Murder Inside the Beltway

by Margaret Truman

  Kloss said nothing.

  “Can’t be,” Jackson offered.

  “I agree,” said Kloss. “Can’t be. But I keep playing this what-if game over in my mind. No one’s called, no ransom demands, no further instructions. What did they take the kid for? What’s the payoff? Doesn’t look like it’s money. So, then, what?”

  “Something Rollins knows—or has?”

  “That’s where my mind’s going. Look, you and Rollins have gotten pretty close, right?”

  “Yeah, he seems to like me. He’s been asking a lot about me, you know, why I became a cop, things about my family. We get along okay.”

  “Good. Stay close to him, see if he gives off any vibes that something’s happening we don’t know about.” Kloss grinned and slapped Jackson on the shoulder. “Put that sociology degree of yours to good use.”

  “Funny you should say that. Hatcher considers my degree a negative.”

  Kloss’s wince said it all as Mary Hall arrived and joined them. She’d been dispatched to Metro to deliver paperwork from Kloss, and to bring back an assortment of items for the team assigned to the house.

  “Interrupting something?” she asked.

  “Just talking about your partner’s college degree,” Kloss said.

  “Hatch not appreciating it,” Jackson said.

  “Oh,” she said. “Speaking of that, guess what, Matt?”

  His extended hands said Tell me more.

  “Hatcher has put in for retirement,” she said, disguising any sign of glee in her voice.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Would I kid about something like that?” she said. “He filed the papers this afternoon. Oh, and that creep from Beltway Escorts, Billy McMahon? Gunned down this morning in a drive-by in Southeast.”

  Kloss’s eyes looked for an explanation.

  “A case we were working on,” Jackson said. “The call girl murder in Adams Morgan. The guy was a suspect.”

  “Not anymore,” Kloss said, standing, stretching against a pain somewhere in his lean body, and walking from the dining room to where Sue Rollins was now out of her chair and speaking with a Bureau special agent.

  Jackson and Hall huddled in the dining room discussing Hatcher’s retirement and what it might mean for them. Once they’d exhausted that topic, Mary asked about Matt’s day and his assignment to follow Rollins to his meeting with Kevin Ziegler. He told her what Kloss had said, and paraphrased what had been on the tape the senior detective had played. “It makes sense,” Jackson summed up. “They took the girl on Saturday and here it is, the end of Monday. Nothing, just that one call Saturday night saying she was safe and wouldn’t be harmed. What do they want? If it were a pedophile, he wouldn’t have bothered calling. Something’s wrong here.”

  “Maybe they got cold feet,” she suggested, “and are afraid of trying to put a ransom drop in place.”

  “Maybe, but the abduction was too slick for somebody to chicken out. Kloss wants me to stay close to Rollins, see if I can pick up on anything.”

  “Good,” she said.

  “Did you see Hatcher?” Jackson asked.

  “No—he caught the McMahon drive-by.”

  Kloss interrupted to suggest that Jackson go home for a change of clothes. “Rollins says he’s leaving his office in a couple of hours and coming here. I’d like you back.”

  Mary walked Matt to the rear door. “You okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Hearing about Hatcher is… well, it’s good news.”

  “I know. Hurry back.”

  • • •

  The waiting game continued in Foggy Bottom that night. The press contingent had thinned out somewhat in front of the house, but there were still plenty of reporters and cameras anxious to catch a glimpse of anyone, anything, to advance the story.

