Murder Inside the Beltway

by Margaret Truman

  “I wouldn’t give that article any credence, Deb,” he said, glad that the subject had been changed, if only for the moment.

  “I’m not,” she said. “I don’t give credence to anything in the media when it comes to politics. But now you say such a tape exists.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “How? Who has it?”

  “I don’t know the specific answers to those questions, Deb. I wish I did.” Another guilty glance at the painting hiding the wall safe. “What I do know is that the tape has surfaced and is likely to be used against Bob, and you, in the campaign.” He got up and walked to the window, wishing he could look outside through the drapes and blinds. “The Pyle people have the tape,” he said, his back still to her.

  When she didn’t respond, he turned, and saw that she was hunched over, her arms wrapped around herself. He came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, kneaded them with tenderness. “I’m sorry,” he said. “If there were anything I could have done to stave this off, I would have.”

  He wanted her to leave now. He hadn’t been sure that he could lie with such conviction and without remorse, but he had. He wanted to say that the only thing that could have caused him to turn over the tape to the Pyle campaign was the life of his daughter, to save her, to put an end to the nightmare he and Sue had been dealing with since Saturday. But he knew, had known from the moment he made the decision, that while the predicament in which he’d found himself and the resulting decision would be understood—what parent wouldn’t make this choice?—he couldn’t bring himself to express it. He couldn’t face her with that truth.

  She straightened. “Have you seen the tape?” she asked absently.

  “Seen it? No.”

  He had seen it, of course, had watched it more than once, alone in his darkened office, the flickering images casting macabre shafts of red and yellow and orange light over the room, and over him. He’d felt sick the first time he’d watched, and had wondered whether he would need to run to the bathroom to vomit. The impact of the second viewing was no less potent than the first.

  “But you know what’s on it,” she said.

  “Only what I’ve been told.”

  “And what have you been told?”

  “That it places Bob in a compromising position with a call girl.”

  “It was taped?”

  “Yes. The call girl taped it.”

  Rage crossed her face. She clenched her fists and let out a stream of four-letter words, then ended with, “How could he have been so stupid, so careless?”

  “I don’t have an answer for that, Deb,” he said, retaking his seat. “Look, I’m meeting with Kevin Ziegler tomorrow about the Miami debate. I’ll try to convince him that to make use of the tape would bring politics down to a new level, down into the gutter. I don’t have any illusions, though. Pyle’s campaign will never directly claim responsibility for the tape’s release, but with the Internet and blogs and out-of-control surrogates, it’s easy to let someone else claim the… responsibility.”

  “This was the call girl who was murdered,” Deborah said.

  “Yes.”

  Her thoughts were as visible as though written in a cartoon balloon above her head. Had her husband, candidate for the most powerful office in the world, killed the prostitute? He wanted to dissuade her of that possibility, but couldn’t. Instead, he said, “I’ve told you about this, Deb, to give you a heads-up, no surprises, no blindsiding. You had to know.”

  “Does Bob know?”

  “I haven’t told him, but I will. Unless, of course…”

  “Unless I tell him,” she said. “No, I won’t tell him, Jerry. He doesn’t deserve that from me.”

  “I understand how you feel, Deb. I’ll find the right time, maybe after I meet with Ziegler tomorrow.”

  “I don’t care,” she said. The anger returned. “God, I detest him. He couldn’t be content with bedding down his bimbos in the privacy of a hotel room, could he? Having women fall at his feet wasn’t enough, was it? No, he had to go pay some common whore.” She spun around to face Rollins, and expressed what she’d been thinking. “Did he kill that girl, Jerry?” She said it through bitter tears that had mascara running down her cheeks.

  “Don’t go there, Deb. This is bad enough without adding murder to it.”

  He fetched a Kleenex from his desk and handed it to her. “Try to pull yourself together, Deb. If the tape does surface, it hopefully won’t be for a while. I’ll see what I can accomplish with Ziegler tomorrow. In the meantime, I hope you realize that this hasn’t been easy for me, having to break this sort of bad news to you.”

