Murder Inside the Beltway (25 page)

Colgate walked Rollins to the door and asked if he was going back home.

“I’m going to the office.”

Colgate’s expression mirrored his surprise.

“The lead detective—his name is Kloss—he’s told me to make myself more available in case the kidnappers want to make contact away from the home. They’ve put a trace on my office phones and are recording all calls there.”

“I hope they know what they’re doing.”

“I have to trust them. The FBI’s in on the case, too. A couple of agents are at the house.”

The former governor of Maryland and likely next president of the United States watched his friend get into a police cruiser and be driven away, the officer at the wheel navigating the knot of reporters and their vehicles. Colgate felt fulfilled that his friend had sought him out, and that he could offer comfort and succor, real and imagined. Of course, he couldn’t know what thought ran through Rollins’s head as the police car headed for his office. It was something President Harry Truman had famously said: “If you want a friend in Washington, get a dog!”

As Colgate closed the front door, his wife came up behind.

“How’s he holding up?” she asked.

“Pretty damn good. I think you should prepare a statement about how our friends are in our prayers—you know, how you can relate to a mother whose only child has been callously ripped from her family. Pyle keeps releasing those commercials accusing me of being soft on crime. You can say in your statement that we need to stiffen our laws about crimes against innocent children. Take the lead, get out in front of it. Better coming from you.”

They went their separate ways within the house, he to the library where he continued to work on his speech on the economy, she to their bedroom, where she picked up the phone and called Connie.

“I can’t believe what’s happened to Jerry and Sue,” Connie said.

“Jerry just left here,” Deborah said. “He’s doing okay. Free for lunch?”

“No, but I’ll make myself free if you need me.”

“Yes, Connie, I need you. Come here. Bob will be away most of the day.”

Rollins was dropped off in front of his office building. The cruiser drove off, as instructed, but Rollins knew that it wouldn’t be far away, and that officers would be upstairs in his suite. Sophisticated recording devices had been installed in the wee hours of Sunday morning, an ideal time for such surreptitious doings. A plainclothes team had established themselves in a small one-room vacant office adjacent to Rollins’s facilities, ready to spring should the abductor visit him there. Kloss had suggested that Rollins spend a few hours at the office, something Rollins often did to catch up on paperwork. “Try to maintain your regular routine,” the detective counseled, “within limits.”

As he walked into his reception area, one of the detectives told him that a young man had tried to gain access to the suite. “His name’s Massie,” the detective said. “He said he works here.”

“Yes, Brian Massie. Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” was the detective’s reply. “We told him he couldn’t enter without clearance.”

“Well, I clear him. How long ago was he here?”

“Twenty minutes, a half hour.”

Rollins went to his office and called Massie’s cell number. “Brian,” he said, “it’s Jerry. I’m sorry for the confusion.”

“That’s okay, Jerry. I certainly understand with everything that’s been going on. I thought I’d catch up on some things, that’s all.”

“Then by all means, come in. Where are you?”

“The Starbucks on the corner, reading the
Post
and sipping a budget-breaking latte.”

“Come back, Brian. I’ll clear it.”

Massie arrived a half hour later and secluded himself in his office while Rollins sat behind his closed door and consulted a list of calls that had come into the house that he intended to answer. He started with members of his staff, thanking them for their hopes and prayers, and for their offers to help. Sue’s mother, of course, had called in a panic, and it took a long time to calm her down, and to dissuade her from rushing to the house. She was upset anew this day when he called, but she listened to his reasoning and agreed to stay away and wait by the phone. She had her television on twenty-four hours a day, she told him, which he knew provided her with more questions, and causes for anxiety, than had she left it off. He promised to stay in touch.

After spending the better part of two hours there, with the detectives assigned to him coming and going, he announced he wished to return home. He stopped by Massie’s office before leaving.

“You’ll be at home tomorrow, Jerry?” Massie said.

“No, I’ll be here.” He closed the door. “They, the detectives, want me to maintain a relatively normal schedule in case whoever took Samantha wants to make contact away from the house. Whatever meetings are scheduled, my lunch with Testa from Senator Precott’s office, everything is to be carried on as though nothing has happened. Caroline has my schedule on her desk.”

