Her expression was worth a hundred words. “Billy McMahon is a creep. Maybe you should talk to him about Rosalie’s murder.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. When Rosalie decided to leave the agency and go solo, she encouraged me to go with her. I did. Billy never forgave her. Not only did I walk away along with her, he accused her of taking clients with her, lots of them. He said she promised them better service at lower prices if they’d come directly to her instead of booking through the agency. He threatened to kill her.”
“Literally?”
“That’s right.” She leaned forward, a sense of urgency in her voice. “Hey, look, don’t tell him I told you this. Right? I mean, I think the guy is capable of anything.”
“Including murder.”
She sat back, closed her eyes, and nodded.
He dropped the pad on the table and stood. “I forgot about the coffee,” he said, and went to the kitchen. He returned carrying two steaming mugs on a tray, along with sugar and a pint container of half-and-half. He placed it on the table.
“Do you have Sweet’n Low?” she asked.
He brought it from the kitchen.
“You won’t tell Billy what I told you,” she repeated.
“No need to. Did you and Rosalie share clients? I mean, did you pass them back and forth between you?”
“Sometimes. If Rosalie was away, or I was, we’d suggest that one of our clients see the other if they were upset or didn’t have much time. But we didn’t do that much, just now and then.”
“We’re looking for Rosalie’s killer,” Jackson said. “Chances are that it was one of her johns. Can you give me some names of men you sent to her when you were away?”
She shook her head with conviction. “I would never do that,” she said solemnly.
“Even if it might help solve the murder of your friend?”
She looked down and thought before responding. “Ah don’t think it’s right to just name a bunch’a names and have them dragged through the dirt. If you know somebody who you think did it, and if I know that person, then I might talk about it. But ah don’t want to be sending you on some wild-goose chase that’ll hurt people for no good reason.”
He silently agreed with her, although he knew he shouldn’t. Hatcher certainly wouldn’t have bought her rationale. So what if a bunch of men were embarrassed at having bought the services of a prostitute? Chances were, they had those who would be deeply hurt by knowing of the infidelity. Was it more unsavory to have paid for sex rather than having fallen into an affair with a neighbor or office colleague? It didn’t really matter. Hurt was hurt, regardless of its genesis.
“Where in Carolina did you grow up?” he asked.
“A little town outside of Sumter. You have any more questions?” she asked, slipping her feet into her shoes.
“I’m sure I’ll have more, Micki, but none at the moment.”
“That’s good.” She stood and picked up her raincoat. “Hey, how did you know about me?”
“Somebody in the neighborhood told me that you and Rosalie were friends.”
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You get to ask questions but I can’t?”
“Yeah, that’s the way it works. Sorry.”
“Stinks.”
He slipped into his jacket and held the raincoat for her. “How are you traveling to South Carolina?” he asked.
“Train.”
“Okay. I’ll drop you at the station. I need to know how to reach you in South Carolina. We may want to have you come back to D.C.”
She pouted, but wrote down an address and phone number in Sumter.
“What will you do about your apartment?” he asked as they left his place and went to where he’d parked the car.
“Keep it for a while, I guess.”
“That’s probably smart,” he said, holding open the car’s door. “You’ll have to come back to D.C. at some point.”
As she got out of the car in front of Union Station, and Jackson had retrieved her suitcase from the trunk, she smiled at him and took his extended hand. “You’re okay,” she said.
“For a cop?”
“No,” she said. “Just okay.”
He watched her disappear into a crowd of people, and for the first time allowed his concern about Hatcher’s reaction to allowing her to leave town—to have helped her leave—to surface. He’d be furious and demeaning. No doubt about that.
Jackson used the radio in his car to ask headquarters for information about Beltway Escorts. Its phone number was cross-referenced to a street address, and Jackson headed in that direction. He’d deal with Hatcher when he had to, and the senior detective faded from Jackson’s thoughts as they shifted to the pimp, Billy McMahon.
TEN
Deborah Colgate was picked up at the Georgetown house for the short trip across the Potomac to her scheduled appearance at a fundraiser in the Crystal City Marriott. She was accompanied this morning by her personal assistant, her press secretary, and her best friend, Connie Bennett. Roommates at the University of Maryland, Deb and Connie had hit it off almost immediately and became inseparable during their undergraduate years. Their friendship carried over into their post-university lives—maid of honor at each other’s weddings, godmothers to their children, and most important, close confidants. Connie didn’t often accompany Deborah to her campaign appearances, but was always available following them to hear her friend’s analysis of how things went.
“Bob’s in the Midwest?” Connie asked as the limo crossed Memorial Bridge.
“Yes.”
“Getting the teacher’s union endorsement was wonderful.”
“Not unexpected. Pyle’s record on education is dismal.”
“Like his record on almost everything else.”
“He scares me,” Deborah said.
“Scares you?” Connie replied, adding a quizzical laugh. “Oh, you mean what he’s doing to the country.”
“No,” Deborah said. “I mean he’s capable of anything. He’s been running the dirtiest campaign in history. I wake up every morning and wonder what new trash he’s had his people spread overnight.”
