Murder Inside the Beltway (11 page)

“I need a snooze, Tommy.”

“Hey, no problem, pal. You know how to get there.”

Hatcher crossed the barroom and went through a door leading to Tommy’s office, and to an adjacent room in which two single beds were made up and waiting for occupants. Tommy maintained the room for moments like this, for a cop to crash after coming off a long shift, or a politician needing to sleep off too much booze before heading home. It was known to insiders as “Tommy’s Motel.”

As Hatcher tossed his suit jacket on one of the beds, he saw that perspiration had left dark rings in the armpits. He pulled down his tie and fell heavily on the second bed, letting out a prolonged sigh. He felt like hell. Once, on the ride from headquarters, he’d had to pull over when an excruciating stab of pain in his head caused momentary blindness. It lasted only a few seconds, but long enough to concern him.

He closed his eyes and sleep came almost immediately, but didn’t last long. A series of dreams kept waking him. He tried to grab hold of them but their fragments vanished as quickly and suddenly as they’d materialized. But not all. Once, he awoke suddenly, sat up, and let out a moan as he saw his daughter, Christina, as a small girl, standing on the edge of a building. “Don’t,” he said, reaching for her. But she fell, face-first, her arms outstretched as though in a swan dive, leaving Hatcher looking over the precipice and seeing her small body smash to the sidewalk many floors below.

He wiped sweat from his face with his hand and tried to nod off again, but a succession of similar dreams made that impossible. In one, tethered to a long rope attached somewhere high in the sky, he spun out of control in a vast void, around and around, until the rope broke and he disappeared.

After a half hour, he slowly got to his feet and looked in a small mirror on the wall. “What the hell is going on?” he asked aloud. He knew he should go home, but Mae would see that he wasn’t well and insist he see a doctor.

He went to the men’s room, where he splashed cold water on his face, returned to fetch his jacket, and rejoined Gillette in the barroom. Virtually empty when he’d arrived, the bar now had a dozen customers. Hatcher went to a small bistro table out of the mainstream and ordered a double bourbon from the waitress, Jill, who’d worked at Tommy G’s since it opened. He recognized some of the people at the bar; a few waved to him.

“Something to eat, Hatch?” Jill asked when she delivered his drink.

“Yeah, thanks. Baked stuffed clams and some bread, huh?”
Maybe that’s what I need, he thought, some food in my belly.

Tommy G. joined him. “You okay?” he asked. “You don’t look good.”

“Ah, I’ve got some kind’a bug, some kind’a flu.”

“It’s goin’ around. Too many germs, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You still working that hooker murder?” Tommy asked.

“Yup.”

Tommy lowered his voice. “I did a little asking around of my own, Hatch. You know, we get some working girls come in later at night. I don’t mind as long as they don’t flaunt it. Anyway, I asked a few whether they knew this gal—what was her name?”

“Curzon. Rosalie Curzon.”

“Right. Rosie Curzon. I asked whether they knew her.” He grinned. “These types hang around together, you know. Anyway, one of them says she met her a few times but it was a while ago.”

Jill delivered Hatch’s food.

“No tab,” Tommy told her. There never was a tab for Hatcher, but he always tipped big.

“I bet there’s a few guys around town looking over their shoulders, huh?” Tommy said.

Hatcher agreed through his first mouthful of bread and clams.

“I know a couple of regulars here are hoping she didn’t keep a little black book.”

Hatcher said nothing.

“Did she, Hatch? Keep a book with her johns’ names in it?”

“I don’t think so, Tommy. No, she didn’t.”

Tommy’s expression said he didn’t buy it, but he didn’t press.

“Anyway,” he said, “you should take a couple’a days off, stay in bed, get rid’a the flu. Best thing is to stay in bed, plenty’a liquids.”

“I’ll do that, Tommy,” Hatcher said, breaking off a piece of crunchy Italian bread and using it to mop up garlic sauce. “Thanks.”

“Hey, pal, for you, anytime. Ciao.” He joined a knot of customers at the bar, leaving Hatcher with his half-filled glass of bourbon, and his thoughts.

