Murder Inside the Beltway (6 page)

Jerry Rollins unpacked in his bedroom, showered, dressed in pajamas and robe, and padded downstairs to the kitchen, where his wife, Sue, sat drinking decaf tea and reading that day’s
Washington Post
.

“How was the trip?” she asked.

“Successful but tiring. How was your day?”

“The usual. Busy. I spent most of it chauffeuring Sammy from one activity to another, and a party, too, of course.”

Rollins laughed as he came around behind and massaged her shoulders through her robe.

He’d married later in life than most of his friends; Sue was twelve years his junior. Their daughter, Samantha, “Sammy” to friends and family, was a precocious seven. There were times, many of them, when Rollins found it hard to believe that the beautiful, bright, delightful little creature was actually his daughter, wide-eyed and trusting in his love and that of her mother. She’d never have to doubt their love and devotion. It was total and unconditional. The world, however, was another story. He sometimes wondered how any child grew up, considering the threats out there, illness, accidents, bad deeds. If he could, he would wrap her in an impenetrable sheath and never allow the world to touch her. If only that were an option.

After downing his nightly ration of vitamin pills, he said he was going to bed. He stopped in front of Samantha’s bedroom and peered into the darkened room, the only illumination a clown night-light. He quietly stepped into the room and sat on the edge of her bed, observed her steady breathing and the small, sweet smile on her lips. Sensing his presence, she opened her eyes and said sleepily, “Daddy’s home.”

“That’s right, sweetheart, Daddy’s home.”

“Did you bring me something?”

“Of course I did.” He hadn’t. “I left it at the office. I’ll bring it home tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“You go back to sleep now. I’ll see you at breakfast before you go to school.”

“All right.”

She turned over and buried her face in the pillow. He adjusted her covers and sat for a few minutes before going to the master bedroom and climbing into bed next to Sue. “Good night, hon,” he said.

“Good night. Was Deborah there with you in San Francisco?”

“Yes, but I only saw her briefly this morning.”

“Good night,” she repeated. “I’m glad you’re home.”

B
efore meeting Mae for dinner at Amalfi’s, a family-owned restaurant not far from their home, Hatcher made a few stops after leaving Joe’s Bar and Grille.

The first was the apartment building where Rosalie Curzon had been murdered. He was about to enter when Jackson and Hall approached. They’d been questioning residents of nearby buildings and were about to call it a day.

“Pick up anything?” Hatcher asked.

“No,” Mary Hall said, “except that the victim’s profession wasn’t a secret to some people.”

“They knew she was turning tricks?”

“Those willing to admit it,” said Jackson. “She evidently had a favorite hangout, The Silver Veil, around the corner.”

“You checked with them?”

“Yes. The owner—maybe he’s the manager—he says that she used to come in pretty regularly with a friend.”

“Male?”

“Female. He gave us her name.”

Jackson fished a slip of paper from his pocket and read from it: “Micki Simmons.”

“Mickey?”

“The female version. M-i-c-k-i.”

“You get an address for this female Mouse?”

“No. We just left the place.”

“I’ll follow up on it,” Hatcher said, taking the paper from Jackson. “What happened with Manfredi? You get to talk to him?”

They filled him in on their brief, abrasive encounter with the instructor.

“I’ll take it from here,” Hatcher said.

“We were about to call it quits for the night,” Hall said. “That okay with you?”

“Half a day, huh?” They stared at him. “Lots to do. See you at eight sharp.”

Hatcher watched them walk away and wondered if there might be more to their relationship than being cops. He’d had that suspicion before, but always dismissed it as implausible. They had nothing in common. They weren’t even the same color.

He went inside and found the Hispanic superintendent, whose expression at seeing the big, menacing Hatcher again was less than welcoming.

“You decide to be straight with me now, José?” Hatcher asked.

“I know nothing,” the super responded. “I swear it. She was a nice lady, that’s all I know. No money from her. I get no money.”

Hatcher grinned and patted the super on his shoulder. “Okay, amigo, relax. But what about the men who visited her, her customers? You must have seen lots of them.”

