Murder Inside the Beltway (14 page)

“We’re here investigating the murder of Rosalie Curzon,” Hall said.

“So you said, so you said,” Billy replied. “Terrible thing, all the murders that happen in this city. A bunch’a animals out there.”

“She worked for you as an escort,” Jackson said.

“That’s right,” Billy said. “When you mentioned her name on the phone, it didn’t ring a bell. But I took the trouble of going back through our employee records, and sure enough, she
did
work here, but only for a very short time.”

“How long a time?”

“Oh, let me see… maybe a week or two.”

“We’d like to see those records,” Mary said.

Billy curled his mouth into an O, as though about to blow a smoke ring. He exhaled loudly. “Those are private records,” he said. “Privileged, like between lawyers and clients.”

“No they’re not,” Jackson said. “If you’d prefer, I’ll make a call and have a subpoena for them here within the hour. Might as well make it a subpoena for all your records. Everything.”

Billy’s expression said he’d been insulted.

“Look, Mr. McMahon,” Mary said, leaning a little closer to him, “we know you run a prostitution business here. The last time I heard, that’s illegal.”

“What are you saying?” Billy said, pressing his palms against his heart. “Beltway Entertainment is a legit business. Besides, prostitution isn’t illegal in D.C.”

“You left out the ‘escort’ part of the name,” Jackson said. “
Besides
, solicitation is illegal, ninety days, big fines.”

“Yeah, whatever. But we don’t provide sex as part of our services. We offer high-class female companionship for gentlemen who’d like an attractive female on their arm. Strictly legit, aboveboard, no sex allowed. If I catch one of my escorts breaking that rule, she’s gone—man, gone, out the door with my footprint on her rear end.”

“The employment records for Rosalie Curzon,” Jackson said, pulling his cell phone from where it was clipped to his belt.

“All right, all right, but there’s really not much in the way of records.” He glanced at the phone in Jackson’s hand. “I’ll be right back.”

“What a creep,” Mary said after McMahon had left the room.

“Hey, like the man said, he runs a legitimate business here. Maybe you could moonlight for him, you know, be that attractive woman on the arm of some fat cat.”

“There’s gay escort services, too,” she said, lightly. “Maybe you could—”

McMahon returned, carrying a single sheet of paper, which he placed on the table in front of Matt. It contained handwritten scribble—Curzon’s name a few times with dates next to mentions of her.

“This is it?” Jackson said.

“The girls come and go, a revolving door. No need to keep more than this.”

“According to the dates on this sheet,” said Jackson, “she worked here for more than a year.”

“Yeah? Lemme see.” He frowned as he read the handwriting. “Looks like she did. I guess she didn’t make much of an impression on me. Don’t remember her at all, not at all!”

Jackson sat back and sighed. “I’m getting tired of this BS,” he said. “How about you, Detective Hall?”

Her sigh matched his.

Jackson pointed his index finger at McMahon. “We know that when Ms. Curzon quit working for you, McMahon, you threatened to kill her.”

“That’s a lie.”

“You were pissed at her because she took clients away from you, cost you money. Am I right?”

McMahon shook his head.

“Like I said, McMahon, I’m getting tired of this BS from you. You knew her a lot better than you claim, and you had a motive to kill her. Where were you the night she was murdered?” He provided a date.

“Jesus, how am I supposed to remember that?”

“Do yourself a favor and try.”

“I’ll check my calendar,” he said.

“When’s the last time you saw Rosalie Curzon?” Hall asked.

He shrugged. “I guess when she left.”

“Not since?”

“No. Hey, look, so maybe we did have some words when she quit on me, but that doesn’t mean I’d kill her, ferchristsake.” His face lit up, like a cartoon character with a balloon over his head signifying a sudden brilliant idea. “You want a lead in this case? Maybe you should check her girlfriend Micki. Her and Rosalie left the same day. Micki was a real problem, a really big problem. Vicious type. Man, sometimes she scared me.”

“What’s Micki’s last name?” Jackson asked, pretending to write it down.

“Simmons. She’d kill her own mother for a buck.”

Matt and Mary ended the interview by asking for his driver’s license and other ID. “You live at this address?” she asked.