  She nodded. “You’re in the midst of your own nightmare, Jerry, and had to deal with this, too.”

  “I’m sure Sue and I will have Samantha back home soon. As for the tape, let’s just hope that reason will prevail.”

  That prompted the first smile, actually a laugh, from her since arriving. “Reason prevail? In a presidential campaign? And the earth is flat. Do I look a fright, Jerry?”

  “Go freshen up,” he suggested, pointing to the private bath off his office.

  He opened the drapes and blinds and moved her chair and the floor lamp back to their original positions. He was seated behind his desk when she emerged. He rose and embraced her, held her at arm’s length, and said, “You look fine.”

  “Thanks. I hope Sammy’s back soon.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  He escorted her to the reception area, where the Secret Service agents jumped to their feet. Deborah flashed a smile at members of Rollins’s staff who happened to be there. “Good seeing you,” she said sprightly as she and the agents entered the elevator.

  Rollins returned to his office, with Caroline at his heels. “Good meeting?” she asked.

  “Yes, it went well. Anything important happen?”

  She laughed. “Mr. Scraggs called to ask whether you’d found a publisher yet for his book.”

  “And you told him… ?”

  “I told him you were tied up all day but would get back to him tomorrow.” She shook her head.

  “What?” he asked.

  “He never even asked about your daughter.”

  “Some people are just too into themselves, Caroline.”

  Especially in Washington, D.C., she thought as she returned to her desk.

  At six, Rollins announced that he was leaving for the day. “Coming with me, Matt?”

  “I’ll be by a little later,” Jackson said. “Detective Kloss gave me a couple of hours off for dinner.”

  “Good for you. Enjoy it. I know that this probably has eaten into your life in a big way.”

  They went their separate ways, Jackson to meet with Micki Simmons, Rollins to his Foggy Bottom home. As he turned into his street, a bizarre thought came to him: Does self-loathing emit an odor that others can smell?

  THIRTY-TWO

  “Your partner’s taking a couple hours off tonight for dinner,” Kloss told Mary Hall.

  She was surprised, and expressed it.

  “Something about a case he’d been working on.”

  Mary went to the back porch and used her cell to call Jackson. “What are you up to?” she asked.

  “I was going to fill you in,” he said, wishing he already had. “I had a run-in with Hatcher this morning at Metro. I asked him about when he worked vice, and he blew. I can’t shake this feeling that those days have something to do with the Curzon murder.”

  “Kloss said you’re taking time for dinner.”

  “Right, only I’m not sure it’ll include eating. I got hold of Micki Simmons and suggested we meet at the Silver Veil, but she nixed it. She wants to meet at Montrose Park, next to Dumbarton Oaks.”

  “Why there?”

  “Beats me, only she sounded upset. No, scared is more like it. I don’t care where we meet as long as she comes through with the names of the cops who shook Rosalie and her down.” When Mary didn’t say anything, he said, “You th
ere?”

  “Yes, I’m here. She’s agreed to give you those names?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Matt, we worked the Curzon case together. I feel like I’m being pushed aside all of a sudden.”

  “Come on, Mary, you know that’s not true. I would have suggested that you come with me but I think the two of us might make her nervous. Besides, I don’t think Kloss would want both of us away from the house.”

  She knew he was right, which didn’t mitigate her feeling of being left out. “What happened with Hatcher?” she asked.

  “He got belligerent, the usual, only he was more physical this time. The guy is going off the deep end, I think.”

  “Stay away from him, Matt.”

  “Oh, I intend to. Believe me, I intend to. I’ll be back at the house by eight.”

  “I’ll be here. Take care.”

  He arrived at the small, quiet Georgetown leafy refuge a few minutes before six thirty and walked down Lovers Lane, a cobblestone path on its western edge that separated the park from the much larger and more famous Dumbarton Oaks. It was a pristine evening; the lack of people in the park was surprising. The tennis courts were occupied, however. He’d always meant to take up the game, but never got around to it.

