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Billy.”
“Billy? Billy what?”
“McMahon.”
“Ooh,” Hatcher said, the name immediately registering. “He runs some sort of escort service, right?”
“Yeah. That’s what he does.”
“He’s a friend of yours?”
“Sort of. Not close like, you know?”
“What was he doin’ in here this morning?”
“He bought a DVD.”
“Porn.”
“Adult.”
“And he walks out with this DVD, an adult one, and two bananas drive by and take him out. You know why?”
“Why what?”
“You’re annoying me, pal. Why somebody wanted him dead.”
“I don’t know. He was in pretty heavy to some sharks and—”
“Loan sharks?”
“Yeah. He tried to hit me up for some money, but like I told him, business is slow, you know, people getting their stuff off the computers, the Internet, downloading stuff for free. So I told him I couldn’t help him, so he gets a little nasty, you know, and starts telling me he knows who his real friends are and—”
“And he walks out, and pop, he’s gone.”
“Yeah. Scared the hell out of me. This neighborhood’s bad, man. Time I got out’a here.”
Hatcher grinned and looked around the dingy shop. “Shame. Nice place you’ve got here.”
“You want something, take it.”
“I don’t watch this garbage. Give one of the officers outside your name, address, phone.”
Hatch and Wally spent a few minutes asking onlookers whether anyone could identify the car or the gunmen. There were no takers, nor were any expected. They waited until an ME van pulled up before heading back to Metro.
“You knew the guy?” Wally said.
“Knew of him. Suspect in that hooker murder in Adams Morgan. Ran an escort service she used to work for.”
“Anything happening with that, Hatch?”
“No, and nobody cares. Just as well. I’m packing it in, Wally.”
“Yeah? You’ve had enough?”
“More than enough. The minute we get back I’m filing the papers. Already have them filled out. I’ll put the house on the market and head south.”
“You got a place in Florida, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Tough to sell your place with the way the economy’s going. Could be on the market, say, months, huh?”
“I don’t care. We’ll get out of town the minute the pension clears and let some real estate cutie handle things up here. This city’s a jungle, Wally. Nothing makes sense anymore.”
“I know.”
“How much time you got left?”
“A couple’a years. Can’t wait. We’ll miss you, Hatch.”
Hatcher rubbed his eyes and looked out the window at the passing corner of the D.C. scene. “Yeah,” he said, “but I won’t miss this place. Not for a minute.”
• • •
Jackson and the second detective assigned to follow Rollins to his Maryland rendezvous with Kevin Ziegler fell into an easy pace as they trailed Ziegler’s Town Car back into the District. Jackson called Kloss at the house, saying that there was nothing to report. He gave the address in Maryland where the two men had met, and said that there hadn’t been a sign of them from the minute they entered the house until leaving.
They stopped a few car lengths away from the entrance to Rollins’s office building and watched as he got out of the car, lingered for a few moments to exchange parting words with his host, closed the door, and looked back at them before going through the glass revolving doors.
“What’s this all about?” Jackson’s colleague asked.
“I don’t know,” Jackson said. “Politics I guess. Ziegler’s a big wheel in Pyle’s reelection campaign, and Rollins advises Governor Colgate.”
“Cutting a deal, huh? Always a deal, even when a kid is missing. Politicians!”
Jackson laughed. “That’s a safe assumption.”
“They haven’t heard again from the kidnappers, Matt?”
“As far as I know.”
“What a hell of a thing for the parents to go through.”
“Can’t imagine anything worse,” Jackson responded, “unless…”
“Yeah, unless the kid is found dead. I suppose there’s always hope.”
“Nothing but hope.”
Jackson’s cell sounded.
“Matt, it’s Bob Kloss. Come on back to the house.”
When Jackson arrived at the Rollins’s Foggy Bottom home, there was heightened tension. The lead FBI special agent looked glumly through a small opening he’d created in a drapery. Sue Rollins sat in a recliner in the living room, feet up, eyes closed. Kloss conferred with a new face from Metro, who’d been sent to spell one of the detectives charged with monitoring the telephone recording devices. Kloss waved Jackson into the dining room, where the equipment was set up, and shut the double doors. “I want you to listen to something,” he said. “When Mr. Rollins got the call from Mr. Ziegler about having lunch, Ziegler said something that’s bothering me.”
“About the kidnapping?”
“Yeah. Not directly, something about the president wanting
to help. Listen and tell me what you think. We brought the tape over from his office.”
“Can you make yourself free for lunch? It is important, Jerry. I realize that everything pales in comparison to your personal tragedy that’s taking place, but there may be something we can do to help in that regard.”
Kloss looked to Jackson for a reaction. His blank expression said he didn’t have one.
“Then this,” Kloss said.
“Jerry, the president is deeply concerned about what’s happened to you and your daughter. He wants to do everything in his power to get that little girl home safe and sound, and will pull out all the stops to accomplish that. We can discuss the role he might play, along with other things I need to run by you.”
“What ‘other things’ to run by him?” Kloss said. “And there’s something he, Ziegler, can maybe do to help?”
“He’s referring to the president,” Jackson said.
“Or is he?” Kloss asked. “I mean, what can the president do to bring this to a happy conclusion? Make a speech? Set up some phony photo-op? I don’t know, Matt, I just get the feeling that there was maybe more to them getting together than just an empty promise about the president, or politics in general.”
They listened to the tape again. This time, Jackson bought in to what Kloss was saying. “Are you suggesting that Ziegler or his people could be involved?” he asked, reluctant to state the unspeakable.
Murder Inside the Beltway Page 22