“Yeah. Nice pad, really nice.”

“We’ll be back, Mr. McMahon. You wouldn’t think of going anywhere, would you?”

“You mean I can’t?”

“You’re very astute,” said Mary. “You’re not to leave the city.”

“So what am I, a suspect?”

“You might say that.”

As they returned to the main office, the woman who’d taken over phone duty was cooing into the headset: “Beltway Escorts and Entertainment. Would you like a date with one of our lovely ladies?” She looked up at the detectives, smiled, and continued taking the order.

As they drove away, Jackson said, “I don’t care whether he killed her or not, I’m going to break his chops, pull his tax returns for the last hundred years, get vice on his case, the works.”

“You know who you sound like, Matt?”

“Who?”

“Hatch.”

“I’ll forget you ever said that, Mary, and don’t ever say it again.”

J
erry Rollins, respected Washington attorney and confidant to the presumptive next president of the United States, was, among many things, a methodical man, perhaps even obsessive-compulsive. His days were structured by a strict set of personal rules, every move anticipated and planned for in advance, little left to chance. Of course, unexpected occurrences did crop up now and then. He disliked it when they did, and had trouble shifting gears to compensate for them.

Deborah Colgate’s phone call the previous evening was one of those intrusions into his ordered life. Not that he wouldn’t want to talk with her. They spoke often, and spent considerable time together in the normal course of events, going back to Colgate’s days as Maryland’s governor, and especially since Deborah’s husband launched his bid for the White House.

But during this brief phone call her voice had been tinged with palpable desperation, a tone foreign to him. To not respond quickly was out of the question.

His wife usually slept later than he did, leaving to him the routine of getting Samantha ready for school, and driving her on most days. He enjoyed that time with his daughter and didn’t resent Sue’s habit of sleeping in. He was surprised this morning when she joined him and their daughter in the kitchen.

“Busy day?” she asked casually.

“Very. Between the practice and the election, there never seem to be enough hours.”

“I saw Bob’s new commercial last night. He’s getting tougher on Pyle and his record.”

“Against my advice. He’s way ahead in the polls. No need to leave the high road and get down to Pyle’s level.”

“I thought he always listened to you,” she said as she pulled a Greek yogurt from the fridge.

“He usually does. He didn’t this time.”

“Maybe Deborah could get through to him.”

Was there a hint of sarcasm in her voice?

“I’m meeting with Karl Scraggs today about representing his book,” Rollins said, bluntly changing the subject. Scraggs was a former member of the Pyle cabinet who’d resigned, and was now shopping his memoir to publishers. Rollins had recently begun representing high-profile D.C. types in their book deals, a slice of business that he found refreshing compared to others.

“How can you represent someone like that?” she asked.

Rollins laughed. “You could ask that about many of my clients, Sue, and you have.”

“And you never give me a reasonable answer,” she said. To Samantha: “Cereal, sweetheart? And toast with jam? I bought your favorite, blueberry.”

“Yum,” Samantha said. She turned to her father. “Are we going to take a vacation like you said we would?”

“You bet, honey,” he said. “As soon as the election is over and Uncle Bob is in the White House, we are getting on a plane and flying to Hawaii. How’s that sound?”

“That’s far away.”

“Yes, it is, far away from Washington. You’ll love it there. You can learn how to do the hula dance.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“You’ll see.”

“Have you made reservations?” his wife asked.

“Not yet, but I will.” He stood. “Excuse me. I have to shower and dress.”

“You’re having lunch with Scraggs?” Sue asked as he came down later.

“Ah, yes. Lunch.”

“I don’t know how you stay so slim,” she commented, “with all your fancy lunches.”

“It’s in the genes.” He kissed the back of her head, gave Samantha a peck on her nose, and headed for the garage.

Besides being methodical, Jerry Rollins believed in moderation in almost all things—except when it came to his car, a red 2003 Porsche 911 GT3, 380 horsepower, 0-to-60 in 4.3 seconds, with a top speed of 190 mph. The car provided him with a sense of being alive as he manually slipped through the six gears with precision and ease, secure in its wraparound cockpit, reveling in the air swirling about his head. Sue hated the car. She would say after watching him lavish tender loving care on it that it was his mistress, and refused to drive in it with him, which didn’t bother him in the least. It had cost almost $100,000 back in ’03, money well spent. A mistress would have cost more.