“We’re way ahead in the latest polls,” Deborah’s assistant weighed in. “Every one of them.”
Deborah ignored her and said to Connie, “I just have this feeling that a second shoe is about to drop.”
Connie knew what her friend was talking about. They’d spent many hours discussing the impact of Bob Colgate’s alleged extracurricular romantic life on the campaign—more important, on Deborah, and the scrutiny to which she was subjected on a daily basis. It wasn’t so much a matter of people asking her directly about the myriad rumors. The press tended to give her a pass on having to comment on what obviously was a painful personal subject. But there was the unstated, visceral atmosphere that caused Deborah to feel, real or not, that people were looking at her with a sense of pity. She hated the feeling. Connie Bennett was the only person to whom she openly expressed it.
As Deborah and her entourage, flanked by Secret Service agents, entered the Crystal City Hotel, among those observing them were Detectives Walt Hatcher and Mary Hall. They’d arrived early for their meeting with Congressman Morrison and occupied chairs in the recently renovated lobby.
“That’s Mrs. Colgate,” Mary commented.
Hatcher removed his sunglasses and looked in the direction of the Colgate group. “Big deal,” he muttered.
“You don’t like her?” Mary asked.
He shrugged. “You?”
“Yeah, I like her. I like her husband, too.”
Hatcher guffawed. “He’s not worth a damn,” he said.
“He’s a lot better than Pyle,” Mary said, aware that she was moving into dangerous conversational territory. Hatcher’s views of politicians, particularly those who leaned left, were well known within MPD.
“Like the rest of them,” Hatcher said. “You know what I think?”
Mary
sighed. “What?”
“I think he’s a whore, and I think his wife is a dyke.”
“That’s—that’s ridiculous. Why do you say that?”
“I’ve got a sense about things like that. You spend enough time on the streets, kid, and you get to know people, can size ’em up in ten seconds. Trust me.”
She knew dissent would be both futile and inflammatory.
Ten minutes later, they left the lobby and went to Restaurant Mez where they were to meet Morrison. They asked for and were given a table in a far corner of the restaurant. They ordered coffee and waited. At fifteen minutes past eleven, Hatcher said, “Looks like the son-of-a-bitch decided not to show.”
“Looks that way,” Hall agreed.
“Big mistake on the congressman’s part,” Hatcher said. “Very big mistake.” He pulled a small bottle of Tylenol from his pocket and downed two gels with water.
At twenty after eleven, Hatcher said it was time to leave. As he motioned for a check, Congressman Morrison burst through the door, surveyed the room, and came to them. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, “but some pressing business came up. I’m on the House Commerce Committee and—”
“Sit down,” Hatcher said, indicating the chair they’d pulled over from an adjacent table.
Morrison was shorter than he appeared to be on TV, at least from Mary Hall’s perspective. His wide face was deeply tanned, which highlighted the whiteness of his teeth. His brown hair had obviously been dyed, albeit tastefully done, and was combed over his bald pate from just above one ear. He wore a navy double-breasted blazer, gray slacks with a razor crease, a pale blue shirt, and a solid burgundy tie. His smile seemed perpetual.
“You didn’t tell me what the two of you looked like,” he said, “so I took a guess.” He fixed on Mary. “You’re the lovely young lady who called. The police obviously have good taste when it comes to hiring female officers.”
A waitress took Morrison’s coffee order.
Hatcher observed the look exchanged between Morrison and Mary with a sour expression on his mottled face. He’d removed his sunglasses and placed them on the table. The headache, which came and went, hung on, and his grimace confirmed it. He put on the glasses. “You finished?” he said to Morrison.
The congressman looked at him quizzically.
“With the patter. Let’s get to why you’re here.”
“All right,” Morrison said. “Why am I here? The young lady said something about a prostitute being murdered. What does that have to do with me?”
“Her name was Rosalie Curzon,” Hatcher said.
“And?”
“And, Congressman, we know that you and she were friends.”
“That’s nonsense.”
Hatcher gave him a counterfeit smile.
“Look,” said Morrison, “I—”
Hatcher’s smile disappeared. He leaned forward and pointed an index finger at Morrison. “No, Congressman, you look. If you want to sit here and BS us, that’ll make me pretty damned mad, and when I get mad, I do things people don’t like, like cuffing you and dragging you out of here. Plenty of cameras around, too.”
“Go ahead,” a deflated Morrison said. “I’m listening.”
Hatcher leaned even closer and lowered his voice. “We know that you and the dead hooker used to get it on.”
“That’s a lie.”
“You want to come with us to headquarters and we’ll roll the videotape? You know, like a football game replay.”
“Videotape?”
“Uh-huh.”
“In color,” Mary said.
Hatcher glared at her for interrupting.
“How can that be?” Morrison asked, weakly.
“She made tapes of her customers,” Mary explained.
“Ain’t this a great technical age we live in?” Hatcher said. “Imagine that, you and Ms. Curzon live and in living color.”
Morrison sat back, his eyes darting between Hatcher and Hall. The two detectives said nothing, allowing the congressman to process the fix in which he’d found himself. Finally, he said to Hatcher, “Could you and I talk privately?”