  Micki was alone, seated on a bench. She was dressed all in black—slacks, sweater, shoes. She didn’t acknowledge him as he sat next to her.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said.

  Her response was not what he expected. “You bastard,” she said. “You lousy, lying bastard.”

  “Hey, back off. What’d I do to deserve that?”

  “You promised you wouldn’t mention me to anybody.”

  “Right. I didn’t.”

  “Sure,” she said. “So how come your cop buddy pays me a visit this afternoon?”

  “What cop buddy?”

  “Hatcher, that’s who.”

  “Hatcher? He came to see you? Today?”

  “Oh, he sure did. He told me that if I ever opened my mouth I’d end up like Rosalie.”

  “Whew!” was all Jackson could manage.

  Her anger was palpable. She sat so that a quarter of her back was to him, one leg crossed over the other, the dangling foot pumping up and down. Jackson’s mind raced back to his locker room encounter with Hatcher. Had he inadvertently blurted out her name? He didn’t think so. At least he didn’t remember doing it. But he must have. Either that, or Hatcher assumed from his question about his days on the vice squad that it had to have been Micki who prompted it. Hatcher knew that Jackson and Hall had spoken with her about the Curzon murder, and having interviewed her at his apartment had prompted a snide remark. But he decided that how Hatcher knew to pay a visit to Micki wasn’t the issue, at least not at the moment. What was important was that he’d been right in his belief, unsupported by any facts, that Hatcher had shaken down Micki and Rosalie.

  “Look,” Jackson said, “if I did something to cause Hatcher to threaten you, I’m sorry.”

  “ ‘I’m sorry,’ ” she mimicked. “That’s swell. The guy’s capable of anything.”

  Jackson made sure that no one was near. He moved closer and said, “I’ll make this up to you, Micki. I promise. Okay, so Hatcher has threatened you, and he was one of the cops who shook you and Rosalie down. Who were the other cops?”

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s gone.”

  “From the force?”

  “Yeah. I heard he retired, probably with a fat pension, to go with the money he squeezed out of me and the other girls.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Vazquez. And when Hatcher was transferred from vice, another cop took his place, a Russian name, or something that sounds Russian, I don’t remember.”

  “They don’t matter for the moment,” he said.

  “Jesus, when I saw him arrive I—”

  “Hatcher.”

  “Yeah, Hatcher. When he showed up, it was like going back in time. I thought I was through with him and his kind.”

  “He said you’d end up like Rosalie if you talked to anyone?”

  “You got it.” Now she faced him. “Look, I’m sorry if I took it out on you when you arrived. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t trust you. It’s just that we make a date and then he shows up.”

  “I appreciate your trust, Micki. The last time we spoke—I was with my partner, Detective Hall, remember?—I asked whether you’d told anyone about the tapes Rosalie had recorded of some of her clients. You said you had.”

  “What does it matter?”

  “It matters a lot, Micki. I asked whether you’d told any of the cops. I think you said that you probably had told one of them. Was it Hatcher?”

  “This is getting in too deep for me,” she replied.

  “Was it Hatcher?” he repeated.

  “Hatcher knew about them,” she said.

  “Why did you tell him?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes he could be, well, friendly when he was collecting his payoff, joke around.”

  “He ever put the make on you in place of cash?”

  She laughed. “Hatcher? No. It was all money with him. He had a whole spiel to go with it. You know, coming up with reasons for taking payoffs—keeping us safe, helping us run our businesses. He used to say that if a john ever gave us trouble we should call him and he’d straighten him out.”

  “The patron saint of escorts,” Matt quipped.

  She grunted.

  “How did it happen that you told him about Rosalie’s tapes?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. No, I do know. It wasn’t me, now that I think of it. We—Rosie and me—we used to meet him for the payoffs at that greasy spoon owned by a friend of his, Joe Yankavich.”