  Rollins had arrived at six, followed closely by Jackson’s return. Jackson prompted conversation with him when it seemed appropriate, and the grieving father was receptive to those advances. From the young detective’s perspective, Rollins’s demeanor hadn’t changed. He was his usual cool and collected self, with rare moments of annoyance or impatience flaring up. Sue Rollins had settled into an almost fugue state, doing everything by rote, mechanical, without inspiration. Mary Hall stuck close to her, lending a hand in the kitchen or helping her do laundry—a wash in the midst of such personal anguish! There continued to be, of course, various phone calls for both the Rollinses. They handled them with aplomb, keeping them brief, stating the obvious, that the lines had to be kept clear. Everyone understood, of course, yet continued the conversations until Sue or Jerry had to be a little firmer and assure the caller that they appreciated the concern and would certainly let them know if there was anything to report. Sue’s mother called regularly and seemed to accept the need to stay away, and to depend upon her daughter and son-in-law for up-dates. She cried during some of those calls, which made it harder for Sue. But she maintained an even keel and didn’t allow her own tears to meld with her mother’s.

  At eleven, Kloss, whose fatigue was showing, suggested that the Rollinses go to bed.

  “What about you?” Jerry said. “You looked exhausted.”

  “I’ll be fine on the couch here,” Kloss said. “I really doubt whether anyone will call tonight regarding your daughter. We’ll handle other calls and say you’re resting. You’ll accomplish nothing by sitting around with us.”

  Sue didn’t argue. She walked heavily up the stairs and disappeared into the master bedroom. Jackson and Rollins sat at the kitchen table, hands cupped around steaming cups of black coffee.

  “How did you enjoy your trip out to Maryland today?” Rollins asked.

  “Pretty ride,” Jackson said. “You had a meeting.”

  Rollins nodded.

  “I guess with the campaign and all, life marches on.”

  “Something like that. I met with Kevin Ziegler. He’s President Pyle’s advisor.”

  “I know.”

  “You follow politics, Matt?”

  “Best I can.”

  “Pick a winner yet?”

  “I don’t know about a winner, sir, but I do intend to vote for Governor Colgate.”

  “You’re not just saying that because you’re with me?”

  “I wouldn’t do that, sir.”

  “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Mr. Ziegler and I will be meeting again day after tomorrow to iron out details for a debate in Miami.”

  “I heard about that,” Jackson said, pleased that he had kept up with news of the campaign. “Always some sticking points.”

  “Always. In a way, it’s good that these things come up. I don’t know how I’d handle this whole mess if it were all I had to think about. I feel bad for Sue in that regard.”

  “She’s a strong woman.”

  “Very strong.”

  “Mind if I ask you something, Mr. Rollins?”

  “No, and please call me Jerry.”

  “All right, Jerry. I couldn’t help but notice the last time I went out back that you have an impressive machine sitting in the garage.”

  Jackson’s observation brought a wry smile to Rollins’s lips. “My baby, my pride and joy.”

  “I only peeked through the garage window, but…”

  “Care to see her up close?”

  “I’d love that.”

  The sight of them in the driveway, illuminated by a large halogen lamp over the front of the garage, stirred murmurs from the press, and a few hurled questions, which were ignored. Rollins opened the door and flipped on an interior light.

  “That is a beauty,” Jackson commented, going to the Porsche and running his hand over its gleaming red surface.

  “It’s a 2003 nine-eleven,” Rollins said. “Three-hundred-eighty horses. She’ll get up to one-ninety, if you’re crazy enough to do it.”

  “You ever take it on a track?” Jackson asked.

  “No. Sue wouldn’t be pleased if I decided to turn race driver. Go ahead, get in.”

&
nbsp; Jackson slipped behind the black, leather-wrapped wheel. “Like a cockpit,” he exclaimed.

  “I always feel that way when I’m driving it. My midlife crisis.” He laughed.

  Jackson climbed out of the car and appreciated the solid “thunk” of the driver’s door as he closed it. They left the garage, prompting another chorus from the press, and returned to the house.

  “When this is over,” Rollins said, “I’ll have to take you for a ride in it. Let you drive it.”

  “That would be great.”

  Rollins yawned. “I think Detective Kloss was right,” he said. “I’m going to join my wife upstairs.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  “Good night, Matt. Thank you.”

  “For what, sir?”

  “For being here for us. Somehow, I know this will be over soon and we’ll have Samantha back safely.”

