Murder Inside the Beltway

by Margaret Truman

  “As good a theory as any,” Jackson said.

  “You wait and see,” said the cop. “Just wait and see.”

  Jackson walked into Metro and headed directly for the detectives’ section, where Hatcher sat at a table with a couple of other veteran cops.

  “Hey, look who’s here,” Hatcher bellowed. “Solve the kidnapping yet, hot shot?”

  “Hello, Hatch,” Jackson said, heading for the locker room to retrieve some things he needed from his space. Hatcher followed.

  “So, how’s it feel to rub elbows with the rich and famous?” the crusty detective asked.

  “I don’t look at it that way,” Jackson said as he found the right numbers on the combination lock.

  “Ah, come on, Jackson, sure you do. Guys like you are always sucking up to anybody who can do something for you. Hey, kid, play your cards right and you’ll end up running this joint.”

  Jackson continued to ignore Hatcher, carefully placing items in a small athletic bag.

  “Hey, Jackson, I’m talking to you.”

  “I hear you, Hatch,” Jackson said, not turning.

  “You really hate my guts, don’t you?”

  Jackson looked down at the floor and slowly shook his head. “Let’s just say that we don’t get along, Hatch.”

  “Jackson, you know why we don’t get along, as you put it? We don’t get along because you’re a piss-poor excuse for a cop. We don’t get along because I’ve forgotten more about being a cop than you’ll ever know. You can take all your books and your degrees and shove ’em, pal, because they ain’t worth the paper they’re printed on.”

  “You finished with the lecture, Hatch?” Jackson said, slamming closed the locker and spinning the lock with conviction.

  “Oh, I’m finished, all right. Maybe you heard. I put in my retirement papers.”

  “I did hear that. Congratulations.”

  “Yeah, I figured I’d get out’a here before you filed some dumb charge that I’m a racist or something.”

  Jackson drew a deep breath. “Enjoy your retirement, Hatch.” He moved to walk past but Hatcher stepped in his way.

  “I have to go, Hatch. I’m running late.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You’re in the way.”

  Hatcher’s grin was crooked, nasty.

  “Oh, pardon me, hot shot. Sure, I’ll get out of your way, but first let me give you a word of advice.”

  Jackson knew it was senseless to protest.

  “Stay out of my way till I’m gone. Got that?”

  Hatcher moved aside and Jackson went to the door. He could feel Hatcher’s eyes boring into his back. He turned and said, “When you were working vice, Hatch, who were the cops shaking down hookers like Rosalie Curzon and Micki Simmons?”

  His question elicited an audible expulsion of air from Hatcher.

  Jackson stared at him, awaiting an answer.

  “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Jackson.”

  “Just asking, Hatch. Somebody was putting the arm on them. No doubt about that.”

  “They tell you that?”

  “Curzon was in no position to tell me anything,” Jackson said, “but Simmons—”

  “And you take the word of a freakin’ whore.” Hatcher laughed, too loud and long. “Go crawl back in your hole with the rest of your people, Jackson. Get out’a my sight.”

  Jackson left the locker room, afraid of what he might do next. There was a time during the confrontation that he thought of the handgun he carried, how easy it would be to pull it out and put an end to the man who’d berated and demeaned him at every turn, the man who caused sleepless nights and fantasies of revenge. He’d never felt that way before about anyone. The thought of using his weapon, even on the criminals he’d pursued, was unpleasant at best. He sometimes wondered whether he’d be able to do it, draw the weapon, aim, and take another person’s life. He knew he wasn’t alone. He’d heard a few fellow cops express such doubts, always privately, of course, and beyond the earshot of those who would find such reservations unmanly. There were veteran cops who’d never had to draw their weapons during a long career, and were obviously happy that they hadn’t needed to.

