Murder Inside the Beltway (20 page)

“What do you do, Doc, get paid by the test?”

The doctor flipped through Hatcher’s chart again. “I see that I ordered tests four years ago. You never followed up.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But you
will
follow up this time.”

“Sure. If you say so, Doc.”

As Hatcher was about to leave, the doctor, whose years of intense medical training had left him personality-challenged, said gravely, “I don’t like what I see, Mr. Hatcher. It’s vitally important that you have these tests.” He handed him a prescription, on which he’d written the ones he’d recommended. “Please schedule these as soon as possible. My assistant at the desk will help you book the appointments.”

Hatcher went to the desk and showed the assistant the paper. “The problem is,” he said, “I don’t have my calendar with me. I’m pretty tied up these days. I’ll call you when I get home this afternoon.”

“All right,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously and handing him a card with phone numbers on it.

After Hatcher was gone, the doctor came to the desk and said, “Make a note to call Mr. Hatcher in a week to schedule tests. The man’s a walking time bomb.”

H
all contacted Patmos’s two alibi witnesses, both of whom confirmed that he’d been at the fundraiser.

“Was he there all night?” Hall asked each.

One of them laughed. “How should I know?” he said. “There were hundreds of people milling around. I saw Jimmy at the start of the evening. I think I saw him at the end when he left with Senator Barrett.”

“And in between?”

“I’m sure he was there.”

“Because you saw him there all evening?”

“No. I mean, why would he leave? Hey, what’s this all about? Is Jimmy in some kind of trouble?”

“No, not at all,” Hall said. “Just a routine inquiry. Thanks for your time.”

“He doesn’t have an alibi,” she told Jackson after ending the second call. “He could have skipped out of the event for hours without anybody noticing.”

“He’s like the rest of the men who we only know were involved with her because they showed up on tape. Buying her services as a hooker is one thing, coming up with evidence that they were involved in her murder is another. Know what I think? I think that the Curzon murder is never going to be solved, not unless one of her johns has a burst of conscience and strolls into Metro pleading to be locked up.”

“That’d be nice,” Mary said.

“I suppose we might as well go back to Curzon’s apartment building,” Jackson said through a yawn.

“Late night?” she asked as they walked to their car.

“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep. I tried you and—”

“I heard your messages. I caught dinner and a movie with Betty. I thought I told you I was planning to do that.”

“Maybe you did. I must have forgotten.”

“You sounded agitated. Right word?”

He smiled. “As good a word as any to describe how I felt. I had a long talk with my father.”

“About the job?”

“Uh-huh. I told him I was thinking of quitting.”

“And he said?”

“He told me not to let Hatcher drive me away.”

“Good advice.”

“My dad always has good advice, but I don’t always listen.”

“Sounds like you’re listening this time.”

“Maybe I’m growing up.”

They spent the rest of the day canvassing residents of Rosalie’s building again, including the elderly couple who lived downstairs from the victim.

“Sorry to bother you,” Jackson told the wife when she finally let them in after spending what seemed an eternity at the peephole, and asking questions of him through the closed door.

“We thought you and your husband might have remembered something about the night your neighbor was killed that you didn’t recall the first time we questioned you,” Mary said.

She shook her head. “Like I told you the last time, I mind my own business.”

A cynical grunt came from her husband, who sat in a chair and continued to read a newspaper.

“I know this is a difficult question, ma’am,” Jackson said, “but were you and your husband aware of what Ms. Curzon did for a living?”

She energetically worked her mouth as though having inadvertently chewed a hot pepper at a Chinese restaurant.

“She was a whore,” the husband said. “Nice looking, too.”

“Harry!”

“Well,” he said, dropping the newspaper to the floor, standing with difficulty, and coming to where they stood in the open doorway, “that’s what she was, wasn’t she? Either that or she had a hundred boyfriends.”

“You never saw any of the men who came to her apartment?” Jackson asked the wife.

An emphatic shake of her head.

“I’ve seen some of them,” the husband said.

Jackson and Hall looked at each other, then Jackson said, “Why didn’t you mention that when we were here the night she was killed?”

“Nobody asked me, that’s why.”

“Well,” said Jackson, “can you describe any of them?”

