Murder Inside the Beltway (27 page)

“I’m aware of that, Kevin,” Rollins said, shifting position so that he faced Ziegler. “You’ll have to excuse me if I have trouble concentrating. There’s a lot on my mind.”

“No need to explain that, Jerry,” Ziegler said. And then he did the inexplicable. He patted Rollins’s knee.

Little more was said as they made their way to their destination, a pretty brick house on a tree-lined street of pretty brick houses. This one was on a corner. A plain, white five-foot-high plank fence that appeared to have been recently installed defined the property and created a barrier between it and the adjoining home. Rollins’s first thought was that it might be one of Ziegler’s private residences. There was no number on the door or fence. The front windows were covered with draperies. A car was parked in the short driveway, nudged up close to the overhead door of the single-car garage. The driver pulled the Town Car behind the other vehicle, allowing its front bumper to gently touch its rear one.

“Your house, Kevin?” Rollins asked as they walked to the front door.

“Mine to use,” Ziegler answered. “For special events.”

“Is this a special event?” Rollins asked.

“I’m hoping it will be, Jerry.”

The door was opened by a young man wearing a suit. Ziegler paused before entering and looked back at the street, where the police vehicle had come to a stop a half block away. “I’d invite them in,” Ziegler said, chuckling, “but I’m sure they wouldn’t appreciate it.”

They passed through a living room, in which two women worked side by side at computer desks, telephone headsets draped over their hairdos. Neither looked up as Ziegler led Rollins into what probably served as a dining room when the house was occupied by normal homeowners. Desks there were also occupied, by a man and a woman. Ziegler opened French doors and stepped into a rear sunroom, in which a table was elaborately set for lunch. A man and a woman wearing short white jackets over black slacks and frilly white shirts stood at attention in a corner.

“Your choice, Jerry,” Ziegler said, indicating either of two chairs upholstered in a sunny flowered yellow fabric. The expanse of windows was draped with white muslin from ceiling to floor. The chairs faced each other.

Rollins processed his situation. Each campaign maintained a variety of locations from which to conduct off-site fund-raising and other nitty-gritty tasks away from the centers of attention—in Pyle’s case, the White House and his party’s “official” headquarters. The Colgate campaign had its own selection of such places. In effect, they were safe houses, although that smacked too much of clandestine activities, the stuff of spy novels. But no matter what they were called, they functioned to allow business to be transacted away from the glare of media and public scrutiny.

“Drink?” Ziegler asked.

“You?”

“I’ve decided that a glass of wine with lunch prolongs life, Jerry,” Ziegler replied. “I admire the French. With all their heavy meals and fatty foods, they still have less coronary disease, not necessarily because the wine they drink is beneficial, but because sipping it pro-longs the eating process, allows the digestive tract to more effectively

do its job. Join me?”

“Yes.”

Ziegler gave the waiter an order for a specific cabernet, and indicated to the waitress that she could serve the soup, which was a delicate crab bisque, accompanied by fresh, hot, small rolls. A simple endive salad followed. Conversation during this portion of the luncheon was limited to the kidnapping of Samantha, direct questions from Ziegler about progress on the case, and repeated expressions of sympathy from him and from President Pyle. Rollins gave cursory answers to the queries about the investigation, denying that they’d heard from the kidnappers, and avoiding any details about how the detectives were proceeding. He was sorry he’d accepted Ziegler’s invitation. This was obviously a grandstanding effort to carve some sort of relationship between them that had nothing to do with Samantha, and more to do with the presidential campaign. Though Ziegler’s questions about Colgate and how the campaign was progressing were few, and couched as idle curiosity, Rollins wasn’t seduced.

“I’m going to have to be getting back soon,” Rollins announced after they’d finished the main course, a rack of lamb cooked perfectly pink, baby carrots, and lyonnaise potatoes.

“No dessert? Coffee?”

“Thank you, no. You mentioned when you called, Kevin, that there was something you, or the president, might be able to do concerning Samantha’s abduction. If there is something—tangible—I’d like to hear it.”