The super shrugged. “They come, they go, like everybody in the building.”

“You wouldn’t remember what any of them looked like if I showed you some pictures?”

He shook his head.

“You’re sure about that?”

“
Sí
. Yes.”

“All right, buddy,” Hatcher said, adding an additional slap on the shoulder, harder. “I’ll be back. We’ll talk again.”

Hatcher next drove to Constitution Avenue on Capitol Hill, where he pulled up in front of Charlie Palmer Steak House. He went inside and asked to see the manager, who happened to be the man he’d approached.

“Walt Hatcher, MPD,” Hatcher said, showing his gold badge.

“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”

“I need to know if a certain person had dinner here last night.”

“Who is that?”

“Lewis Archer. He’s a lobbyist. I understand a lot of them come here.”

The manager smiled. “Oh, yes, of course. Mr. Archer is a regular customer. He was here last night with his wife. Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. I’m just touching all the bases. You remember what time he and his wife showed up?”

The manager frowned. “Let me check.” He returned a few minutes later holding a computer printout. “He got here at quarter of nine. They sat right over there. He likes that particular table.”

“They arrive together?”

“Ah, no, as a matter of fact. She got here first, but that’s not unusual. Mr. Archer tends to run late.” He laughed. “He has a very understanding wife.”

“I guess he does. Thanks for the info.”

“Anytime. I hope Mr. Archer isn’t in some sort of trouble.”

“Not at all. Just routine checking. Have a good night, pal.”

He preceded Mae to Amalfi’s and enjoyed a drink with one of the owners while waiting for her. She arrived on time and they were shown to a table.

“How was your day?” she asked.

“Nothing new and exciting. I’m glad I left early. Calamari to start?”

They ordered a bottle of Chianti with the calamari. A waiter poured the shimmering red wine into their glasses, and they touched rims. Mae observed him across the small corner table. Her husband of many years seemed to have aged unreasonably over the past year, gray bags beneath his eyes more pronounced now, the sparkle in his green eyes muted. He’d been taking medicine for an enlarged heart since his last physical, which was three years ago, and a nagging pain in his lower back, along with a knee that the orthopedist said needed replacing, caused him to walk differently. Hatcher was a stubborn man when it came to medicine—when it came to most things—and he seldom complained about his physical ailments. Of course, Mae reasoned, she was getting older, too, and undoubtedly didn’t look the same to him either.

But she didn’t suffer the strain and tensions of his job. She’d read many articles about how police work, particularly in large cities, took its toll on cops, and on their families, too. The divorce and suicide rates for cops were far above the average. To spend each day going to gruesome murder scenes was bound to change a man, she knew, and not for the better. The few friends they had through Hatch’s work were bitter and cynical, men hardened by their daily routines, their women cautious in the way they approached them.

“Florida’s looking better every day,” he said.

“I spoke with Christina today,” Mae said, pleased that the topic had come up. “I told her that you might retire and that we’d move to the house in Florida and—” He was frowning. “That’s okay, isn’t it, that I told her?”

“What? Yeah, sure. I stopped at Charlie Palmer Steak House on my way here, had to ask about some lobbyist who had dinner there last night. You know what they get for a steak there, a porterhouse? A zillion bucks, Mae. A lot of fat-cats eat there, dropping a bill or two on a meal.” He shook his head. “I got in the wrong business.”

She was sorry that the conversation had now veered in this direction without provocation. It was something he tended to dwell on when his spirits were low, the disparity in pay between people like cops and firemen, who actually did something good for the community, and those who became rich by simply pushing money around, or using it to buy influence.

She placed her hand on his. “I think you got into the
right
business, Walter. It’s something you always wanted to be, a detective helping people, putting the bad guys away so they can’t hurt anyone else. As for money, you’ve been a wonderful provider for me and our three children. The mortgage is paid off on both houses, the kids all graduated from college, and we can go out for dinner like this anytime we want. What more could we ask for?”