“Harry, I don’t think that—”

“Hush,” he told his wife. He said to Jackson, “Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t see many of them, just one now and then when I’d be coming into the building and he’d be coming out, or vice versa. Can I remember what they looked like? No. Just men. Mostly middle-aged, I’d say, and pretty well-dressed, as I recall. No bums or anything like that. Some of them looked like politicians.”

Jackson’s eyes opened a little wider. “Politicians? Anyone in particular?”

“No. They just had that look about them. Seems like from what I read, they’re all pretty much the same when it comes to having women on the side. Not one of them you can trust.”

“What about the night of her murder?” Hall asked. “Did you see any of them coming or going that night?”

The old man shook his head. “I didn’t go out that night, but we did hear the racket upstairs.”

More questioning failed to turn up anything more. The detectives thanked them again for their time and left. The wife followed them into the hallway. “He’s getting senile,” she said. “You shouldn’t pay any attention to what he says.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jackson said, smiling and patting her arm.

The super nervously answered their questions and had nothing new to offer when it came to knowing what Rosalie did for a living, or the men who might have visited her apartment. Jackson tried another tack: “What about women friends?” he asked. “Did you meet any of her girlfriends? Señoritas or señoras?”

His lowered eyes said that he had.

“It’s okay,” Jackson said. “Nobody will get in trouble. We just need to know.”

“One woman. Nice woman.” He pointed to his hair. “Very
rojo
, very red.”

“Her name Micki?”

“Sí. Miss Micki.”

“Well, thanks for your time. We’ll try not to bother you again.”

“Speaking of Micki Simmons,” Jackson said once they were outside, “I hope she’s on her way here. I’m starving. Think we can pack it in for the day?” It was a little after six.

“I’ll call Hatch.”

She reached him at home on his cell phone. “Yeah,” he growled, “knock off. See you Sunday.” The following day, Saturday, was a day off for the Hatcher team.

“Feel like Middle Eastern food?” Jackson asked Mary.

“Always in the mood for that.”

“The Silver Veil’s around the corner.”

“Where we first learned about Micki Simmons.”

“And where the owner told me about seeing the guy who used to date her, Craig Thompson. We know Thompson lied based upon what the owner told me after seeing his picture. By the way, I learned more than that from the owner,” Jackson said.

“What else did you learn in here?” Mary asked after the owner, Kahil, had seated them and taken drink orders.

“A couple of MPD types have been shaking him down,” Jackson said in a low voice, nodding toward Kahil.

“Who?”

“Don’t know. He wouldn’t say. Can’t blame him, I suppose.”

They perused the menu and decided to share dishes—baked falafel, macaroni béchamel, and lamb chops. After a second round of drinks had been served, and they’d ordered their dinner, Jackson’s cell phone sounded.

“Hello?”

“It’s me, Micki Simmons.”

“Hey, Micki. Are you in D.C.?”

“I’m at Union Station.” She didn’t sound happy.

“Ah—my partner and I just ordered dinner. We’re at a place you know, the Silver Veil.”

“That dump?”

Jackson’s head jerked as though her comment had stung. “I kind of like it,” he said. “Join us?”

Mary looked at him quizzically. He held up his fingers to indicate he knew what he was doing.

“No thanks,” she said.

“Well, then, how about we catch up after dinner? Your apartment?”

“Let’s just get it over with, okay?” she said.

“We’ll be as brief as possible. Sure you don’t want dinner? My treat.”

“I’ll be at my apartment,” she said flatly.

“Matt,” Mary said after he’d ended the conversation, “don’t you think we should take her to Metro for a formal statement, get it on tape?”

“Let’s see how it goes at her apartment. We’ll take notes. If she gives us a hard time, we’ll take her down for further questioning. Besides, I don’t want to show up at Metro with these drinks under our belt.”

On the way out, the owner took Jackson aside. “No need for you to pay,” he said.

“I told you last time that it’s against the law for me to accept free food.”

“I know, but—you didn’t say anything about what I told you, did you?”

“No, but I wish you’d file a complaint. I can show you how to do it.”

He shook his head vehemently. “I don’t want trouble.”

“Suit yourself,” Jackson said. “If you change your mind, you have my number.”

