Murder Inside the Beltway (29 page)

“It’s a 2003 nine-eleven,” Rollins said. “Three-hundred-eighty horses. She’ll get up to one-ninety, if you’re crazy enough to do it.”

“You ever take it on a track?” Jackson asked.

“No. Sue wouldn’t be pleased if I decided to turn race driver. Go ahead, get in.”

Jackson slipped behind the black, leather-wrapped wheel. “Like a cockpit,” he exclaimed.

“I always feel that way when I’m driving it. My midlife crisis.” He laughed.

Jackson climbed out of the car and appreciated the solid “thunk” of the driver’s door as he closed it. They left the garage, prompting another chorus from the press, and returned to the house.

“When this is over,” Rollins said, “I’ll have to take you for a ride in it. Let you drive it.”

“That would be great.”

Rollins yawned. “I think Detective Kloss was right,” he said. “I’m going to join my wife upstairs.”

“Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Matt. Thank you.”

“For what, sir?”

“For being here for us. Somehow, I know this will be over soon and we’ll have Samantha back safely.”

When Rollins entered the bedroom, Sue hadn’t changed into nightclothes. She sat on the bed, her back against the headboard, her feet drawn up, her knees tight against her chest. Rollins placed his arm around her. “Sue,” he said.

“What?”

“This will all be over soon. Samantha will be home again.”

As she slowly turned to look at him, a torrent of tears flowed from her. She wrapped her arms tightly about him and squeezed as though life itself depended upon it. He allowed her sobbing to abate before gently pushing her away and holding her at arm’s length. “Sue,” he said, “did you hear me? This will be over soon—everything is going to be all right.”

“That’s what they keep saying but—”

“It will be, Sue. Trust me, it will be.”

P
aul answered the phone. “It’s Y-man,” he whispered to Greta. “We’re gewtting ready to bring this to a conclusion within the next few days. Any questions about the plan to release her?”

“No. When?”

“I’ll call again.”

Rollins’s final phone call before leaving his office the previous night had been to Bob Colgate. He reached him on his cell while en route to a fundraiser.

“It’s Jerry, Bob. I wanted to bring you up-to-date on a meeting I had today.”

“With Ziegler.” There was an edge to Colgate’s voice that was all too familiar to Rollins.

“Word gets around,” Rollins said.

“Did it ever occur to you to run it past me
before
you meet with someone like Ziegler?”

“It was a last-minute thing, Bob. He seemed anxious to talk and I wanted to hear him out.”

Silence on Colgate’s end.

“He wants to get together again, day after tomorrow, to try to iron out details for the Miami debate.”

“That’s nice. You will, of course, consult with me and the staff before committing to anything.”

Rollins held his annoyance in check. “Of course,” he said.

“We need to meet, Jerry. I never considered you a loose cannon, but—”

“It’s hard for me to find time with Samantha’s kidnapping and—”

“But you found time for Ziegler.”

“I have to go, Bob. I’ll call after the second meeting with Ziegler.”

As though he’d been struck by a sudden thought, Colgate asked, “How are things going with Samantha? No breaks yet?”

“No, nothing yet, but thanks for asking.”

Rollins replaced the phone in its cradle and stared at it. He was well aware, and had been from the earliest days of their friendship, of Colgate’s self-centeredness. He’d always excused it as being an integral part of a politician’s personality and character. You didn’t run for governor of a state, or for president of the United States, without a healthy dose of “me” in your veins. Of course, Colgate had honed a side of him that proclaimed to voters that he was deeply concerned with their personal lives and troubles, and he could turn that faucet on at will. At public gatherings, an aide was never far from his side to remind him that the next person he was about to greet had recently lost a spouse or child, or was going through chemotherapy.
“The man is amazing,”
Rollins had heard more than one person exclaim.
“He’s never too busy to remember the troubles I’ve been having.”
Colgate had that ability down to a science and it had held him in good stead throughout his political life.

