Murder Inside the Beltway (12 page)

“A few years ago, not long after I returned from seeing her father. She was furious at me for doing that. I’d given her an ultimatum, but it was a waste of time. The minute she learned that I’d talked to her father, she ended the relationship. She felt I’d betrayed her.”

As Mary thought of the next question to ask, Jackson jumped in. “Mr. Thompson, I’m Detective Jackson, Detective Hall’s partner in the investigation. Have you had any contact with Ms. Curzon since the breakup of the relationship?”

“No,” was his quick, emphatic answer.

Jackson looked at Hall, whose eyebrows went up.

“No contact at all, sir?” Matt asked.

“None. Absolutely none.”

“Are you married, sir?” Mary asked.

“Why are you asking me that?”

“Just to get a more complete picture of whom I’m speaking with,” she replied.

“Well, I haven’t married, and I haven’t seen Rosalie. Any other questions?”

“Not at the moment,” Jackson said, “but we know where to find you if we do.”

The line went dead.

“What do you think?” Mary asked Matt.

“I think I don’t especially like the guy. Let’s find out more about him.”

They pulled up every file they could on Craig Thompson, including three photographs—on his driver’s license; a mug shot from his only arrest, for disturbing the peace outside a D.C. nightclub; and a picture from the
Washington Post
of Thompson with two other men, following a meeting at the Pentagon. Thompson was identified in the caption as having attended the meeting to discuss the progress of a new weapon being developed for the military.

They studied the photos. Thompson was a chubby, middle-aged man, his face fleshy, his mouth weak.

“So, how does he end up proposing marriage to a hooker?” Matt mused, placing the printed downloads in his briefcase. “He must have spent a lot of time with her, gotten to know her pretty well.”

“More questions for him,” Mary said.

“Yeah, more questions for him.”

They were about to leave when a white shirt from upstairs came to where they sat. “Where’s Hatcher?” he asked.

“He wasn’t feeling well,” Matt said.

“He really looked lousy,” Mary added. “He threw up this afternoon and—”

“I don’t need the gory details. You two interviewed Officer Manfredi at the school?”

“Right.”

“Hatcher mentioned it was you two. It’s stayed here, right?”

“Stayed here?” Jackson said. “If you mean did we tell anyone about it, the answer is no.”

“Good. Keep it that way. When you talk to Hatcher, tell him the chief wants to see him ASAP.”

“Okay.”

Matt and Mary left headquarters and went to where they’d parked their cars.

“Where for dinner?” he asked.

“Mind if I beg off, Matt? I don’t feel great. Maybe I’m catching what Hatcher has.”

“As long as you’re not catching his personality.”

“Sure you don’t mind if I bail out? I know we should talk about what happened last night but—”

After a quick glance about, he silenced her with a kiss on the lips. “We’ll talk another time. You go on home, drink some hot tea, and get in bed. I’ll see you back here in the morning.”

As he turned to leave, she grabbed him and returned the kiss, harder and longer than his had been. “Take care, Matt. Enjoy an early night.”

He got in his car and headed for Adams Morgan and his apartment. As he went, the comment by one of his superiors about Officer Al Manfredi stuck with him. Did the brass intend to cover up Manfredi’s involvement with the slain prostitute? Would they sweep it under the rug, turn their eyes away, for fear of tainting the department? It was a possibility. He’d seen it happen before when a cop, especially one higher in rank, got into some sort of trouble. Sure, there were departmental sanctions and punishments for misdeeds that embarrassed MPD, but that’s usually as far as it went. As the former FBI head J. Edgar Hoover famously said repeatedly, “Don’t embarrass the Bureau.” That was Hoover’s mantra, and God help any agent who violated it.

But would MPD go that far if Manfredi was Rosalie Curzon’s killer? Matt couldn’t conceive of that, but if it happened, it would mark Matt Jackson’s last day as a cop.

He decided on his way home to stop for something to eat. Chinese takeout was an option, but he preferred to eat a meal where it had been cooked. He settled on the Silver Veil, the restaurant and club around the corner from Rosalie Curzon’s apartment, where he’d first learned about Micki Simmons. Word around the neighborhood was that it served decent Lebanese food, which appealed to him.

