Murder Inside the Beltway (28 page)

“He walks outside, a car comes past, slow, very slow, two guys in it, young maybe, I don’t know, but two of ’em, and one sticks his hand out and boom, boom, boom, like that, one, two, three, maybe four, and he goes down. Jesus.”

“What kind of car?”

A shrug. “Sedan, four doors, I think. Maybe brown, or black. Happened fast.”

“You know him?”

“Who?”

“Who the hell do you think I’m talking about? The guy who was in here and who’s laying dead on your sidewalk.”

“Yeah, I knew him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Billy.”

“Billy? Billy what?”

“McMahon.”

“Ooh,” Hatcher said, the name immediately registering. “He runs some sort of escort service, right?”

“Yeah. That’s what he does.”

“He’s a friend of yours?”

“Sort of. Not close like, you know?”

“What was he doin’ in here this morning?”

“He bought a DVD.”

“Porn.”

“Adult.”

“And he walks out with this DVD, an adult one, and two bananas drive by and take him out. You know why?”

“Why what?”

“You’re annoying me, pal. Why somebody wanted him dead.”

“I don’t know. He was in pretty heavy to some sharks and—”

“Loan sharks?”

“Yeah. He tried to hit me up for some money, but like I told him, business is slow, you know, people getting their stuff off the computers, the Internet, downloading stuff for free. So I told him I couldn’t help him, so he gets a little nasty, you know, and starts telling me he knows who his real friends are and—”

“And he walks out, and pop, he’s gone.”

“Yeah. Scared the hell out of me. This neighborhood’s bad, man. Time I got out’a here.”

Hatcher grinned and looked around the dingy shop. “Shame. Nice place you’ve got here.”

“You want something, take it.”

“I don’t watch this garbage. Give one of the officers outside your name, address, phone.”

Hatch and Wally spent a few minutes asking onlookers whether anyone could identify the car or the gunmen. There were no takers, nor were any expected. They waited until an ME van pulled up before heading back to Metro.

“You knew the guy?” Wally said.

“Knew of him. Suspect in that hooker murder in Adams Morgan. Ran an escort service she used to work for.”

“Anything happening with that, Hatch?”

“No, and nobody cares. Just as well. I’m packing it in, Wally.”

“Yeah? You’ve had enough?”

“More than enough. The minute we get back I’m filing the papers. Already have them filled out. I’ll put the house on the market and head south.”

“You got a place in Florida, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Tough to sell your place with the way the economy’s going. Could be on the market, say, months, huh?”

“I don’t care. We’ll get out of town the minute the pension clears and let some real estate cutie handle things up here. This city’s a jungle, Wally. Nothing makes sense anymore.”

“I know.”

“How much time you got left?”

“A couple’a years. Can’t wait. We’ll miss you, Hatch.”

Hatcher rubbed his eyes and looked out the window at the passing corner of the D.C. scene. “Yeah,” he said, “but I won’t miss this place. Not for a minute.”

Jackson and the second detective assigned to follow Rollins to his Maryland rendezvous with Kevin Ziegler fell into an easy pace as they trailed Ziegler’s Town Car back into the District. Jackson called Kloss at the house, saying that there was nothing to report. He gave the address in Maryland where the two men had met, and said that there hadn’t been a sign of them from the minute they entered the house until leaving.

They stopped a few car lengths away from the entrance to Rollins’s office building and watched as he got out of the car, lingered for a few moments to exchange parting words with his host, closed the door, and looked back at them before going through the glass revolving doors.

“What’s this all about?” Jackson’s colleague asked.

“I don’t know,” Jackson said. “Politics I guess. Ziegler’s a big wheel in Pyle’s reelection campaign, and Rollins advises Governor Colgate.”

“Cutting a deal, huh? Always a deal, even when a kid is missing. Politicians!”

Jackson laughed. “That’s a safe assumption.”

“They haven’t heard again from the kidnappers, Matt?”

“As far as I know.”

“What a hell of a thing for the parents to go through.”

“Can’t imagine anything worse,” Jackson responded, “unless…”

“Yeah, unless the kid is found dead. I suppose there’s always hope.”

“Nothing but hope.”

Jackson’s cell sounded.

“Matt, it’s Bob Kloss. Come on back to the house.”