  • • •

  When Rollins entered the bedroom, Sue hadn’t changed into nightclothes. She sat on the bed, her back against the headboard, her feet drawn up, her knees tight against her chest. Rollins placed his arm around her. “Sue,” he said.

  “What?”

  “This will all be over soon. Samantha will be home again.”

  As she slowly turned to look at him, a torrent of tears flowed from her. She wrapped her arms tightly about him and squeezed as though life itself depended upon it. He allowed her sobbing to abate before gently pushing her away and holding her at arm’s length. “Sue,” he said, “did you hear me? This will be over soon—everything is going to be all right.”

  “That’s what they keep saying but—”

  “It will be, Sue. Trust me, it will be.”

  THIRTY

  Paul answered the phone. “It’s Y-man,” he whispered to Greta. “We’re gewtting ready to bring this to a conclusion within the next few days. Any questions about the plan to release her?”

  “No. When?”

  “I’ll call again.”

  • • •

  Rollins’s final phone call before leaving his office the previous night had been to Bob Colgate. He reached him on his cell while en route to a fundraiser.

  “It’s Jerry, Bob. I wanted to bring you up-to-date on a meeting I had today.”

  “With Ziegler.” There was an edge to Colgate’s voice that was all too familiar to Rollins.

  “Word gets around,” Rollins said.

  “Did it ever occur to you to run it past me before you meet with someone like Ziegler?”

  “It was a last-minute thing, Bob. He seemed anxious to talk and I wanted to hear him out.”

  Silence on Colgate’s end.

  “He wants to get together again, day after tomorrow, to try to iron out details for the Miami debate.”

  “That’s nice. You will, of course, consult with me and the staff before committing to anything.”

  Rollins held his annoyance in check. “Of course,” he said.

  “We need to meet, Jerry. I never considered you a loose cannon, but—”

  “It’s hard for me to find time with Samantha’s kidnapping and—”

  “But you found time for Ziegler.”

  “I have to go, Bob. I’ll call after the second meeting with Ziegler.”

  As though he’d been struck by a sudden thought, Colgate asked, “How are things going with Samantha? No breaks yet?”

  “No, nothing yet, but thanks for asking.”

  Rollins replaced the phone in its cradle and stared at it. He was well aware, and had been from the earliest days of their friendship, of Colgate’s self-centeredness. He’d always excused it as being an integral part of a politician’s personality and character. You didn’t run for governor of a state, or for president of the United States, without a healthy dose of “me” in your veins. Of course, Colgate had honed a side of him that proclaimed to voters that he was deeply concerned with their personal lives and troubles, and he could turn that faucet on at will. At public gatherings, an aide was never far from his side to remind him that the next person he was about to greet had recently lost a spouse or child, or was going through chemotherapy. “The man is amazing,” Rollins had heard more than one person exclaim. “He’s never too busy to remember the troubles I’ve been having.” Colgate had that ability down to a science and it had held him in good stead throughout his political life.

  There were times that Rollins questioned his own willingness to overlook the programmed, ingenuous aspect of his friend Bob Colgate, and to continue to play an important role in his rise to the apex of national politics. He knew the answer, of course. There was something intoxicating about sitting at the right hand of power and being highly valued as a source of wisdom. Too, there were the perks inherent in such a relationship, the invitations to events to which only the cream of Washington’s A-list were granted access. A VIP in a city of VIPs. And he didn’t kid himself: he’d taken part in enough of his own dubious, even unsavory deals over the years, advocating for clients for whom he had little regard and even less belief in their causes, cases in which his legal acumen, and, yes, his political connections, had prevailed on behalf of those who didn’t warrant it, at the expense of those more deserving of justice. He was good at rationalizing those incidents in his life, frequently calling upon the priceless words of others to buttress his self-explanations. His wife, a Shakespearian savant, once offered a sonnet to him when he’d expressed doubts about his chosen life. He recited it aloud on his way home that evening:

  “Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;

  Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,

  And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.

