Murder Inside the Beltway (4 page)

“Smooth, honey,” Hatcher said when Mary hung up.

“He sounded nervous,” Mary said.

“Good,” said Hatcher. “Make him squirm.” He laughed. “I hope it’s him, you know? I’d love to take down one of those arrogant congressional bastards.”

Before heading for Archer’s office on K Street—Washington lobbyists’ street of dreams—they Googled the name. Prior to joining a lobbying firm with six names, including his own, he’d been a two-term congressman from California. Defeated in a bid for a third term, he ended up with a cushy job in the Defense Department’s procurement branch. After eleven years buying $
12,000
ashtrays and $
14,000
toilet seats, he jumped to what had become known as the “fourth branch of government,” lobbying his former employer on behalf of defense-contractor clients. A photo of him prompted Hall to ask, “Do you figure those are his own teeth?”

“Bright, huh?” Hatcher said. “Break out the sunglasses.”

A receptionist told them that Mr. Archer was in a meeting.

“Get him out of it,” Hatcher said. “He’ll be meeting with us.”

His tone told the receptionist that to argue wasn’t prudent, nor would it accomplish anything. She left her desk and disappeared into the recesses of the firm. A few minutes later, Archer accompanied her to the reception area. The smile he flashed was as white as the monogrammed shirt he wore. “I understand you want to see me,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

“We just need a few minutes with you,” Jackson said, extending his hand and introducing Hatcher and Hall. “You have a conference room that’s not being used?”

“This won’t take long, will it?”

No one replied.

“This way,” he said, and led them to a large conference room, where they sat at a huge oblong cherry table. “What’s this about?” he asked once they’d settled in the guest chairs.

“We’re investigating a murder that happened last night,” Hatcher said. “In Adams Morgan.”

“A murder?” Archer said, brow furrowed. “That’s terrible. But what does it have to do with me?”

“The victim was a prostitute,” Jackson said. “Her name was Rosalie Curzon.”

The three detectives sat silently and waited for him to respond verbally, although anything he might say was negated by the knowing expression on his deeply tanned face.

“Are you suggesting that I knew this woman?” he finally said.

Hatcher offered what passed for a smile. “Are you suggesting that you
didn’t
know her, Mr. Archer?”

“What if I did? I mean, I had nothing to do with her murder, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“When did you last see her?” Jackson asked.

Archer pressed his eyes shut as though that would help jog his memory. When he opened them he said, “Months ago. At least two months ago.”

“Sure about that?” Mary Hall asked.

“I can’t be sure about a date,” he said, “but I know it was a long time ago. How did you know I knew her?”

“You starred in one of her movies,” Hatcher said.

“Her movies?” He slapped the side of his head. “Oh, no, don’t tell me she made tapes of her…”

“Johns,” Hatcher filled in for him.

“Jesus,” he muttered, and laughed. “I can’t believe this.”

“Where were you last night?” Hall asked.

“Last night?”

“That’s what the lady said,” Hatcher growled.

“I was… let me see… I was with my wife. Hey, there’s no need to drag my family into this… is there?”

“Where were you and your wife last night?” Hall followed up.

“We went out to dinner. I worked late and—”

“How late?”

“I don’t know, eight, eight-thirty.”

“Anybody here testify to that?” Jackson asked.

“Sure. No. I mean, the place cleared out around seven. I was here alone after that.”

“Sure you didn’t decide to drop in on Ms. Curzon before having dinner with your wife?” Hatcher said. “You know, get a piece before hooking up with the missus.”

“I resent that,” Archer said, not sounding as though he did. It seemed the thing to say.

“
She
resented getting her head bashed in,” Hatcher said. “How’d you end up with her, Mr. Archer? You look up hookers in the Yellow Pages?”

“I don’t think I should be talking to you,” Archer said. “I don’t like the way this is sounding.”

“Please answer Detective Hatcher’s question,” Jackson said. “How did you first become a client of Ms. Curzon’s?”

“A friend of mine told me about her.”

“Who was that?” Hall followed up.

“I don’t want to involve other people.”

“Suit yourself,” said Hatcher. “Maybe your wife will remember the names of your friends.”

“This is harassment,” Archer said.

They stared at him.

“All right, a friend of mine named Jimmy told me about Rosalie.”