Ziegler sat back and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. They were alone in the room. The waitstaff had departed, the French doors were tightly closed. Ziegler leaned forward. “I don’t mean to insult you, Jerry, but by any chance did your detective friends convince you to wear some sort of recording device?”

Rollins’s laugh was involuntary. “No. Of course not.”

“Would you mind if I assured myself of that?”

“Yes, I would, as a matter of fact. But here.” Rollins stood and opened his jacket, revealing his mid-section. “You have insulted me, Kevin,” he said, closing the jacket and sitting.

“Just my naturally paranoid nature, I suppose,” said Ziegler. “My apologies.”

“Just what is it you have to say that shouldn’t be recorded for posterity?” Rollins asked, unable to keep the pique from his voice.

“All right,” Ziegler said, as though he would continue despite his better judgment. “Someone I know whose name shall not be mentioned here has been contacted by another party, who might be involved in the abduction of your daughter.”

The words struck Rollins like a punch. “Say that again,” he said.

“There is someone out there, Jerry, who might be able to—how shall I say it?—who might be instrumental in securing your daughter’s release.”

Rollins sat back and twisted in his chair, threw one leg over the other, waved a hand in front of his face as though to dissipate a cloud that had formed. He looked at Ziegler, who sat stoically, eyes fixed on his lunch guest.

“Who is this person?” Rollins demanded.

“I’m unable to tell you that, Jerry, but does it really matter? Get-ting Samantha back should be all that counts.”

Rollins stood and went to the windows. He could see a garden through the white gauzy drapes, distorted red and yellow and green shapes undulating in the breeze. “What is it you want?” he asked, his back to Ziegler.

“It isn’t what
I
want, Jerry, it’s what these other people want.”

Rollins spun around. “Stop talking about these so-called other people, Kevin. Stop it! Level with me. For God’s sake, there’s a seven-year-old girl’s life at stake. What do you want me to do, call in the detectives sitting outside and make you tell them how to get my daughter back?” It was a threat void of conviction, empty words.

“Sit down, Jerry.”

Rollins moved back to the table and slumped in his chair. He felt drained, lifeless.

“Good. You know, Jerry, one of many things I’ve always admired about you is your intellect, your ability to cut through to the essence of a problem. Yes, I do admire that in a man. I have little patience with those who do not possess that attribute. I’m sure you’ll appreciate my exhibiting the same quality. Your detectives would find your claim of my having knowledge of your daughter’s whereabouts to be specious, at best. So please, put that thought out of your mind.”

“Go on,” Rollins said.

“The people to whom I refer inform us that you have in your possession something that could be of great potential interest to the president.”

Rollins said nothing.

“I’m sure you know what that is, Jerry.”

An uncharacteristic feeling of panic overcame Rollins. He was desperate to run from the room, flee the house, and throw himself into the car with the detectives. He dug his nails into the palms of his hands and looked left and right… in search of what? Ziegler watched him dispassionately. When it appeared that a modicum of calm had prevailed, he said, “From what I’m told, Jerry, you have a videotape that our contacts say would be more beneficial to us than to you. True?”

Now, an intense anger returned, replaced Rollins’s dread. He extended his hand and pointed an index finger across the table. “My precious daughter has been kidnapped because of a videotape? You bastard. You filthy, rotten bastard!”

“If you can’t control yourself, Jerry, we’ll end this otherwise pleasant luncheon and I’ll have you driven back into town. I won’t sit here and be on the receiving end of vile accusations.”

“How will these people return Samantha to me?”

“That’s something I’ll pursue as soon as we part company, Jerry. I’m assured that they’re honorable people.” He laughed ruefully. “Honor among thieves, and kidnappers, and all that. In other words, I’m assured that they have no desire to harm your daughter, and have every intention of fulfilling their part of the bargain.” He paused. “You turn over the tape, and they turn over your daughter. It’s really quite that simple.”

The reality of his impotency set in heavily, and swiftly, on Rollins. He nodded.

“Good. There’s really no choice, is there?”

“No, there isn’t. When. And how?”