Massie shook his head. “That’ll be tough for you, Jerry,” he said. “I’m not sure I could do that.”

“I don’t have any choice, Brian. It’ll be business as usual, if having cops hiding in the next office could ever be normal. I’ll see you to-morrow. I’ve told the detectives that it’s all right for you to stay as long as you wish.”

The young attorney got up from behind his desk, came to his boss, and wrapped his arms around him. “We’re all with you and Sue, Jerry, every inch of the way. You need something, you just ask.”

“Thank you, Brian. That means a great deal to me, and I know it will to Sue, too.”

A patrol car appeared outside the building and in fifteen minutes Rollins walked through the door of his home, ignoring questions yelled at him by members of the press. By this time, Matt Jackson had returned, carrying a small overnight bag, and Mary Hall had departed for her apartment. Kloss was gone; he was to attend a meeting of the task force established at Metro, but would return in a few hours.

“Anything new?” Rollins asked Jackson.

“No, sir. No calls. Anything happen at your office?”

“No. Where is Mrs. Rollins?”

“Sleeping. Detective Hall convinced her to get some rest. She needs it.”

“Good. It’s like watching grass grow,” Rollins muttered. “Waiting for another call.”

Jackson shook his head. “It must be hell for you and your wife,” he said. “I can’t imagine being in your position.”

“You married, Detective?”

“No, sir.”

“Been a detective long?”

“About four years.”

“Working with Kloss?”

“No, sir. I was assigned to his squad right after I made detective, but was transferred to another unit.”

“He seems to have a lot of faith in you and your partner.”

“Detective Kloss is a good man,” Jackson said. “I’ve always admired him and was pleased when he asked me to be part of this case.”

Rollins fell silent, his gaze at the curtained front window.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” Jackson asked.

“What? No, thank you. Thank you very much.”

The FBI agents took Rollins aside to question him further about possible enemies. Jackson strolled into the kitchen, where Detective Garcia, Kloss’s second-in-command, drank coffee and chewed on a buttered roll.

“Kloss tells me that you and Hall work for Walt Hatcher,” he said absently, using a knife to spread the butter more evenly.

“Right.”

“How’s he to work for?”

“Hatch?” Jackson was tempted to vent his true feelings, but held back. “He’s okay,” he said.

Garcia laughed. “That’s not what I hear,” he said.

“No,” Jackson reassured, “he’s okay, a little difficult sometimes but—”

“Kloss is high on you.”

“I’m happy to hear that.”

The roll consumed and the coffee finished, he stood, stretched, and slapped Jackson on the shoulder as he passed his chair. “Hang loose,” he said.

“Not much else to do,” Jackson said.

Hatcher ended up bunking at Tommy G’s Saturday night after consuming too much alcohol and getting into an argument with a man and a woman who were Colgate backers. Hatcher berated them for buying the former governor’s liberal line of BS. It became so heated that Tommy Gillette had to pull Hatcher aside and maneuver him into the back room, where he stayed until the couple had left. He reemerged, ordered another drink and slouched at a corner table, brooding over his bourbon and the insults he’d suffered that day.

Chief Carter had effectively pushed him out of the loop, taken his staff away, and reduced him to poring through old missing persons reports on the slim chance that a previous abduction might shed a clue on the Rollins case. He’d seethed for the rest of Saturday, snapping at anyone who approached, left Metro at six and went directly to the restaurant.

The drinks eased his inner turmoil, at least that portion of it caused by the chief’s dismissal of him. But there was another level of anxiety that he couldn’t shake. He didn’t like that Jackson and Hall had been assigned to the kidnapping, didn’t like it one bit. The more he drank, the more he conjured scenarios involving them. He’d indicated to the chief that Jackson might be the leak within the department regarding the Rosalie Curzon murder. It was probably true, Hatcher decided. Jackson was like a lot of cops, getting perverted pleasure out of sucking up to the press, feeding them info from inside, jeopardizing cases, and thumbing their noses at the system.