  “Joe’s Bar and Grille, in Adams Morgan.”

  “Yeah. Joe’s a slob but he’s okay. He was always good to us. Hatcher had him on his payroll, too. Maybe he still does.”

  Jackson thought of Kahil, owner of the Silver Veil, who admitted to being shaken down. Hatcher?

  “Rosie was in a funny mood that night,” Micki continued. “She sometimes had a little trouble with the booze, just now and then. She’d get a snoot full and start talking—you know, gossip kind of things, funny stories about some of her johns.”

  “And she was in that mood the night you were with Hatcher?”

  “Yeah. I started to get uncomfortable. I mean, talking about your johns is a no-no. Breaks the rules.”

  “Go on.”

  “So, Rosie keeps drinking, and Hatcher is egging her on, buying the drinks, being buddy-buddy, even after we’d handed over that week’s payoff. At one point, Hatcher starts talking politics. He’s a right-winger, right of…”

  “Attila, the Hun,” Jackson filled in.

  “I guess. So Rosie says that liberals are lousy lovers. Hatcher says he figures, but challenges her to back it up.”

  “And she did.”

  A nod this time, then a sad shaking of the head. “The minute she mentioned Colgate’s name, I wanted to crawl under the table.”

  “Wait a minute. She specifically mentioned Governor Colgate as one of her johns?”

  “She sure did.”

  “What was Hatcher’s reaction?”

  “Oh, he thought it was hysterical. He kept telling her she was full of it, that she didn’t have any clients like Colgate.”

  “To keep her talking.”

  “Right. He told her to prove it.”

  “And she mentioned the tapes.”

  “Yeah.”

  Jackson swatted away a mosquito. “Did the topic ever come up again?”

  “Not like that. He asked me about it once, whether I knew if Rosie really had tapes of clients.”

  “You confirmed it?”

  “I didn’t want to.”

  “But you did.”

  She started to cry. “Damn it,” she said, wiping her eyes with her knuckles. “Was she killed for those tapes?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I really don’t know.
But I intend to find out.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Jackson couldn’t wait to get back to the Rollins house to share with Mary what he’d learned from Micki. He arrived a little before eight and found her in the kitchen, doing dinner dishes with Sue Rollins. Her raised eyebrows said she wanted to hear about the meeting. He winked and raised his index finger; We’ll get to that, the gesture said.

  Jerry Rollins was in the living room with the lead FBI special agent and Detective Bob Kloss.

  “Enjoy your dinner?” Kloss asked.

  “Oh, yeah, I did. Thanks for the time off. Nothing new here?”

  “Afraid not. Mr. Rollins is reconsidering putting out a personal plea from him and his wife, maybe tomorrow or the day after.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” Jackson said. “Am I back at the office with Mr. Rollins tomorrow?”

  “Afraid you’re stuck with me again,” Rollins said pleasantly, “but I won’t be there for much of the day. Meetings.”

  With Kevin Ziegler, Jackson thought.

  Mary eventually joined them.

  “Mr. Rollins showed me his pride and joy in the garage,” Jackson told her. “He’s got a beautiful Porsche out there.”

  “Show her,” Rollins said.

  “Want to see it?” Jackson asked.

  Mary had no interest in cars, but realized that he was using it as an excuse to get away from the others. “Sure,” she said. “Love to.”

  Rollins escorted them to the kitchen, where he pulled the car’s keys from a rack. “Start her up,” he told Jackson. “She really hums.”

  Their appearance in the drive brought forth the usual couple of shouted questions from encamped reporters, which they ignored. Jackson turned on the garage’s interior lights and closed the door.

  “Okay,” she said, “it’s a nice car. Now, what happened with Micki Simmons?”

  “Lots,” he said, “but I’ll try and whittle it down. I must have let slip her name when I confronted Hatcher today in the locker room at Metro. Know what he does? He visits Micki this afternoon and threatens her, says that if she talks she’ll end up like Rosalie Curzon.”