  He stood just outside the locker room, leaned against the wall, and drew deep breaths. He thought of his father’s advice on the phone the other night about not allowing someone like Hatcher to drive him from the job he’d coveted since high school. He had to smile. If his father thought that walking away was bad, imagine if his son decided to blow away Hatcher in a locker room at Metro.

  Although he was running late, he preceded Rollins to the office by fifteen minutes and was standing in the reception area talking with Caroline when Rollins walked in. They exchanged greetings before Rollins disappeared into his office and closed the door behind him; Jackson joined a second detective in the small, previously unused room, in which recording devices had been installed. There was an issue that had to be resolved before the taping of calls began. Rollins was an attorney, which meant that his conversations with clients were protected under attorney-client privilege. It had been agreed that the detectives monitoring calls would immediately cease recording once they realized it was a client on the line. It wasn’t a perfect system, and Rollins had balked initially, but eventually gave in to reason. After all, his daughter’s life was at stake. It was also agreed that outgoing calls would not be monitored or taped.

  “I wish this thing would get resolved,” the second detective said. “I’m getting tired of sitting around.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Jackson said, not offering up the obvious, that much of a detective’s life is spent doing just that, sitting or standing around.

  “What’s he like?” the detective asked, nodding toward Rollins’s office, separated from them by a single interior wall.

  “Mr. Rollins? He’s a nice guy, as far as I can tell. He’s cool, a real lawyer, treats those of us assigned to the house pretty good.”

  “I don’t get to see him much. He holes himself up in his office most of the time.”

  As the day dragged on, Jackson’s thoughts kept reverting back to that morning’s exchange with Walt Hatcher. He’d done nothing to provoke Hatcher, and was at a loss to explain the older detective’s belligerence and combativeness. He came to the conclusion that Hatcher’s decision to retire from the force had freed him to vent feelings against Jackson that had been simmering for what seemed forever, going back to his first day on Hatcher’s squad. But that bit of pop psychology didn’t salve his feelings about the face-to-face in the locker room. How long did it take for retirement to come through? It couldn’t arrive fast enough.

  Jackson and his colleague ordered in lunch and ate quietly. It had been a busy morning; they’d logged in fourteen calls, six of which were determined to be from clients. Following lunch, and after checking in with Kloss and Mary at the Rollins house, Jackson went to an unoccupied office and placed a call on his cell phone. Micki Simmons answered.

  “It’s Matt Jackson,” he said. “How are things?”

  “Things stink, if you want to know the truth. You tell me I can’t leave this lousy city, and I’m not working, so what’s good about it? When can I go?”

  “It won’t be long,” Jackson responded, not knowing whether it would be or not. “I thought you’d want to know that your former employer, Billy McMahon, was gunned down yesterday.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “Yeah, he’s dead.”

  “Maybe there’s justice after all.”

  “Micki, I need to talk to you.”

  “You always say you need to talk to me.”

  “I need for you to be honest with me.”

  “I have been.”

  “Maybe you’ve been honest, but not always forthcoming.”

  She didn’t respond; he could hear her breathing into the phone.

  “I have to know, Micki, the names of the cops who were shaking down you and Rosalie.”

  “I’m not stupid.”


  “Micki, I’m calling from my cell phone. I’ve never lied to you.” (Well, almost never, he thought). “Your friend Rosalie is dead, and I want to know who killed her. Don’t you?”

  “Sure, but not if it means I end up the same way.”

  “You won’t, Micki. Whatever you tell me stays with me, like in Las Vegas.”

  “I can take that to the bank?”

  He smiled. He’d thought of using that cliché but had fought the urge. “Yeah, you can take it to the bank. You want to meet somewhere?”

  He’d hoped she’d give him the information on the phone. Shaking free of Kloss, Rollins, and the kidnapping case wouldn’t be easy. But he decided he would work it out, had to work it out.

  “I’m not sure when I can get free. I’m working on a big case and—”

  “The kid who went missing?”

  “Right. Look, I’ll meet anyplace you say. Name it. The Silver Veil? Dinner’s on me. Oh, right, you don’t like that place.”

