Murder Inside the Beltway (24 page)

“Can’t we take that damn thing off the hook,” Sue said.

“No, ma’am,” was Kloss’s response.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. If the kidnapper calls…”

“I understand,” the detective assured.

The food arrived. Jerry Rollins picked at a couple of fried dumplings and poured himself bourbon, neat. Sue ate nothing until Mary convinced her that she had to keep up her strength and she settled for brown rice and steamed vegetables. The two females sat together in the kitchen. Sue said little; Mary tried to keep up a conversation to distract Sue, and succeeded for the most part.

“Mr. Rollins,” Kloss said, “there’s something I want to suggest.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s possible that we won’t receive a call tonight from whoever took your daughter. It’s been my experience that people in these cases often take their time to make contact. They want to think it out before making the call. Obviously, with this all over TV, the perpetrator knows what’s going on here outside the house. They’ll be gun-shy and wait until they’ve figured out how best to reach you.”

“But if they don’t call, how can we ever know what’s happened to Samantha?”

Again, thoughts ran parallel in the room. If the kidnapper was a child molester, a pervert, it was possible that no call would ever be made. He would assault the child and, in all likelihood, kill her. Hopefully, instead, money was the motive. It was the best motive of all, in almost every crime. Money was impersonal. People who kidnapped kids for money weren’t interested in harming them. They wanted to be paid, pure and simple, and as long as funds could be delivered without placing them in jeopardy, they’d be content.

Kloss answered his question. “If this is someone with a grudge against you, Mr. Rollins, it’s possible that they’ll want to make contact away from the house.”

“Away?”

“Yes, sir. Your office, or part of the daily routine having to do with your law practice or involvement in the campaign. What do you have scheduled for tomorrow?”

“It’s Sunday. I mentioned that I’d canceled a meeting with Governor Colgate this afternoon. I told him I’d try to make time tomorrow.”

“All right. What about Monday, Tuesday?”

“My calendar’s in my den. I’ll get it.”

Kloss invited Jackson to join them at the table as they meticulously reviewed Rollins’s upcoming schedule. When they were finished, Rollins asked, “Are you suggesting that I leave here and pretend to go about my usual routine?”

“That may be necessary,” Kloss said, “depending upon whether we hear from the abductors.”

“That doesn’t make much sense to me,” Rollins said. “Whoever took Samantha will know that the police will be following me at every turn. They wouldn’t dare approach me under those circumstances.”

“Not necessarily,” Kloss countered. What he didn’t say was that his gut feeling was that the abduction of Samantha Rollins had something to do with Rollins’s position in town, perhaps his close relationship with Robert Colgate. He had nothing to base that on and admitted as much to himself. But the manner in which the girl was taken, the swiftness of it, the smooth execution of what must have been a plan, buttressed his hunch. A child molester wouldn’t have been brazen enough to attempt to snatch her on a sunny afternoon on the Mall with thousands of people milling about. No, he decided, this was a professional job. Either the girl had been taken for money—or because the kidnappers wanted something from Rollins besides money.

“Let me ask you a question, Mr. Rollins,” Kloss said. “Is it possible that someone has taken Samantha in order to blackmail you, to extort money from you?”

It was more of a snort than a laugh. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to blackmail me. I have nothing to hide.”

“It’s not necessarily a matter of having something to hide, sir. I just thought you might have something in your possession that somebody else would want bad enough to use your daughter as a means of getting it.”

“I can’t think of a thing.”

Jackson had sat silently during the exchange. Rollins’s coolness in the face of what had occurred was impressive to the young detective. He chalked it up to two things: being a shrewd, hardened attorney, and putting up a front for his wife’s sake. But his face changed as Kloss asked his questions. For the first time a modicum of tension crossed it, even nerves. Jackson looked at Kloss to see if the veteran detective had picked up on the same thing. His expression was noncommittal.

As dusk settled over the nation’s capital, Kloss took Jackson and Hall aside to say that the Rollinses had asked that they be retained on the case, at least for the near duration. “But I won’t need both of you here at the same time. I suggest one of you go home, get a few hours’ sleep, pack a bag, and head back.”

“You, Mary?” Jackson asked.