“I’ll need a day, perhaps two. I know that your phones are monitored by the police, so that form of communication is out of the question. I suggest this: As you know, there is the question of arranging the Miami debate between your Governor Colgate and the president. So many sticking points to be resolved. It’s been in the press. I suggest that we make a public display of getting together—say, day after tomorrow, on the pretense of ironing out those sticking points. We’ll meet at my office. By then, I’ll hopefully have worked out the logistics of your daughter’s return, and you can deliver the tape to me. Make sense?”

“What if I decide to not go through with this?” Rollins asked, surprised that he had.

A noncommittal shrug from Ziegler. “In that case, Jerry, the resolution of your daughter’s disappearance would be out of my hands. As I say, I don’t know these people, nor do I have any control over them, should you make that decision, which, I might add, would be unthinkable.”

“All right,” Rollins said.

“Splendid. I’ll have our people put out a release about our upcoming debate meeting. I assume you’ll have no trouble with the good Governor Colgate about arranging such a confab.”

“I’ll worry about that.”

“Good. And Jerry, you do understand that this must never go further than between us—no police, no family discussions, strictly between two professionals who understand and respect each other.”

Rollins ignored him and got up from the table. “Can we go?”

“Of course.”

“One question, Kevin.”

“Yes?”

“How did you know I had the tape?”

Ziegler came up behind Rollins and slapped his hand on his shoulder. “That should be obvious, Jerry. The same person who sold it to you offered it to us first. We dismissed it out-of-hand. He had nothing, simply a promise that he could put his filthy hands on it for a princely sum. We told him to get lost. Obviously, you didn’t. Cost a king’s ransom?”

Rollins opened the French doors and stepped into the main house, followed by Ziegler. A young man escorted them to the waiting Town Car. The detectives fell in behind, and the trip back into the District was quick and without incident—silence.

T
he cleaning crew at Tommy G’s had awakened Hatcher at five Sunday morning, and he’d struggled home, explaining to Mae that he’d pulled an all-night shift because of the Rollins kidnapping. She didn’t press, although from the look of him, that all-nighter had included a night of serious drinking at one of his downtown watering holes. He slept most of the morning, and spent the afternoon watching the Nationals–Cubs game on TV. She knew to give him a wide berth on days like this, and busied herself buying plants at a local nursery and arranging them in the small flower garden out back, in which she took considerable pride.

He went to bed early Sunday night and was up Monday at six. He considered calling in sick. With his regular squad assigned elsewhere, he was certain he’d have to spend the day back at Missing Persons, trying to find a link between some long-ago abduction and the Rollins case. But he wasn’t comfortable being away from Metro, the center of information about what was going down in the case. Having Jackson and Hall so close to Rollins made his usual sour stomach even worse. Better to be there and stay in the loop, keep tabs on things.

He’d no sooner walked in when Wally, another veteran homicide detective, grabbed him. “Hey, Hatch, where the hell you been?”

Hatcher looked up at a cracked wall clock that kept pretty good time. “Hell, I’m only twenty minutes late.”

“Yeah, well, we’re pairing up today. We’ve got a homicide just called in, a drive-by.”

“Where?”

“First Street, Southeast.”

“Daylight drive-by?”

“Twenty minutes ago. Come on. I’ve got the car.”

They drove to the scene, a rough-and-tumble street beneath the shadow and noise of I-295. After passing a series of taxi companies, auto repair shops, and what seemed an endless succession of battered chain-link fences behind which abandoned vehicles, discarded kitchen appliances, and other trash was heaped, they pulled up in front of a first-floor X-rated video store nestled next to a topless club. Uniformed officers who’d already responded were busy stringing yellow crime scene tape to cordon off the sidewalk directly in front of the shop. A dozen bystanders ringed the action. The marked police cars, lights flashing, had blocked off the street. As Hatcher and Wally approached, they saw the victim sprawled on the sidewalk, facedown, arms akimbo, large rings of blood from multiple wounds where it had seeped into the porous, chipped concrete.

“You ID him?” Hatcher asked one of the uniforms.

“No. We just got here.”

“Anybody see it happen?”

“Or admit they did?” Wally added.

The cop pointed to a man standing in the doorway of the porn shop. “You see what went down?” Hatcher asked him.