“Jimmy have a last name?”

“Patmos. Jimmy Patmos. He’s Senator Barrett’s chief-of-staff.”

Hall noted the name on her pad.

“Look, if you talk to him, don’t say that I gave you his name, okay? I do a lot of business with him and the senator.”

“Know of anyone else who availed themselves of Ms. Curzon’s services?” Jackson asked.

“No.”

Hatcher stood and tossed his card on the table. “Give me a call if you think of anything else that might help us. By the way, where did you and the missus have dinner last night?”

“Charlie Palmer’s.”

“Expense account, huh?” Hatcher said.

“It is expensive,” Archer agreed.

“Have a good day, Mr. Archer,” Jackson said as they left the room.

“What’a you think?” Hatcher asked as they climbed into their car.

“I don’t think he killed her,” Hall offered.

“Based on what?” Hatcher asked as he pulled away.

“Gut feeling.”

“A woman’s instinct?” Hatcher said. “Not worth a damn.”

“If she feels that way,” Jackson said, “I think she’s entitled to it.”

“Right, and present that to a jury.” He added dramatically: “ ‘My instincts tell me, Your Honor, that the accused did it.’ Beautiful.”

The two younger detectives fell silent. Hall smiled. Jackson clenched his fists and looked out the window.

Jackson and Hall checked out an unmarked car at headquarters and headed for the Maurice T. Turner, Jr., Metropolitan Police Academy in Southwest.

“You okay?” Hall asked from the driver’s seat.

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

“He really gets to you, doesn’t he?”

“Hatch? I try not to let him.”

She laughed. “You should try a little harder, Matt.”

“He’s a racist.”

“That’s pretty harsh. He’s just old-school.”

“What’s that mean, lynching’s okay?”

“You know I don’t mean that.”

“Williams and Shrank are considering filing a bias complaint against him.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“He evidently got into it with them the other day, called them stupid, said there’s proof that blacks’ IQs are lower than whites’, the usual garbage from him.”

“Do you think they’ll follow through?”

“All I know is that I can’t wait to get transferred to another unit.”

“You won’t miss me?”

“Why? You planning on staying with him?”

“Hey, Matt, I’m no fan of Hatch either, but the job’s the thing. He’s a good cop.”

“A good old-school cop, as you say. That’s a whitewash, Mary.”

She fell silent. They’d had few conversations about their racial difference since becoming intimately involved. She knew and respected his sensitivity about the subject and avoided that topic.

He shifted gears. “How do we approach Manfredi?” he asked.

“I think Hatch is right. I’ll mention that I was one of his students, sort of like we’re just stopping in to say hello. I’ll keep it light and then you bring up the homicide.”

“Good cop, bad cop,” he muttered.

“If you have a better suggestion I’ll—”

“No, no, that’s the way to go. Sure, you set him up and I’ll hit him with the real reason we’re there.”

After splitting off from Hall and Jackson, Hatcher drove to Adams Morgan and parked in front of Joe’s Bar and Grille. Its owner, Joe Yankavich, was behind the bar when Hatcher entered. He had the place to himself. The detective grabbed a stool at the far end of the bar. “Hello, Joe,” he said.

“Hello, Hatcher. You on duty? What, a Diet Coke or a Shirley Temple?”

“A Bloody Mary, Joe, and a burger. You got any chopped meat that hasn’t been in the freezer for a month?”

The burly owner ignored the comment and shouted through an opening to the kitchen.

“With fried onions,” Hatcher said.

“Fried onions on that burger,” Yankavich instructed.

Hatcher watched as Yankavich mixed his Bloody Mary and wondered what it would be liked to tangle with the bar owner. He was a bear of a man, with a barrel chest, shaved head, and massive arms that strained against the sleeves of the red shirt he wore. A bush of chest hair protruded through the open upper buttons. He plopped Hatcher’s drink down in front of him.

“Hey, Joe…” Hatcher said.

Yankavich turned and glared. “You here to break my chops today, Hatcher?”

Hatcher grinned. “Why would you say that, Joe? I never break chops.”

“And Congress isn’t on the take,” Yankavich snorted.

Hatcher waited until his burger had been served before saying anything else to Yankavich. He ate enthusiastically, having poured on plenty of ketchup. A few locals arrived and took tables to the rear of the place. Hatcher finished eating and summoned the owner.