Not only that, Jackson and Hall were probably sleeping together. He’d picked up on subtle clues, the way they looked at each other, knowing that they spent time together off-duty. Mixed race couples upset him. It wasn’t the way human beings were supposed to behave, it violated the laws of nature. Every year it seemed there were more and more mixed couples in D.C., flaunting their transgressions and daring anyone to challenge them. Such thoughts turned Hatcher’s stomach. Mae said she agreed with him, although she was less vehement about it. He was proud of his kids. They’d followed the rules,
his
rules, and were the better for it. Sure, he’d been a tough father. He’d set the bar high and expected them to reach it. He knew his relation-ship with them wasn’t as smooth as Mae would like it to be, but being liked was never his goal. Being respected, even feared, was more important than winning a popularity contest.

He stayed at his table and avoided the bar for the rest of the evening, becoming more morose with each drink. As the alcohol coursed through his bloodstream and invaded his already addled brain, his thoughts, if that’s what they were, shifted to what was really gnawing at him about the kidnapping of Rollins’s kid. The guy was a legitimate D.C. big shot, plenty of money and loads of connections, including Robert Colgate. Look how he’d pulled strings to have Jackson and Hall assigned to the case. Only a heavy-duty cat could pull that off. MPD was fawning all over Rollins. Your average Joe wouldn’t have a chance in hell of dictating what cops worked their case. He didn’t like it that Jackson and Hall now had Rollins’s ear, were close to the guy. What were they telling him? What was he telling them?

What was the kidnapper after? Money? Coming up with a ransom wouldn’t be difficult for Rollins, who obviously had plenty of money and knew others who did. Men like him traveled in a tight, precious circle of big bucks and influence, pulling strings to get what they want even if it meant destroying the country. Greed. That was the problem, Hatcher mused as he waved his hand over the table to emphasize his point—to whom?—and knocked the empty glass to the floor.

He didn’t like Jerrold Rollins. He knew that for certain. He’d seen him once—actually twice, and hadn’t liked him on either occasion. From Hatcher’s perspective, Rollins was a buttoned-up type, typical lawyer, with narrow eyes, who talked down his nose at people, and through his nose, in a pinched voice that testified to his upbringing and education—Ivy League schools, probably, which wasn’t true but supported the image Hatcher had conjured, a typical D.C. wheeler-dealer.

Maybe it was something besides money that the kidnapper wanted. Hatcher’s face twisted as that crossed his mind. He motioned to the waitress for another drink.

Tommy had kept an eye on Hatcher throughout the evening, monitoring his foul mood, exacerbated by the drinks.

The waitress asked Tommy whether she should serve him again.

“Yeah. Give him one more, but that’s it.”

The owner got busy with a large post-theater crowd that arrived, seeing to it that they had what they wanted. It was a lively group. Drinks flowed freely, and conversation was boisterous. After Tommy had handed the check to them, he looked over to where Hatcher sat. His head had come forward and rested on the table, one hand wrapped around his half-empty glass. “Excuse me,” Tommy told his customers. He shook Hatcher by the shoulders. “Hey, Hatch, my man, let’s go.”

Hatcher looked up with glassy eyes.

“You can sleep it off here, pal. You’re in no shape to go home.”

Hatcher leaned against Tommy and they awkwardly made their way to the back room. Hatcher sat on its edge as Tommy helped him off with his jacket, and undid his tie. His pushed the detective to his back and removed his shoes. “Sleep it off, buddy. The cleaning crew will be around when you wake up. Pleasant dreams.”

They were anything but.

T
he decision to send Rollins to his office on Monday had involved input from various law-enforcement entities, including the FBI special agent assigned to head the Bureau’s involvement, and members of the MPD task force. Some voiced reservations: “What if the guys behind the snatch are looking to take a shot at the father?” was one raised by a member of the task force.

“Unlikely,” Kloss countered. “They’re either after money, or something else from him. He’s the one who can deliver what they want. Killing him would be counterproductive.”

“How are we covering him while he’s out and about?” another asked.

That discussion occupied the next half hour. It was eventually decided that Rollins would be shadowed by the two young detectives assigned to the Rollins family, Jackson and Hall. “Rollins is comfortable with them,” Kloss explained. “Besides, they’re low profile, haven’t been in the public eye. And, don’t forget, we also have people up at his offices. We position Jackson and Hall somewhere near his building. When he goes out, they trail behind. Make sense?”