“No, Matt, you go ahead. Mrs. Rollins and I are getting along fine. I don’t want to leave her.”

“Suit yourself,” Kloss said.

As Jackson prepared to leave, he said, “Hatcher called a while ago. That was the call I was on when you told me to end it.”

Kloss pulled Jackson and Hall into a corner and spoke in low tones. “Matt,” he said, “forget about Hatcher. This case takes precedence over everything. I told Chief Carter that the family wanted you and Detective Hall on the case until further notice, and he whole-heartedly agreed. Don’t sweat it.”

Jackson and Hall looked at each other. “Want anything from the apartment?” he asked her.

“No. I’ll pick some things up at my place tomorrow. Get some sleep. This looks like it could go on for a while.”

Paul and Greta stood in the living room. He’d removed his maroon sweatshirt and baseball cap, replacing them with a dark blue windbreaker, no hat.

“You have the phone?” she asked.

He pulled a slender cell phone from his jacket pocket. Greta had stolen it from picnickers at the Mall less than an hour before snatching Samantha. Amazing, she’d thought after doing it, how careless people are. The phone was resting in plain view on top of a wicker picnic hamper.

“I’ll drive into the District,” he said, “and call from there, dump the phone, and head back.”

“Take a different route to the city than we took here,” she admonished.

“Hey,” he said, “I’m not a dummy. Not to worry. I’ll hit a pizza parlor on the way back. What you want—pepperoni, sausage?”

“Both. And extra cheese.”

“Yeah, extra cheese.”

He pulled a black Volkswagen Jetta from a one-car garage at the rear of the property, drove away from the house, and stuck to the speed limit. He was aware of the number of state patrol cars on the roads, and listened to an all-news radio station which reported nothing that concerned him. He crossed the bridge into the District and made his way to the Southwest waterfront, where some of the city’s best fish restaurants were located. The parking lot was bustling but he maneuvered the Jetta to a relatively secluded spot alongside the Washington Channel, the body of water that diners feasted their eyes on along with their crabs and lobsters and Chilean sea bass. He turned off the car’s lights, got out, and walked to the edge of the channel. The illuminated keypad gave him enough light to dial the number.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Rollins?” he said.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Your daughter is safe and won’t be hurt, provided you do what we tell you to do.”

“Let me talk to her,” Rollins demanded.

“You’ll hear from us again,” Paul said. He pushed the
OFF
button, flung the phone far into the channel, returned to the car, and drove away.

“T
his is Governor Colgate.”

Mary Hall, who’d been monitoring calls at the Rollins house, had picked up.

“Yes, sir?”

“My wife and I want to visit with Mr. and Mrs. Rollins. I assume that can be arranged.”

“I’ll check,” she said.

Kloss had just returned from home, where he’d picked up a change of clothes and other necessities. “We don’t need more of a media circus than we already have,” he said.

“I’ll tell him no.”

Rollins had overheard the exchange. “What if I go there?” he suggested.

“I’d prefer that,” said Kloss. “One of my men will drive you.”

Rollins got on the line with Colgate. “Bob, it’s inconvenient for you to come here. The detective in charge says I can come to your house. Is that okay?”

“I suppose so. Bring Sue with you.”

“I’m not sure she’ll want to, but I’ll ask.”

Fifteen minutes later, Rollins sat in the backseat of a marked patrol car. His wife had declined to leave, which he understood. There was something strangely, weirdly comforting being close to the phone on which Samantha’s captor might call again. Although Colgate’s Georgetown townhouse was only minutes away, it seemed to Rollins as if he’d traveled to a distant place, out of touch and helpless.

A housekeeper answered the door and escorted him to Colgate’s office, which overlooked a pristine large yard carefully tended by a team of gardeners. Colgate was dressed casually—jeans, sandals, white button-down shirt he hadn’t bothered to tuck in, and a pale yellow cardigan draped over his shoulders. He got up from behind the desk, came to Rollins, and hugged him. “What a bitch,” he said. “How you holding up, buddy?”

“All right.”

“Sue’s not with you?”

“She didn’t want to leave the phone. She’s there with the detectives.”