When Jackson arrived at the Rollins’s Foggy Bottom home, there was heightened tension. The lead FBI special agent looked glumly through a small opening he’d created in a drapery. Sue Rollins sat in a recliner in the living room, feet up, eyes closed. Kloss conferred with a new face from Metro, who’d been sent to spell one of the detectives charged with monitoring the telephone recording devices. Kloss waved Jackson into the dining room, where the equipment was set up, and shut the double doors. “I want you to listen to something,” he said. “When Mr. Rollins got the call from Mr. Ziegler about having lunch, Ziegler said something that’s bothering me.”

“About the kidnapping?”

“Yeah. Not directly, something about the president wanting to help. Listen and tell me what you think. We brought the tape over from his office.”

“Can you make yourself free for lunch? It is important, Jerry. I realize that everything pales in comparison to your personal tragedy that’s taking place, but there may be something we can do to help in that regard.”

Kloss looked to Jackson for a reaction. His blank expression said he didn’t have one.

“Then this,” Kloss said.

“Jerry, the president is deeply concerned about what’s happened to you and your daughter. He wants to do everything in his power to get that little girl home safe and sound, and will pull out all the stops to accomplish that. We can discuss the role he might play, along with other things I need to run by you.”

“What ‘other things’ to run by him?” Kloss said. “And there’s something he, Ziegler, can maybe do to help?”

“He’s referring to the president,” Jackson said.

“Or is he?” Kloss asked. “I mean, what can the president do to bring this to a happy conclusion? Make a speech? Set up some phony photo-op? I don’t know, Matt, I just get the feeling that there was maybe more to them getting together than just an empty promise about the president, or politics in general.”

They listened to the tape again. This time, Jackson bought in to what Kloss was saying. “Are you suggesting that Ziegler or his people could be involved?” he asked, reluctant to state the unspeakable.

Kloss said nothing.

“Can’t be,” Jackson offered.

“I agree,” said Kloss. “Can’t be. But I keep playing this what-if game over in my mind. No one’s called, no ransom demands, no further instructions. What did they take the kid for? What’s the payoff? Doesn’t look like it’s money. So, then, what?”

“Something Rollins knows—or has?”

“That’s where my mind’s going. Look, you and Rollins have gotten pretty close, right?”

“Yeah, he seems to like me. He’s been asking a lot about me, you know, why I became a cop, things about my family. We get along okay.”

“Good. Stay close to him, see if he gives off any vibes that something’s happening we don’t know about.” Kloss grinned and slapped Jackson on the shoulder. “Put that sociology degree of yours to good use.”

“Funny you should say that. Hatcher considers my degree a negative.”

Kloss’s wince said it all as Mary Hall arrived and joined them. She’d been dispatched to Metro to deliver paperwork from Kloss, and to bring back an assortment of items for the team assigned to the house.

“Interrupting something?” she asked.

“Just talking about your partner’s college degree,” Kloss said.

“Hatch not appreciating it,” Jackson said.

“Oh,” she said. “Speaking of that, guess what, Matt?”

His extended hands said
Tell me more
.

“Hatcher has put in for retirement,” she said, disguising any sign of glee in her voice.

“You’re kidding.”

“Would I kid about something like that?” she said. “He filed the papers this afternoon. Oh, and that creep from Beltway Escorts, Billy McMahon? Gunned down this morning in a drive-by in Southeast.”

Kloss’s eyes looked for an explanation.

“A case we were working on,” Jackson said. “The call girl murder in Adams Morgan. The guy was a suspect.”

“Not anymore,” Kloss said, standing, stretching against a pain somewhere in his lean body, and walking from the dining room to where Sue Rollins was now out of her chair and speaking with a Bureau special agent.

Jackson and Hall huddled in the dining room discussing Hatcher’s retirement and what it might mean for them. Once they’d exhausted that topic, Mary asked about Matt’s day and his assignment to follow Rollins to his meeting with Kevin Ziegler. He told her what Kloss had said, and paraphrased what had been on the tape the senior detective had played. “It makes sense,” Jackson summed up. “They took the girl on Saturday and here it is, the end of Monday. Nothing, just that one call Saturday night saying she was safe and wouldn’t be harmed. What do they want? If it were a pedophile, he wouldn’t have bothered calling. Something’s wrong here.”