  “Too many bad memories.”

  “All right. You pick the place.”

  “What time?”

  “I’ll call you back within the hour.”

  “Hey, Matt.”

  Her familiar tone pleased him. “What?”

  “I do this for you, you do something for me.”

  “Quid pro quo.”

  “Whatever that means. I meet and tell you who the cops were, and you let me go home. I want to go home, Matt.”

  He went through a fast series of mental calculations. Could he promise her what she wanted? He decided that he could, and would.

  “It’s a deal,” he said.

  “Great,” she said. “What did you call it?”

  “Oh, quid pro quo. It’s Latin.”

  “A cop who speaks Latin,” she said. “I’m impressed.” She ended the call.

  Jackson called Kloss. “Detective, I was wondering if I could steal a couple of hours tonight around dinnertime.”

  “Got a date?”

  He thought of Mary. “No, but I’d like to follow up on something. It has to do with a case I was working before joining the Rollins case.”

  “Sure. Mr. Rollins informs us that he intends to be home by six. Does that work for you?”

  “Perfect. I’ll be back to the house by eight. Thanks.”

  The day dragged on slowly, minutes seeming to be hours. But at three, the relative peace was shattered when Rollins came to the reception area to tell Caroline that Governor Colgate’s wife, Deborah Colgate, would be stopping by the office at four. This set into motion a series of events as the staff prepared for her visit. Two Secret Service agents arrived to check out the offices. They were surprised that Jackson and his partner were there, and posed a series of questions before clearing them. All staff members were vetted, too.

  “Where will you meet with her?” Rollins was asked.

  “In my office.”

  Rollins’s office was swept with a handheld device.

  After the Secret Service had departed, Rollins instructed Caroline that he and Mrs. Colgate were not to be disturbed. “Please see that everyone understands that,” he added to his secretary of many years.

  Jackson called Micki Simmons back and told her that they’d meet at six thirty.

  At 3:45, a call came in from Kevin Ziegler. Jackson and his partner listened, and the digital recorder went into action.

  “Just nailing down tomorrow, Jerry,” Ziegler said. “My office, ten a.m.?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “I know this isn’t easy, Jerry, but—”

  “Ten at your office,” Rollins said sharply, and hung up.

  “Sounds like he didn’t want to talk,” Jackson’s colleague commented.

  “Yeah, sure sounds that way.”

  Deborah Colgate, accompanied by her two Secret Service agents, arrived precisely at four and was immediately ushered into Rollins’s office, the agents occupying chairs in the reception area.

  “Love to hear what’s going on in there,” the detective with Jackson said.

  “So would I,” Jackson agreed.

  “Who do you figure will win in November?”

  “Haven’t given it much thought,” Jackson said.

  “Looks like Colgate’s a shoo-in, despite all his baggage.”

  “You never know,” was Jackson’s reply. “You just never know.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  For reasons he couldn’t explain even to himself, Rollins felt the need to stage his office for Deborah’s arrival. The external surroundings would do nothing to mitigate what he intended to say, but he went about the task nonetheless. The blinds and drapes were tightly closed. He pulled a comfortable armchair to the side of his desk, and placed a floor lamp at its side. Two desk lamps added additional lighting. He selected what he considered a soothing jazz CD, a selection of ballads by the Canadian pianist Oliver Jones. He kept the door closed, but Caroline had a brief glance into the room and found its artificial ambiance to be strange, almost amusing. If she didn’t know her boss better, she would have thought that he was planning a seduction.

  He’d debated where to hold the meeting. His initial idea was to choose somewhere far away from the District, perhaps a secluded inn like the King’s Contrivance, where they’d rendezvoused before. He’d also considered a secluded park, a bench beneath graceful trees, where his words would be softened by singing birds and gentle breezes. Neither venue held up to further scrutiny. With the press following their every move, although for different reasons—she as the wife of a presidential candidate, he as the tragic father of an abducted daughter—meeting in such intimate surroundings would surely feed already voracious media appetites.