“Sit down, Jerry. Coffee? Something stronger?”

“Coffee would be fine.”

Settled, cups in front of them, Colgate asked whether there had been any progress in finding Samantha.

“Unfortunately, no,” Rollins replied. “We received a call last night.”

“From the kidnapper?”

“Yes or so he claimed. All he said was that Samantha was okay and that she wouldn’t be hurt provided I did what they told me to do.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“What does he want you to do?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say. He said
they’d
be in touch again.”

“They’d? There’s more than one?”

“Evidently. He said that
we
would be back in touch.”

“Did the police trace the call?”

Rollins nodded and sipped his coffee. “The call was made from a cell phone in Southwest, down by those fish restaurants. The number was traced to a couple who said their phone had been stolen yesterday afternoon at the Mall.”

“Do you think—?”

“No, they had nothing to do with it, Bob. I don’t even know if it was a genuine call or not. The cops say it could be a prankster, a perverted one. I’m hoping they’re wrong.”

Deborah walked into the room. “Oh, Jerry,” she said, going to where he sat and wrapping her arms around his shoulders, “every parent’s worst nightmare. I am so sorry. I’m sure that Samantha will be fine.”

“We’re counting on that,” Rollins said.

“Can I do anything?” she asked, “be with Sue?”

“Nothing to be done, thanks. It’s a waiting game.” He told her what he’d relayed to her husband about the call and the tracing of it. He also filled them in on what Detective Kloss had speculated, that the abductor, or abductors, did not seem to be child molesters. “He thinks it’s a professional job,” he added.

“Professional?” Colgate mimicked. “What the hell could be professional about it? Money, of course. They’re looking for a ransom.”

“I don’t know, Bob. I’m just telling you what the detective said.”

Deborah excused herself. “Please give my love to Sue, Jerry, and call if I can do anything.” She kissed his cheek and left.

Colgate picked up the latest edition of
City Paper
from his desk and handed it to Rollins. “Seen this, Jerry?”

“No.”

“Page three.”

Rollins read Josh Langdon’s piece. When he’d finished, he tossed it angrily to the floor.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were interviewed?”

“I forgot about it. Just more trash, as I told the reporter.”

“It has Pyle’s people written all over it.”

Colgate leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “Jerry,” he said, “is there anything you’re holding back from me?”

“Of course not.”

“This prostitute
taped
her clients?”

“That’s what Langdon claims in the piece.”

Colgate shook his head ruefully and regained his more relaxed pose, leaning far back in his desk chair. “Is it possible that this nasty business with Samantha has something to do with the campaign?”

“I can’t imagine how.”

Colgate came forward again and fixed him in a hard stare, causing Rollins to wince and turn away.

“We’ve been close for a long time, Jerry,” Colgate said, “a very long time. I trust you like the brother I never had. I’d do anything for you.”

“I know that, Bob.”

“Feel up to laying some of your solid advice on me about the economic package I’m working on?”

“Frankly, no. You’ve got some top economists advising you on that subject.”

“All guesswork on their part. If they knew what they were talking about, they’d be rich, like stock gurus. Pyle released his economic plans on Friday. More of the same, promises of oversight, keep the tax cuts for the wealthy, let the free market reign. Know what, Jerry? The answer is to pull back on deregulation. Look at the airlines since Reagan deregulated them. It’s a mess. A country like this needs a viable commercial aviation system, the way it needs a national standard on clean air and water, education, regulation of the high-rollers on Wall Street. The way I see it…”

Rollins listened patiently as Colgate bounced his speech off him. It was a role he’d happily played before, offering reactions to his friend’s words, correcting, suggesting changes, pointing out strong points, and urging certain sections, phrases, and lines be cut. This day, however, he wasn’t pleased at being put in that position. It occurred to him that Colgate seemed to have forgotten, or pushed

aside, Samantha’s abduction.

“I have to go, Bob,” Rollins said when Colgate took a break.

“Yeah, sure.” As though reading Rollins’s thoughts, he quickly added, “Deborah and I are with you one hundred percent, buddy. I’ll move heaven and earth to help get that precious little girl of yours safely back where she belongs. If you need ransom money, just ask. Count on it.”