Hatcher screwed up his face into a question mark.
“Just you and me, man-to-man,” Morrison clarified.
“No,” Hatcher said, “Detective Hall is—”
“Please?”
“It’s okay,” Mary said, standing. “I’ll be right over there.”
She left the table and Morrison’s smile returned. He shook his head and said, “I think it’s great how many women are in law enforcement. Pilots with the airlines, too. I had a female pilot just the other day.”
“Is that so?”
Morrison moistened his lips before continuing. “Let’s be honest, Detective,” he said. “You look like a sensible man, someone who’s been around and knows something about human nature. Let’s say I did spend some time with this woman. Frankly, I don’t remember her, but I’ll take your word for it. You say there’s a tape?”
A blank stare from Hatcher.
“I may be an elected official, Detective, but I’m also a human being, like any other man who occasionally has certain needs.”
“You married?” Hatcher asked.
“Yes. I have a wonderful wife, a wonderful family. But what man doesn’t now and then seek out the companionship of another, maybe a younger woman? I’m sure you’ve done it yourself.”
Hatcher looked around the restaurant before fixing on Morrison. “If I wanted to blow my pension, Congressman, I’d bust your jaw right here and now. I’d really enjoy doing that.”
Morrison started to protest but Hatcher cut him off. “Because you’re a sleazebag, Congressman, doesn’t mean everybody is. I’ve got a wonderful wife and family, too, and I don’t go around buying hookers.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Detective. All I meant was that as two worldly men, we could see eye to eye.”
“You were wrong.”
Morrison’s posture and expression suddenly changed. Until that moment he’d been all smiles, a model of pleasantness, his tone smacking of easy camaraderie, the way Hatcher assumed he schmoozed with potential voters in his hometown of Phoenix. Now his voice was firm, his expression matching it. “I don’t intend to be insulted by someone like you,” he said. “You’re dealing with an eight-term U.S. congressman.”
“And maybe a murderer,” Hatcher said flatly.
Hatcher’s comment pierced Morrison’s newfound bravado. “Murderer?” he said. “That’s absurd.”
“Tell you what, Mr. Eightterm U.S. Congressman, I suggest you get off your high horse and answer what questions we have for you.” He waved for Mary to rejoin them. “We’re investigating the murder of a high-priced hooker, and we know that you were one of her customers. That makes you a suspect.”
“I did not kill anyone.”
“That remains to be seen. When did you last spend time with the victim, Rosalie Curzon?”
“I have no idea. It must have been years ago.”
“You’re failing the test, Congressman. The tape has the time and date on it. You were taped two weeks ago.”
Hatcher could see the wheels spinning in Morrison’s head. Is this a bluff? Does the video recording actually indicate when I was there? He evidently decided not to fight such evidence. “All right,” he said. “I was there a couple weeks ago. What does that have to do with her death? She had many clients, dozens of them. Why pick on me?”
“Why not?”
Mary Hall interjected herself. “Maybe you could give us the names of some of her other clients, Congressman.”
“How would I know who else saw her? It’s not like we were some sort of club or anything.”
Hatcher cited the evening she was killed, and asked Morrison where he’d been that night.
The congressman shrugged and shook his head. “I’ll have to check my calendar.”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea, Congressman,” said Hatcher. “You check your calendar and let us know w
hat it says.”
They asked him a series of questions that lasted fifteen minutes. When they were through, Hatcher handed him his card, and Hall passed over hers. “I expect a call no later than tomorrow morning, Congressman, with the information we need. And I’d like to see that calendar of yours.”
Morrison ignored Hatcher as he shook Mary Hall’s hand. “I’ll be back to you tomorrow, Detective Hall,” he said. He cast a final hateful glance at Hatcher and walked from the room.
“What’a you think?” Hatcher asked Hall.
“I don’t know. It’s hard for me to conceive of a U.S. congressman murdering someone, but I suppose it has happened.”
“Bet on it. Did you see the weasel squirm?”
She said nothing.
“These guys think they’re holier than thou, but they’re nothing more than a bunch of lowlifes.” He laughed. “I think he was putting the make on you, kid.”
“Let’s go,” she said, wanting to leave the restaurant, get in the car, and return to headquarters. Most of all, she wanted to find time to talk to Matt about last night. She’d decided that she’d overreacted and had been insensitive to his feelings. Who was she to judge the pressures an African-American man felt in what was still a white, racist society?
On their way back to headquarters, Hatcher continued his rant against politicians, particularly those like Morrison who lived hypocritical lives, standing tall in public for so-called family values, but living a private life very different from their public proclamations. Mary had heard it from him before, plenty of times, and had developed an internal filter through which the words passed without evoking a reaction.
As they stopped at a light, Hatcher moaned and massaged his temples.
“You okay?” Mary asked.
“What? Yeah, I’m okay. Guys like that always give me a headache.”
They progressed another block before Hatcher abruptly pulled to the curb, opened his door, leaned out, and vomited. When he’d finished and had wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, Mary said, “You look like hell, Hatch. Maybe we should go to the emergency room.”
Murder Inside the Beltway Page 7