Evidently, he was the only Washingtonian in the mood for Middle Eastern food that night. He had the place to himself. He was shown to a table and ordered a white wine. A middle-aged waitress brought him a menu. “Suggest something for me,” he said. She did, and he approved the choices—hummus b’tahini, rolled grape leaves, hot pita bread, and lamb kabobs.

As he sipped his wine and nibbled at the bread, he saw the manager—or was he the owner?—eyeing him from where he stood near the entrance. The man came to the table. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

“Yes, everything’s fine.”

“You’re the detective who was here the other night.”

“That’s right.”

“Did you… ?”

Matt waited for him to finish.

“Did you find Ms. Simmons?”

“Oh. Yes, I did.”

“I hope you didn’t tell her where you heard about her.”

Matt smiled and shook his head. “No, I didn’t mention you. I wouldn’t do that—unless it was absolutely necessary.” Matt took in the empty restaurant. “Care to join me?” he asked. “Looks like you have time on your hands.”

The man surveyed the empty dining room. He shrugged. “Yes, thank you.”

He was obviously of Middle Eastern origins, complexion swarthy, eyes almost black, and with a heavy beard line. There was no hint of an accent.

He looked worried.

“Everything okay?” Matt asked. “Business okay?”

“It’s been slow lately. I appreciate that you didn’t tell her about me. I wouldn’t want to cause her any trouble, or cause myself trouble with the police.”

“Why would you have trouble with the police?” Matt questioned. “All you did was help us.”

The man looked around before saying, “It isn’t easy running a restaurant.”

Matt laughed. “From what I’ve seen, it’s got to be one of the toughest businesses in the world.”

The man nodded.

“You own this place?” Matt asked.

“Yes.”

The waitress brought a course to the table, and the owner started to leave.

“No, wait,” Matt said. “Keep me company.”

“Thank you, but I wouldn’t want to intrude. There is no charge for your dinner.”

Matt waved his hands over the table in denial. “Sorry,” he said, “but that’s against the rules.”

The owner’s laugh was dismissive.

“I mean it,” Matt reiterated. “It’s against the rules for a police officer to accept free meals—free anything.”

It was obvious to Jackson that the owner wanted to stay and talk, but was torn, and Matt doubted whether it had to do with other business to take care of. He said, “Do other officers come in here and expect free meals?”

The owner looked down at Jackson, his expression a cross between compassion, and surprise at the young detective’s naiveté. “You’re a nice young man,” he said. “You haven’t been a policeman long enough to understand how it is done.”

The owner turned to walk away. Jackson sprung to his feet and grabbed the man’s arm. “Wait,” he said. “I want to talk to you about this.”

The owner shook his head. “Please,” he said, “I don’t want trouble.”

“And I won’t cause you any. Maybe you can help me understand. Maybe you can help me—grow up.”

His comment brought a smile to the owner’s face. He looked down at the floor, as though the answer to whether he should rejoin Jackson at the table could be found there. He looked up. His smile widened, and he took his chair again.

“Look,” Jackson said, “I assure you that nothing you say to me will leave this table. I promise you that. Understood?”

The owner nodded.

“By the way,” Jackson said, “I’m Matthew Jackson. I don’t remember your name.”

“Kahil.”

“All right, Kahil, you said that cops come in here and expect free meals. Do they expect more than that?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Money. Do they ask you for money?”

Kahil thought for what seemed a very long time before saying, “It’s the cost of doing business.”

“Your cost?”

“It’s expected.”

“It’s expected of the mafia,” Jackson retorted angrily. “Not the police.”

Kahil shrugged.

“If someone is shaking you down, Kahil, you should file a complaint with the police. We have an Internal Affairs division that—”

“Detective,” Kahil said, placing his hand on Jackson’s arm, “you are obviously an honorable man. I admire that. But honorable men don’t always see the reality of things.”

“The reality I see is that you’re the victim of a crime.”

“I appreciate your concern, Detective, but I have already said too much. Enjoy your dinner.”