There were times that Rollins questioned his own willingness to overlook the programmed, ingenuous aspect of his friend Bob Colgate, and to continue to play an important role in his rise to the apex of national politics. He knew the answer, of course. There was something intoxicating about sitting at the right hand of power and being highly valued as a source of wisdom. Too, there were the perks inherent in such a relationship, the invitations to events to which only the cream of Washington’s A-list were granted access. A VIP in a city of VIPs. And he didn’t kid himself: he’d taken part in enough of his own dubious, even unsavory deals over the years, advocating for clients for whom he had little regard and even less belief in their causes, cases in which his legal acumen, and, yes, his political connections, had prevailed on behalf of those who didn’t warrant it, at the expense of those more deserving of justice. He was good at rationalizing those incidents in his life, frequently calling upon the priceless words of others to buttress his self-explanations. His wife, a Shakespearian savant, once offered a sonnet to him when he’d expressed doubts about his chosen life. He recited it aloud on his way home that evening:

“Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults.”

On Tuesday morning, the
Washington Post
ran two stories pertaining to Rollins.

A banner over a lengthy article on page one read:

NO BREAKS IN ROLLINS KIDNAPPING:
Lack of Contact by Abductors Concerns Authorities.

Chief Carter had been interviewed for the article. He assured reporters that MPD had pulled out all the stops, and was working in close cooperation with state and local agencies, the FBI, as well as with state police from neighboring states.

Chief Carter had called the house early Monday morning and spoken with Rollins. “I was wondering, Mr. Rollins, if perhaps this might be a good time for you and your wife to make a personal plea to the kidnappers.”

“You mean go on television?”

“Yes. There’s always the possibility that a direct plea might strike a nerve with one of them.”

“I don’t think so, Chief.”

“You’re sure, Mr. Rollins? We can easily set up the taping, or press conference.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Mrs. Rollins certainly isn’t up to something like that. We had discussed it before you called, and came to the conclusion that it would be inappropriate at this time. But I thank you for the suggestion and for all you and your officers have been doing for us.”

Of course, he and Sue had not discussed the possibility of going public and pleading with Samantha’s kidnappers. Had they engaged in such a conversation prior to Rollins’s meeting with Ziegler, they might have agreed to do it. But now that it appeared likely that arrangements would be made for Samantha’s safe return, he wasn’t about to do anything to muddy the waters.

The second story that morning was considerably smaller, and was part of a roundup of the day’s political news:
Rival Camps to Meet on Miami Debate
. The piece was based upon a press release issued by a Pyle campaign spokesperson. According to it, top Pyle political advisor, Kevin Ziegler, and senior advisor to the Colgate campaign, Jerrold Rollins, had agreed to meet the next day to attempt to iron out differences that stood in the way of a proposed debate in Miami. The spokesman stated, “We’re confident that whatever stumbling blocks exist can be surmounted, and that the debate will go forward as planned.”

Jackson read both stories, and passed the paper to Mary Hall. They were alone in the kitchen. Mr. and Mrs. Rollins had been there earlier and invited them to join them for breakfast. After the Rollinses had left, Jackson said to Hall, referring to the newspaper piece, “Looks like he got together with Ziegler for legit reasons after all.”

“Seems that way. Did you notice a change in them this morning?”

“The Rollinses? Yeah, I did. More relaxed. She certainly seems to be.”

“Why?”

Jackson shrugged. “Maybe it’s just a matter of time doing its number. You get numb after a while.”

“Did you hear what he said just before they left this morning, that he has renewed confidence that everything will turn out all right?”

“I’m glad he feels that way. It would be hell if he felt otherwise.”

“It was almost as though he knows something.”

“I don’t think so, Mary. Just simple, hopeful optimism.”

“He’s spending another day in the office?”

“That’s the plan.”

“It’s been three days since she was grabbed. Not another word from whoever has her.”

“Seems more like three weeks.”

“Are you staying here today?”

“No. Kloss wants me to replace one of the detectives at Rollins’s office. You know, stay close to him.” He checked his watch. “I’d better get going. Kloss wants me there before Rollins arrives, and I need to swing by Metro on the way.” He made sure no one was about to intrude upon them before leaning over and kissing her on the mouth. “I miss you,” he said.

“Soon,” she said.

“Never soon enough. I’ll check in with you later.”