  All men make faults.”

  • • •

  On Tuesday morning, the Washington Post ran two stories pertaining to Rollins.

  A banner over a lengthy article on page one read:

  NO BREAKS IN ROLLINS KIDNAPPING:

  Lack of Contact by Abductors Concerns Authorities.

  Chief Carter had been interviewed for the article. He assured reporters that MPD had pulled out all the stops, and was working in close cooperation with state and local agencies, the FBI, as well as with state police from neighboring states.

  Chief Carter had called the house early Monday morning and spoken with Rollins. “I was wondering, Mr. Rollins, if perhaps this might be a good time for you and your wife to make a personal plea to the kidnappers.”

  “You mean go on television?”

  “Yes. There’s always the possibility that a direct plea might strike a nerve with one of them.”

  “I don’t think so, Chief.”

  “You’re sure, Mr. Rollins? We can easily set up the taping, or press conference.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Mrs. Rollins certainly isn’t up to something like that. We had discussed it before you called, and came to the conclusion that it would be inappropriate at this time. But I thank you for the suggestion and for all you and your officers have been doing for us.”

  Of course, he and Sue had not discussed the possibility of going public and pleading with Samantha’s kidnappers. Had they engaged in such a conversation prior to Rollins’s meeting with Ziegler, they might have agreed to do it. But now that it appeared likely that arrangements would be made for Samantha’s safe return, he wasn’t about to do anything to muddy the waters.

  The second story that morning was considerably smaller, and was part of a roundup of the day’s political news: Rival Camps to Meet on Miami Debate. The piece was based upon a press release issued by a Pyle campaign spokesperson. According to it, top Pyle political advisor, Kevin Ziegler, and senior advisor to the Colgate campaign, Jerrold Rollins, had agreed to meet the next day to attempt to iron out differences that stood in the way of a proposed debate in Miami. The spokesman stated, “We’re confident that whatever stumbling blocks exist can be surmounted, and that the debate will go forward as planned.”

  Jackson read both stories, and passed the paper to Mary Hall. They were alone in the kitchen. Mr. a
nd Mrs. Rollins had been there earlier and invited them to join them for breakfast. After the Rollinses had left, Jackson said to Hall, referring to the newspaper piece, “Looks like he got together with Ziegler for legit reasons after all.”

  “Seems that way. Did you notice a change in them this morning?”

  “The Rollinses? Yeah, I did. More relaxed. She certainly seems to be.”

  “Why?”

  Jackson shrugged. “Maybe it’s just a matter of time doing its number. You get numb after a while.”

  “Did you hear what he said just before they left this morning, that he has renewed confidence that everything will turn out all right?”

  “I’m glad he feels that way. It would be hell if he felt otherwise.”

  “It was almost as though he knows something.”

  “I don’t think so, Mary. Just simple, hopeful optimism.”

  “He’s spending another day in the office?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “It’s been three days since she was grabbed. Not another word from whoever has her.”

  “Seems more like three weeks.”

  “Are you staying here today?”

  “No. Kloss wants me to replace one of the detectives at Rollins’s office. You know, stay close to him.” He checked his watch. “I’d better get going. Kloss wants me there before Rollins arrives, and I need to swing by Metro on the way.” He made sure no one was about to intrude upon them before leaning over and kissing her on the mouth. “I miss you,” he said.

  “Soon,” she said.

  “Never soon enough. I’ll check in with you later.”

  As he walked from the house, a reporter yelled, “Hey, when’s the family going to make a statement?”

  Jackson ignored him, went to a department car parked across the driveway, got in and told the uniformed cop at the wheel to drop him at Metro.

  “Anything new?” the cop asked.

  “No.”

  “Know what I figure?”

  “What?” Jackson said, not really interested.

  “I figure it’s some nut who got screwed by the father in a court case. You read about it all the time, some whack-job gets a bad decision and starts shooting at everybody—his lawyer, the judge, anybody.”