Jackson had arrived hungry, but he no longer was. The conversation had been unsettling. It was obvious that Kahil had wanted to talk about whatever squeeze he found himself in, but was unwilling to go beyond using Jackson as a sounding board. That there were members of the MPD that wielded their positions of authority to shake down honest businessmen wasn’t news to Matt. He’d heard the locker-room jokes about it among senior officers, and was offended at their easy, open acceptance of the practice. He sometimes wondered whether he would eventually become that jaded as he progressed in his career. He was sure he wouldn’t—he would quit first—but could you ever be certain of how you would behave as you grew older, as you got closer to retirement and were concerned that there wouldn’t be enough money to support you in your dotage? He’d witnessed changes in his mother and father—nothing dramatic, but representing a shifting set of worries that caused them to adjust some of their views of the world.

He forced himself to eat a portion of his dinner, but what Kahil had said gnawed at his stomach.

“You didn’t like it?” the waitress asked, eyeing his half-consumed meal.

“No, no, it was fine. I just wasn’t as hungry as I thought I was.”

“Take it home?”

“Sure. That would be good. And I will have coffee.”

While waiting for his coffee, he pulled papers from his briefcase and perused them, looking for nothing in particular but occupying himself while alone. The photos they’d uploaded of Craig Thompson captured his attention and he leaned closer to better examine the face in them. He realized he was doing what he abhorred in people, making snap judgments based upon a person’s appearance. Stereotyping! How wrong. But he couldn’t shake his reaction to Thompson in the photographs. He looked like a man not to be trusted, easily swayed, willing to say or do anything to reach a goal, like too many politicians.

He was immersed in studying the pictures when Kahil came to him with the check. “I would be happy to buy you dinner, Detective,” he said.

“I appreciate that,” Matt said, “but it’s really out of the question.”

As Matt fumbled in his wallet for his credit card, Kahil leaned over to see the photos on the table. Matt looked up at him. “Just some pictures of someone we’re talking to,” he said.

“You know him?” Kahil asked.

“We’ve spoken on the phone. Do
you
know him?”

“Yes. He used to come in with the woman who was killed. Ms. Curzon.”

“They knew each other at one time,” Matt said, sliding the photos back into his briefcase.

“They used to come in together maybe two years ago. I remember because they fought sometimes, were angry with each other.”

“Really?”

“Then he no longer was with her, until maybe two weeks ago.”

Jackson had taken a swallow of coffee, which he almost spit out. “Two weeks ago?”

“Yes. Only once. And then he came alone a week or so ago. He sat at the bar and had too much to drink. I was worried about him driving, but he called for a taxi.”

Jackson quickly paid the bill. On his way out, he thanked Kahil. “If you ever decide to put a stop to whatever certain cops are doing to you, let me know.” He handed Kahil his card. “Remember that.”

Kahil said nothing as Jackson left the restaurant. When he got in his car, he pulled out his cell phone and called Mary Hall.

“Wake you?”

“No. I’m watching
Law and Order
. They really get it right.”

“I know. Lennie Briscoe was my idol. Look, Mary, I just left the Silver Veil, that restaurant around the corner from Curzon’s apartment. Ready? Catch this. Mr. Craig Thompson…”

B
illy McMahon lived a charmed life, considering how many times he’d broken the law.

He’d started getting in trouble as a twelve-year-old in Oakland, California. His offenses were considered by the police and the judges as more public nuisances than serious crimes, and he’d been able to get away with stern warnings from the bench—and a smack from his father—rather than ending up in a facility for troubled, disruptive youths. As he progressed into adulthood, he learned two things: only chumps worked hard, and the key to success was to be charming, especially when the heat was on.

“
Charming Billy Boy.
”

Billy loved that tune from an unknown Welch songwriter, and sang it often. But its final line, “She cannot leave her mother” didn’t apply to him. He’d gotten away from his mother at the first chance, leaving home when he was sixteen, lining his pockets with money stolen from his mother’s “retirement fund,” a wad of cash she kept in a bag in the freezer. His father had cut out two years earlier.

Billy never looked back, and had no further contact with “the old hag” until the day she died. He told friends that he was hurt that she hadn’t provided for him in her will, and they sympathized with him. How could a mother be that cruel? “She was an evil woman,” was Billy’s explanation. Poor Billy. Charming Billy.