  It had to be the office, he decided. That put it on a formal, businesslike footing, two people professionally intertwined getting together to discuss campaign issues, fine-tuning talking points, and plotting strategy, all perfectly within the realm of their acknowledged relationship. And in a sense, that’s exactly what it was.

  Caroline called Rollins to announce Deborah’s arrival and he went to where Deb waited. “I’m so glad you could come,” he told her, taking her hand and whisking her into the office. “Hold all my calls,” he told Caroline. Brian Massie lingered in the doorway to his office and watched his boss greet the new presumptive first lady. It was time to go outside for a cigarette, and to make a call.

  “What’s this all about, Jerry?” Deborah asked the minute the door was closed. “I canceled two appointments to be here.”

  “I appreciate that, Deb. Believe me, I wouldn’t have asked you to come if I didn’t consider it urgent.”

  “Urgent?” she said. “Could you turn off that music?”

  “I thought—”

  “I’m not in the mood for romantic ballads.”

  He did as she’d asked, and came to where she stood in the center of the room. “Better?” he said.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Sit down, Deb.” He indicated the chair next to his desk.

  She remained standing. “Jerry, what’s wrong? What’s happened? Is it Samantha?”

  “No. Please, sit.”

  “I spoke with Sue today,” she said, taking the chair.

  “After I called you?”

  “No, before. She sounded good, strong, said she was certain that Sammy would be back soon. God, I admire that sort of faith. I’m afraid I couldn’t muster it under such dire circumstances.”

  “We never know what we’re capable of, Deb, until we’re faced with adversity. Sue is a strong person. I share her confidence about Samantha.”

  She exhaled a stream of air and adjusted herself in the chair. “So, this is not about Sammy,” she said. “What is it about?”

  Rollins touched her shoulder as he walked past and took his seat behind the desk. He rolled forward so that his knees came closer to hers. “I said we had to get together, Deb, because of something I’ve recently learned.”

  “Go on.”

  He gla
nced up at the James Vann painting, behind which the wall safe was situated, before responding. “I’m sure you know that I’d move heaven and earth for you and Bob in this campaign.”

  “And Bob has always appreciated it.”

  “You? Have you appreciated it?”

  She cocked her head as though to say she considered it a strange question.

  “It’s important to me, Deb, that you understand how much you and Bob mean to me.”

  Now she turned her head right and left. “Why do I get the feeling that I’m being set up for a fall, Jerry?”

  He ignored the comment and forged ahead with what was a semblance of the speech he’d been running over and over since deciding to meet—the words to use, the tone to cushion the blow, the preamble, creating a relaxing atmosphere, all the tools he used when confronting an adversary in the courtroom.

  “The problem, Deb, is that in this dirty game of national politics, there are some things that take on their own life, that happen, no matter how hard we try to head them off.”

  “Thanks for trying to let me down easy, Jerry,” she said, reaching and patting his knee. “But I’m a big girl. I’ve taken a few blows and I’m still standing. Swing away.”

  “Okay.” He sat back and searched the ceiling for the right way to phrase what he was about to say. There wasn’t one. “Deb, I’ve learned through sources that there exists a videotape that can be extremely damaging to Bob’s campaign.”

  Her placid expression didn’t indicate shock. It was void of any emotion. Had she even heard him? She had. “A videotape?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Of Bob?”

  He hesitated. “Yes,” he said.

  He allowed her to process what she’d heard. The room was still, silent, threatening.

  “That tape that was mentioned in City Paper?” she asked, her voice soft and lacking strength.

  The question took him by surprise. He’d forgotten about the article that had hinted at such a tape existing, and that mentioned rumors linking her husband to the slain call girl in Adams Morgan. “Trash,” had been his reply to the reporter. If only that were so.