At headquarters, Matt Jackson was busy writing up the interview they’d done with Rosalie Curzon’s father, while Mary Hall ran through a database of names in the D.C. area. She came up with dozens of Thompsons, but only two with the first name “Craig”: one married and employed by the Department of Agriculture, the other single and living in the District. His occupation was listed as “Consultant.” Although they wouldn’t rule out either man, chances were that it was the bachelor who’d been involved with the victim. He’d be first on their list.

Mary, instructed by Hatcher to reach the senatorial aide, James Patmos, who’d allegedly introduced the lobbyist Lewis Archer to Rosalie Curzon, called Senator William Barrett’s office in the Russell Building at First and C Streets, NE, and asked for Jim Patmos.

“He’s not here,” she was told.

“Do you expect him back today?”

The woman laughed. “One never knows,” she said. “Can I take a message?”

“No, that’s all right. I’ll try him again tomorrow.”

“No luck?” Matt said after she’d hung up.

“He wasn’t there. I didn’t want to leave my name.”

“Why not?”

“I’d rather he not have time to come up with a story.”

“We didn’t worry about that when you called the congressman.”

“
Hatcher
didn’t worry about it, Matt, but I do.”

Deborah Colgate’s limo driver dropped her and Connie Bennett in front of the Colgates’ Georgetown townhouse. The events at which she’d spoken had gone well, plenty of checks written, and even more money pledged to the Colgate campaign for president. Deborah hated the fundraising aspect of running for elected office, found it demeaning and even fraudulent in what it promised to donors. Why did they contribute, she wondered, especially those whose checks were for small amounts? Did they expect something in return besides the psychic payoff of having put their money where their beliefs lie? The big donors certainly expected a bang for their bucks—access to the candidate once he or she was in office, and clout when it came to legislation that would affect their lives, especially their bottom lines. Politicians, she decided, were like televangelists, promising miraculous improvements in the lives of those who sent their money, salvation and freedom from disease and pain—or in the case of politicians, better jobs, lower taxes, and a sunny future.

She and Connie went to the kitchen, where a housekeeper was preparing snacks in anticipation of their arrival, salmon with a dollop of horseradish sauce on crackers, and Deborah’s favorite, hummus on toast points.

“We’ll be in the study,” Deborah told the housekeeper.

“Cognac?” she asked Connie once they’d kicked off their shoes and were settled in the book-lined room at the front of the house.

“Love one.”

“Me too.”

“You knocked them out today,” Connie said after they’d touched the rims of their snifters.

“I’m getting better at it.”

“You’ve always been good at it, Deb, going back to college. Remember when you rallied support for that professor who’d been let go? You not only fired up the students, you got the administration on your side.”

Deborah laughed. “Silly student stuff,” she said.

“It wasn’t silly at all. The guy might have been odd in his thinking, but he was a good teacher. He deserved to stay—and he did, thanks in part to you.”

“He was a pervert.”

“He was not. Besides, if he was a pervert, why did you champion his cause?”

“I guess I was into perversion at the time.”

Connie smiled. “I miss those days, Deb.”

“So do I, although lately I feel as if I’m back there.”

“How so?”

“Back when perversion was on my mind.”

Connie’s expression said she didn’t understand.

“My whole life these days is perverted, Connie.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m living a life of lies.”

“That’s not true, Deb.”

“Yes it is. My marriage to Bob has been a lie for a very long time. Isn’t that one definition of perversion, living a life of lies?”

“Maybe. I wouldn’t know. What I do know is that you and Bob have forged a remarkable life together. You’re about to become the first family of this country, Deb. First Lady of the land.”

“At what price?” She sighed deeply and drank.

Connie didn’t respond, and Deborah continued. “Connie, I’ve made a decision.”

Her friend’s laugh was forced. “Any decision is better than no decision,” she said, lightly, a smile on her face. “Isn’t that what the shrinks say?” Her expression now turned serious. “You aren’t saying… ?”

“I’m afraid I am. I can’t do this anymore, Connie. I can’t keep putting on this campaign face, pretending as though everything is wonderful between Bob and me, asking people for money to fund what is, in reality, one great big sham. I’m dropping out of the marriage
and
the campaign.”

Connie’s glass slipped from her hand as she suddenly got up and stood over her friend. “Don’t say that, Deb,” she said. She picked up the glass from the floor and ran her foot over the cognac that had stained the beige carpet. “Sorry,” she said.