“You want dessert, Hatcher?”

Hatcher shook his head.

“Good to see you,” said Yankavich. “The burger’s on me.” He pulled an envelope from the rear pocket of his pants and slid it across the bar. Hatcher picked it up and put it in his inside jacket pocket.

“We need to talk,” Hatcher said.

“About what?”

“In the back.”

Yankavich left the bar and retreated into a closet-sized back room that functioned as an office and storeroom. Hatcher followed. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, arms folded.

“You know a pretty lady named Rosalie, Joe?” Hatcher asked.

Yankavich looked up from his chair behind the desk. “Huh?”

“Rosalie Curzon,” Hatcher said. “She lived in the neighborhood.”

Yankavich exhaled loudly and sat back. “I heard,” he said. “It’s all over the street. Somebody whacked her last night, as I understand it.”

“You know her, Joe? She was a customer?”

“No. She never came in here.”

“So, you knew her.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“If you didn’t know her, Joe, how could you be sure she never came in here?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I met her once or twice.”

“You send her customers?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hatcher.”

“Come on, now, Joe. We both know you run broads out of here, and some of that white stuff that goes up the nose. I mean, not you personally, but you—how shall I say it?—condone it. Right?”

“That’s what you want to talk about, Hatcher?”

“What’d she charge, Joe?”

“Huh?”

“Her fee for a trip to heaven. How much?”

“You’re blowing smoke, Hatcher.”

“You visit the lovely Ms. Curzon last night?”

“Hey, wait a minute, Hatcher. What the hell are you getting at?”

“We know you were a customer of hers, Joe. It’s on tape.”

“What?”

“Where were you last night?”

“Right here.”

“I suppose there’s an army who’ll testify to that.”

Yankavich’s grin was crooked, his large lips moist. “That’s right,” he said.

“What’d she do, Joe, call you Godzilla or something?”

Yankavich stood. “Unless you got somebody who puts me at her place last night, I’ve got customers to take care of,” he said. He moved toward the door, but Hatcher stood his ground. They were a foot from each other.

“I’m just doing my job, Joe, that’s all. Somebody gets murdered, I go find who did it. I believe you when you say you weren’t with her last night, but if I find out different, I’ll do my job.”

Hatcher stepped aside to allow Yankavich to open the door and leave the tiny room. He extracted the envelope from his pocket, opened it, counted the bills it contained, returned it to his pocket, and stepped back into the restaurant. He went to where he’d been sitting and laid money on the bar. “Good burger, Joe. There’s a tip there, too. Thanks for the offer, but freebies are against the rules.”

Officer Al Manfredi was on a training field teaching a class in defensive maneuvers when Jackson and Hall arrived. He noticed them standing just outside the door but didn’t acknowledge them.

After ten minutes, he dismissed the class and fell in line with his students as they headed for the door.

“Officer Manfredi,” Mary Hall said as he approached.

“Yeah?”

“I’m Mary Hall. I was in your class a few years ago.”

“Oh, sure, Mary Hall. Hail Mary.” He laughed. “That’s what they used to call you.”

She, too, laughed. “I remember it well. This is my partner, Detective Jackson.”

Jackson and Manfredi shook hands. Jackson’s immediate thought was that up close, Manfredi looked like the comedian Don Rickles. A stiff wind over the open area sent the few strands of hair Manfredi possessed into action.

“So, what brings you back to the old stomping ground? Refresher course or just hanging out?”

“Actually,” Mary said, “we need to talk with you.”

His pleasant façade abruptly changed to stone. “About what?” he asked.

“It’s about a homicide we caught last night,” Jackson said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jackson said. “A prostitute in Adams Morgan, name Rosalie Curzon.”

This time, Manfredi’s smile was forced. “Looks like you were in the wrong place, wrong time, huh? I’m glad I don’t catch cases any more; keep me up all night. Sorry, but I’ve got a ton of paperwork to do.”

They followed him inside.

“Officer Manfredi,” Jackson said as they walked closely behind him down a long hallway, “we have reason to believe that you were acquainted with the victim.”

Manfredi slowed his pace like a mechanical figure whose batteries have run out, stopped, turned, and said, “What the hell are you two, IA?”