“Maybe they got cold feet,” she suggested, “and are afraid of trying to put a ransom drop in place.”

“Maybe, but the abduction was too slick for somebody to chicken out. Kloss wants me to stay close to Rollins, see if I can pick up on anything.”

“Good,” she said.

“Did you see Hatcher?” Jackson asked.

“No—he caught the McMahon drive-by.”

Kloss interrupted to suggest that Jackson go home for a change of clothes. “Rollins says he’s leaving his office in a couple of hours and coming here. I’d like you back.”

Mary walked Matt to the rear door. “You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Hearing about Hatcher is… well, it’s good news.”

“I know. Hurry back.”

The waiting game continued in Foggy Bottom that night. The press contingent had thinned out somewhat in front of the house, but there were still plenty of reporters and cameras anxious to catch a glimpse of anyone, anything, to advance the story.

Rollins had arrived at six, followed closely by Jackson’s return. Jackson prompted conversation with him when it seemed appropriate, and the grieving father was receptive to those advances. From the young detective’s perspective, Rollins’s demeanor hadn’t changed. He was his usual cool and collected self, with rare moments of annoyance or impatience flaring up. Sue Rollins had settled into an almost fugue state, doing everything by rote, mechanical, without inspiration. Mary Hall stuck close to her, lending a hand in the kitchen or helping her do laundry—a wash in the midst of such personal anguish! There continued to be, of course, various phone calls for both the Rollinses. They handled them with aplomb, keeping them brief, stating the obvious, that the lines had to be kept clear. Everyone understood, of course, yet continued the conversations until Sue or Jerry had to be a little firmer and assure the caller that they appreciated the concern and would certainly let them know if there was anything to report. Sue’s mother called regularly and seemed to accept the need to stay away, and to depend upon her daughter and son-in-law for up-dates. She cried during some of those calls, which made it harder for Sue. But she maintained an even keel and didn’t allow her own tears to meld with her mother’s.

At eleven, Kloss, whose fatigue was showing, suggested that the Rollinses go to bed.

“What about you?” Jerry said. “You looked exhausted.”

“I’ll be fine on the couch here,” Kloss said. “I really doubt whether anyone will call tonight regarding your daughter. We’ll handle other calls and say you’re resting. You’ll accomplish nothing by sitting around with us.”

Sue didn’t argue. She walked heavily up the stairs and disappeared into the master bedroom. Jackson and Rollins sat at the kitchen table, hands cupped around steaming cups of black coffee.

“How did you enjoy your trip out to Maryland today?” Rollins asked.

“Pretty ride,” Jackson said. “You had a meeting.”

Rollins nodded.

“I guess with the campaign and all, life marches on.”

“Something like that. I met with Kevin Ziegler. He’s President Pyle’s advisor.”

“I know.”

“You follow politics, Matt?”

“Best I can.”

“Pick a winner yet?”

“I don’t know about a winner, sir, but I do intend to vote for Governor Colgate.”

“You’re not just saying that because you’re with me?”

“I wouldn’t do that, sir.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Mr. Ziegler and I will be meeting again day after tomorrow to iron out details for a debate in Miami.”

“I heard about that,” Jackson said, pleased that he had kept up with news of the campaign. “Always some sticking points.”

“Always. In a way, it’s good that these things come up. I don’t know how I’d handle this whole mess if it were all I had to think about. I feel bad for Sue in that regard.”

“She’s a strong woman.”

“Very strong.”

“Mind if I ask you something, Mr. Rollins?”

“No, and please call me Jerry.”

“All right, Jerry. I couldn’t help but notice the last time I went out back that you have an impressive machine sitting in the garage.”

Jackson’s observation brought a wry smile to Rollins’s lips. “My baby, my pride and joy.”

“I only peeked through the garage window, but…”

“Care to see her up close?”

“I’d love that.”

The sight of them in the driveway, illuminated by a large halogen lamp over the front of the garage, stirred murmurs from the press, and a few hurled questions, which were ignored. Rollins opened the door and flipped on an interior light.

“That is a beauty,” Jackson commented, going to the Porsche and running his hand over its gleaming red surface.