There was, of course, the expense of keeping it in pristine running condition, and the occasional speeding ticket he’d earned over the past five years, but that was part of the appeal. Besides, three days a week on a shrink’s couch wouldn’t be cheap, either, and not nearly as much fun. Actually, he’d been ticketed only a few times. On two occasions, the officers who pulled him over were so admiring of the growling beast that they let him go on his way with only a warning.

He pulled into the underground parking garage in his office building, glided into his reserved parking slot, and rode the elevator up to his suite, where four younger lawyers, and four administrative staff, were already busy. He went directly into his private office and reviewed a lengthy brief prepared by one of his underlings while he awaited the arrival of Karl Scraggs.

Scraggs had been Secretary of the Interior for the first three years of the Pyle administration. He’d resigned, delivering the canard that he wanted to spend more time with his family. Everyone knew better. Scraggs had gotten himself some unfavorable press after being caught in a compromising position with a woman who wasn’t Mrs. Scraggs. He denied any wrongdoing, of course, and his staunch wife stood by his side when he gave his pro forma press conference. But for Pyle, whose last remaining supporters were evangelicals and wealthy developers, Scraggs’s unappreciated notoriety was politically intolerable.

“I consider Karl Scraggs to be a public servant of the first order,” Pyle had said following Scraggs’s resignation, “a man of honor who has worked tirelessly at my side for the good of the American people. I shall miss him as a colleague and as a friend. Godspeed, Karl!”

Scraggs was best described as a roly-poly man, fond of wide, garishly colored ties, and a signature straw hat in summer. He seemed to laugh at anything and everything, a pleasant fellow to be around, unless you were negotiating something, in which case a venal vein replaced the laughter; the counting of fingers was recommended.

Scraggs arrived at eleven carrying a twenty-page proposal for his book.

“Who’s writing this with you?” Rollins asked as he flipped through the pages.

“A sweet little thing from back home. Got a nice way with words. She’s had some things published. She’s quite a poet.”

Rollins cleared his throat before saying, “A major publisher probably won’t accept her as your collaborator, Karl. They’ll want to assign a writer with whom they’ve worked before, a writer with a track record.”

“Well, then, that’s the way it’ll have to be. She’ll be disappointed, I’m sure of that. I sort of told her she’d have first crack at it, but I’ll get her to understand. How much money do you think these publishers in New York will come up with for my book?”

Rollins grappled for a reply, but Scraggs continued. “I’ll set the record straight about those rumors of me and that woman.” He shifted forward in his chair. “And I’ve got some pretty juicy tales to tell, Jerry Rollins.” He winked, and laughed.

Rollins put up with Scraggs for another half hour. Finally, after assuring Scraggs that he would read the pages and get back to him, Scraggs asked, “How much of a cut will you be taking?”

“I don’t take a cut, Karl. I’m not an agent. I charge my usual hourly legal fee. If the book generates considerable money, you’ll come out ahead that way.”

“And what’s your hourly fee, Jerry?”

“Five-fifty. But let’s not worry about that now. You’ll hear from me soon.”

Again alone in his office, Rollins sat back and sighed. He was sorry he’d agreed to represent Scraggs. Not only did he find the man’s politics and personality anathema, he held out little hope that he could interest a mainstream publisher in the book, at least not for the sort of money Scraggs was expecting. But maybe he was wrong, he reasoned as he turned to other matters before leaving for lunch. It never failed to amaze him the sort of books that were produced by Washington insiders, and the amount of money publishers were willing to throw at even a fairly recognizable name with a promise to tell tales out of school.

At noon, he informed his secretary that he’d be gone for a few hours.

“You have that one o’clock with Congressman Stamm,” she said.

“It’ll have to be rescheduled,” he told her. “Call his office and set up another date.”

“Where can you be reached?”

“I’ll have my cell on,” he said, slipping into his suit jacket and heading out the door, leaving her perplexed. Rarely had he left the office without providing a detailed schedule of his movements.