“Don’t worry about the carpet,” Deborah said.

Connie used a small napkin the housekeeper had provided with the snacks.

“I said, don’t worry about it!” Deborah said sharply, causing Connie to look up, surprised at her friend’s icy tone.

“I intend to tell Bob of my decision when he gets back from his Midwest swing,” Deborah said. “Frankly, I don’t care what his reaction is. Oh, I can certainly anticipate it. He’ll talk about how the pressures of campaigning have me on edge, and how once the campaign is over, we’ll be able to settle back into the life we once had, how we can’t do this to the kids—kids? they’re all grown—and how the country needs us to undo the damage Pyle has done to the nation. It’s all bullshit, Connie. I’ve had it.”

“I need a refill,” Connie said, going to a leather-fronted freestanding bar and refreshing her drink. “Deb?”

“What? No, nothing more for me.”

Connie resumed her chair opposite her friend. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” she said, “or that you mean it. You’ll absolutely destroy Bob’s run for the White House, and no matter how angry you are about what’s going on inside your marriage, there’s a nation to think about.”

Deborah guffawed. “You sound like one of his speechwriters or strategists, Connie. The hell with the good of the country. What I’ve come to care about is what’s good for me, and staying married and continuing to campaign isn’t. You haven’t had to live it, the rumors about Bob’s affairs, the pitiful looks at me as a woman who stands by her man either because she’s too weak to leave, or because she’s power-hungry and sticks with him to get to the White House.” She energetically shook her head, sending her blond hair in motion. “I can’t do it anymore, Connie. I just can’t.”

The tears flowed. Connie wrapped her arms around Deborah as though to provide a shield against the hurt her friend was suffering. “You’re exhausted,” she said softly. “You need some time off.” She pulled back and her voice stiffened. “But don’t jump ship now, Deb. Please, go away for a day or two, a spa, New York and a few Broadway musicals, anything to change the dynamic. If you want to go through with it after that, there’s nothing I can do to stop you. But please, Deb, sleep on it.”

“All right,” Deborah said.

“Have you discussed this with anyone else?” Connie asked. “Anyone in the campaign?”

“No.” Deborah managed a smile. “You’re stuck with being my only sounding board.”

“And proud to be,” Connie said. “I have to run.”

“And so do I. I’m having dinner with a couple of senators who’re backing Bob. The show must go on, huh?”

“And so it must. Remember what I said. Find a break of a day or two and get away. It’ll do you wonders.”

Deborah walked Connie to the front door and watched her cross the street to her car. She returned their glasses and plates to the kitchen, went back to the library, pulled her cell phone from her purse, and dialed.

Jerry Rollins answered. “Hello?”

“It’s Deborah.”

“Hi.”

“Can you talk?”

“No. I’m in a meeting.”

“When can we talk, Jerry?”

“I don’t know, I—”

“Jerry, we have to talk.”

W
ith Matt Jackson still at her side, Mary called the first Craig Thompson on her list, the bachelor-consultant.

“Mr. Thompson, this is Detective Mary Hall with the MPD. I’m trying to reach a Craig Thompson who was a friend of Rosalie Curzon. Ms. Curzon was a murder victim and—”

“You’re calling about Rosalie?” he said quickly, his voice slightly distorted through the speakerphone.

“That’s right, Mr. Thompson.”

He cleared his throat. “I read about it in the papers, just a small piece. How did you know to call
me
?”

“Ms. Curzon’s father was here at police headquarters this afternoon. He mentioned you.”

Silence on Thompson’s end.

“We understand that you and Ms. Curzon were romantically involved at one time.”

Another silence, followed by, “We were engaged to be married.”

“Engaged? Her father said you’d wanted to marry her, but I didn’t realize that you were formerly engaged.”

“I don’t know whether it was a formal engagement,” he corrected. “I suppose what I meant to say was that we were serious about it.”

“You knew that she worked as a prostitute,” Mary said.

“Unfortunately.”

“That was why you sought out her father and asked him for help in persuading her to give up that life.”

“That’s right. He wasn’t helpful.”

“So he admitted. Mr. Thompson. How long ago did you and Rosalie break off your relationship?”