As he walked from the house, a reporter yelled, “Hey, when’s the family going to make a statement?”

Jackson ignored him, went to a department car parked across the driveway, got in and told the uniformed cop at the wheel to drop him at Metro.

“Anything new?” the cop asked.

“No.”

“Know what I figure?”

“What?” Jackson said, not really interested.

“I figure it’s some nut who got screwed by the father in a court case. You read about it all the time, some whack-job gets a bad decision and starts shooting at everybody—his lawyer, the judge, anybody.”

“As good a theory as any,” Jackson said.

“You wait and see,” said the cop. “Just wait and see.”

Jackson walked into Metro and headed directly for the detectives’ section, where Hatcher sat at a table with a couple of other veteran cops.

“Hey, look who’s here,” Hatcher bellowed. “Solve the kidnapping yet, hot shot?”

“Hello, Hatch,” Jackson said, heading for the locker room to retrieve some things he needed from his space. Hatcher followed.

“So, how’s it feel to rub elbows with the rich and famous?” the crusty detective asked.

“I don’t look at it that way,” Jackson said as he found the right numbers on the combination lock.

“Ah, come on, Jackson, sure you do. Guys like you are always sucking up to anybody who can do something for you. Hey, kid, play your cards right and you’ll end up running this joint.”

Jackson continued to ignore Hatcher, carefully placing items in a small athletic bag.

“Hey, Jackson, I’m talking to you.”

“I hear you, Hatch,” Jackson said, not turning.

“You really hate my guts, don’t you?”

Jackson looked down at the floor and slowly shook his head. “Let’s just say that we don’t get along, Hatch.”

“Jackson, you know why we don’t get along, as you put it? We don’t get along because you’re a piss-poor excuse for a cop. We don’t get along because I’ve forgotten more about being a cop than you’ll ever know. You can take all your books and your degrees and shove ’em, pal, because they ain’t worth the paper they’re printed on.”

“You finished with the lecture, Hatch?” Jackson said, slamming closed the locker and spinning the lock with conviction.

“Oh, I’m finished, all right. Maybe you heard. I put in my retirement papers.”

“I did hear that. Congratulations.”

“Yeah, I figured I’d get out’a here before you filed some dumb charge that I’m a racist or something.”

Jackson drew a deep breath. “Enjoy your retirement, Hatch.” He moved to walk past but Hatcher stepped in his way.

“I have to go, Hatch. I’m running late.”

“Go ahead.”

“You’re in the way.”

Hatcher’s grin was crooked, nasty.

“Oh, pardon me, hot shot. Sure, I’ll get out of your way, but first let me give you a word of advice.”

Jackson knew it was senseless to protest.

“Stay out of
my
way till I’m gone. Got that?”

Hatcher moved aside and Jackson went to the door. He could feel Hatcher’s eyes boring into his back. He turned and said, “When you were working vice, Hatch, who were the cops shaking down hookers like Rosalie Curzon and Micki Simmons?”

His question elicited an audible expulsion of air from Hatcher.

Jackson stared at him, awaiting an answer.

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Jackson.”

“Just asking, Hatch. Somebody was putting the arm on them. No doubt about that.”

“They tell you that?”

“Curzon was in no position to tell me anything,” Jackson said, “but Simmons—”

“And you take the word of a freakin’ whore.” Hatcher laughed, too loud and long. “Go crawl back in your hole with the rest of your people, Jackson. Get out’a my sight.”

Jackson left the locker room, afraid of what he might do next. There was a time during the confrontation that he thought of the handgun he carried, how easy it would be to pull it out and put an end to the man who’d berated and demeaned him at every turn, the man who caused sleepless nights and fantasies of revenge. He’d never felt that way before about anyone. The thought of using his weapon, even on the criminals he’d pursued, was unpleasant at best. He sometimes wondered whether he’d be able to do it, draw the weapon, aim, and take another person’s life. He knew he wasn’t alone. He’d heard a few fellow cops express such doubts, always privately, of course, and beyond the earshot of those who would find such reservations unmanly. There were veteran cops who’d never had to draw their weapons during a long career, and were obviously happy that they hadn’t needed to.