Jackson rang Micki Simmons’s bell in the vestibule of her building. She didn’t bother answering through the speaker, just activated the latch to allow them to enter. They rode the elevator to her floor, where she stood in her doorway.

“Micki, this is Detective Hall,” Jackson said. “We work together.”

“Hello,” Micki said, no hand extended.

Jackson and Hall took in the apartment as Micki led them to the living room. Unlike Rosalie Curzon’s apartment, it didn’t scream “prostitute.” Of course, Curzon had been murdered in her bedroom, where she plied her trade. The detectives noticed that a door, presumably leading to a bedroom—Micki’s place of business—was closed. What it looked like in there was anybody’s guess.

“Mind if we sit down?” Jackson asked.

“Go ahead.” She lit a cigarette and dropped the match into an ashtray already overflowing with butts and matches.

“Okay,” Jackson said, “let’s get this over with. First of all, I appreciate you coming back on short notice.”

“I didn’t have a choice, did I?”

“No, I suppose you didn’t. The reason we wanted you back here, Micki, was to learn more about your relationship with Rosalie.”

“I already told you we were friends.”

“Good friends, as I understand it,” Jackson said.

“We were close. We were in the same rotten business.”

“Both working for Beltway Escorts.”

“That’s where we met.”

“And the two of you decided to go freelance.”

She leaned forward on the couch to emphasize what she was about to say. “We decided to get away from that creep McMahon. Have you talked to him? He’s the one you ought to take a close look at.”

“Yes, we did interview him, Micki. Did you and Rosalie ever have any problems between the two of you?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know, get into a hassle over money or johns and anything else?”

“No.”

“You know a man named Craig Thompson?”

She guffawed. “Poor Craig,” she said. “He’s pathetic. He followed Rosalie around like a puppy dog, begging her to marry him. He was—how should I put it?—he was one of those jerks who decided he’d save a hooker.” Another dismissive sound from her. “Jesus, spare me those types.”

“Think he might have killed Rosalie?”

“No. He’s too weak.”

“When was the last time you saw Rosalie alive?” Jackson asked. He glanced over at Hall, who was quietly making notes in a slender steno pad.

“The night she got it.”

“Oh? You didn’t mention that before.”

Of course she hadn’t. He hadn’t asked. Maybe he wasn’t cut out to be a detective after all.

“Tell us about it,” he said.

“We had dinner together in that place you just left, the Silver Veil. Rosalie liked that kind of food, why I don’t know.”

“Did she seem upset?” Mary asked, her first question since they’d arrived.

“Sure.”

“Sure? You make it sound as though we should know why she was upset.”

“A couple of things. One, I’d decided to pack it in and go home. She wasn’t happy with that. She liked having me around.”

“Because you were a friend.”

“Of course.”

“What was the other reason she was upset?”

“She was tired of being shaken down, that’s why.”

Shakedowns certainly weren’t unknown in MPD. There were always cops who used their positions of authority to make an extra buck from businesses who paid for protection, especially those whose activities were less than honest. Cops who traveled that route were in a minority, of course, usually older ones brought up in that tradition. They didn’t consider it illegal or unethical. For them, they rationalized that it represented being adequately compensated for doing a thankless job and putting their lives on the line to protect the city’s citizens—a rationalization, to be sure, but adequate to salve what was left of their consciences.

“Who was shaking her down?” Mary asked.

“Oh, come on,” Micki said. “You know damn well who.”

Jackson laughed and held out his hands. “Hey, I don’t know. Tell me.”

“You. Cops. Vice squad. You either want money, or a piece of what I’m selling. Man, can you really be that naïve? It’s bad enough making a living the way we do, catering to rich fat cats with big bellies and body odor and telling them what great lovers they are. On top of that we have to pay off cops who’re supposed to protect us, not rip us off.”

Jackson’s immediate reaction was to not feel sorry for Micki, or any other woman who
chose
to become a prostitute. She wasn’t like those young women, even kids, who are sold into sexual slavery, or streetwalkers being beaten by their pimps every night and given just enough money to support their drug habits. Micki Simmons, Rosalie Curzon, and others like them—Washington, D.C., had more prostitutes per capita than any other city in the country, according to a report he’d recently read—weren’t disadvantaged women. They’d chosen to become hookers because it was easier money than doing an honest day’s work in an office or factory.