A grin crossed Hatcher’s broad face. “You always see the bright side, don’t you, Mae?”

“Only because—”

“No, I mean that as a compliment. For you, the glass is always half-full, and that’s a good thing. Maybe if I turn in the badge and soak up some of that Florida sun, I’ll see things the way you do.”

“That would be great,” she said, beaming. “Are you having the usual, osso buco?”

“Yeah. You, shrimp scampi?”

“Yes. We know each other pretty well, don’t we, Walt?”

“After all these years, we’d better,” he said, not stating his second thought, that he was lucky to have her as his wife.

L
ike every other step in the campaign, the announcement of Colgate’s endorsement by the nation’s teachers was smoothly choreographed. It was held on the steps of an inner-city public school, in a predominately black neighborhood. The school had recently been cited for the excellence of its teaching staff, and many of them were on hand at eleven o’clock that morning, along with a select group of students turned out in their Sunday best. With a half-dozen American flags flapping in the background, the association’s president took to a portable podium and welcomed the assembled. Bob and Deborah Colgate stood to the side, the kids grouped in front of them, allowing Colgate to banter with them and to occasionally run a hand over a head, all of which was dutifully captured by video and still photographers. Deborah wore a stunning beige suit, white blouse, and an equally stunning perpetual smile.

“Where’s Jerry?” Colgate whispered to his wife. “I thought he was supposed to be here.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she replied.

The association president was winding up his comments.

“…and so, my friends, after four years of neglect of our crucially important education system, it is with considerable pleasure that I am able to deliver to the next president of the United States the enthusiastic endorsement of more than three million dedicated men and women in whose classrooms the future leaders of this great nation are taught and nurtured.” His voice rose to a shout. “Robert Colgate!”

A Dixieland band broke into a spirited tune as Colgate and his wife came to the podium. He raised his hands high, his campaign smile ensuring that all was well and that there would be happy times ahead for the nation’s education system. After allowing the applause to ebb and the music to trail off, he launched into a fifteen-minute speech that sounded off-the-cuff, but that had been carefully crafted well in advance. He was good at sounding spontaneous. He ended by thanking the teacher’s union for its faith in him and the vision he had for the nation, particularly in its classrooms. He placed his arm around Deborah’s waist and gave a final wave before being led away to the waiting limousine.

Their Secret Service detail piled into two nearby cars. The chief agent assigned to the Colgate campaign had lobbied to have at least one agent in vehicles with the candidate and his wife at all times, but Colgate adamantly disagreed. “I need some private time,” he’d said, “and the backseat of a car provides it. No agents with us in cars!” He prevailed.

“Went well,” he commented after he and Deborah were in the secure confines of the limo.

“Did you expect it
not
to go well?” Deborah asked, her eyes fixed on the scene outside as the vehicle inched through the crowd.

“You never know,” he said, grabbing her hand. “Loosen up, Deb. We’re on a roll.”

She slid her hand from beneath his and said absently, her attention still focused on the passing scene, “I have a luncheon to get to. What’s next for you?”

“Interview at the
Post.
”

“They’ll ask about us.”

His laugh was forced. “They always do, and the answer is always the same.”

“Yes, it always is, isn’t it?”

He dialed Jerry Rollins’s number on his cell phone. “I thought you were planning to be at the teachers’ endorsement,” Colgate said sharply.

“I had a meeting come up at the last minute. Sorry. I saw some of it on TV. Looked like a home run, Bob.”

“I need to talk to you.”

They arranged to meet at Colgate’s Georgetown home at four.

Deborah was dropped off at the Ritz-Carlton in Georgetown, while her husband proceeded to the
Washington Post’s
offices on 15th Street, NW, where his press secretary, Linda Chu, waited with others. The interview lasted an hour. As expected, the question of whether there was a serious, potentially terminal rift in the Colgate marriage came up.

Colgate responded through a smile: “Deborah and I love each other and are totally committed to our marriage. She’ll make a terrific first lady, and I’m looking forward to enjoying the White House together for the next eight years.”