Murder Inside the Beltway (7 page)

He returned to the house, went to the library, draped his jacket over a chair, kicked off his shoes, and dove into a new set of briefing papers and talking points provided by members of his staff. He was due to leave the following day for a two-day campaign swing through the Midwest. After an hour of digesting the material, he turned to the
New York Times
and
Washington Post
. A speech on the economy delivered by President Pyle received front page coverage in both publications, with the
Post
devoting two full columns. The reporters covering the speech pointed to inconsistencies in some of Pyle’s claims, which pleased Colgate and led him to a moment of introspection.

Colgate couldn’t imagine a weaker opponent to run against than the incumbent, Pyle, whose administration was viewed as perhaps the worst in modern history. The president’s approval numbers were in the mid-twenties, and there recently had been calls for his impeachment. While Pyle’s vulnerability was pleasing to Colgate from a pragmatic view—he’d have to stumble badly to lose to Pyle—it also served to reinforce his belief that he was the best person to lead the country and to undo the series of blunders made by the Pyle administration. There were no moments of self-doubt in the middle of the night, no questioning whether he was up to the job of president of the United States. As many voters and pundits said, anything—anyone—would do a better job of setting America back on course than Burton Pyle, a paranoid man whose visions were, at best, shortsighted and whose brain was putty in the hands of advisors.

He’d just started to peruse the inside pages when a personal assistant came into the library to tell his boss that he’d almost finished packing for the Midwest trip but had a few questions. He started to ask them when the housekeeper interrupted: “Mr. Rollins is here, Governor.”

Rollins replaced the assistant in the room, closing the door behind him.

“Good day, huh, Bob?” Rollins said, shedding his jacket.

“Yes, it was. But I’m concerned about the debate next week.”

Rollins frowned and shifted in his chair. “Anything in particular?”

“The constant focus on Deborah and me, the rumors about our marriage.”

“I can understand your frustration,” Rollins said, “but I don’t believe it will be raised in the debate.”

“Maybe not by the moderators, but Pyle will find a way to work it into the conversation. I can hear him now, saying how important it is to have a strong and loving first lady in the White house. Hell, his wife’s numbers are a lot better than his.”

Rollins was a man who took long pauses before responding to comments or questions, a calculated indication of a thoughtful nature. When he didn’t immediately respond, Colgate added, “It’s Deborah, Jerry. She refuses to address the issue.”

“She feels that it’s better to remain above the fray on issues like this, Bob. I agree with her.”

“I did. I don’t anymore. I sometimes wonder if she’s out to sabotage the campaign.”

“That’s ridiculous, Bob! She’s out there working hard for you.”

“I know that. She’s all business, but like an automaton. These rumors can become cumulative, corrosive.”

“Have you spoken with her?” Rollins asked.

“Sure. She refuses to discuss it, takes that so-called high road, not lowering herself to rumormongers.”

“Are you asking me to do something?”

“Talk to her.”

“Why do you think she’ll listen to me if she won’t discuss it with you? You’re her husband.” His easy laugh softened the comment.

Colgate looked at him but said nothing.

“I’ll mention it to her, Bob, at an opportune time.”

“Good.”

They spent the next hour going over the position papers Colgate had been reading. Rollins agreed with most, but took issue with some, which convinced Colgate to discard those. As Rollins slipped into his jacket in preparation for leaving, he asked casually, “You couldn’t convince Deborah to accompany you tomorrow?”

“She prefers the events in Virginia and Maryland. Closer to home.”

And less awkward
, Rollins thought.

“Did you catch Maureen’s talk at the Press Club today?” Rollins asked, referring to Colgate’s running mate, Senator Maureen McDowell.

“No, but the club is sending a DVD.”

“She was wonderful, Bob, very strong and on-message.”

“Glad to hear it. Do you get a sense, Jerry, that Pyle has something, or someone, waiting in the wings to spring on us?”

“Not that I know of,” Rollins replied, “although you never know.”

“That’s my point, Jerry. If he does, I’d like to know.”

Rollins nodded. “Anything else?”

“No. Thanks for coming by. Sue and Samantha okay?”

“They’re fine. Thanks for asking.” He slipped on his jacket. “I’d better be going. Travel safe.”

“I’ll stay in touch.”

Rollins went directly to his downtown law office, where a pile of phone messages awaited him. He shuffled through them, creating piles based upon relative importance, and returned those calls that he considered most urgent. His secretary joined him and asked whether she could leave. It was her husband’s birthday and they were meeting friends for dinner.

“Sure, go on, Helen. My best to Jim. Tell him the only reason he stays youthful is because he married you.”

She laughed and promised to convey the message.

She left as one of Rollins’s young associates, Brian Massie, poked his head in the door. “Got a second?” he asked.

Rollins had hired Massie a year ago after the young attorney had put in a stint in the civil rights division at Justice. His education had been top-notch, head of his graduating class at Harvard Law and editor of the
Law Review
. That he’d grown disillusioned at Justice was no surprise to Rollins. President Pyle had stacked the agency with cronies and supporters; it was the most politicized Justice Department in history. Political concerns ran rampant over the law at every turn. The decision to hire Massie had been a good one. He’d quickly proved himself able to grasp the most complex of legal issues, and had forged a close relationship with his boss.

“Okay, Brian, but make it quick.”

They spent ten minutes going over a brief Massie was due to file the following morning.

“Looks good,” Rollins said. “Nice job.”

“Thanks, Jerry. Anything else for me?”

“No. Have a good evening.”

Now alone, Rollins went to a James Vann neo-cubist painting of a jazz musician hanging on the wall—
Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
; Rollins was a devoted jazz lover. He took it down and opened the wall safe behind it. He reached beneath dozens of envelopes and assorted documents and withdrew a smaller sealed envelope, which he took to his desk. He sat quietly, the envelope in his hand, staring at it as though he might be able to see through the heavy paper. His fingers traced the contours of the flat, four-inch by seven-inch item contained inside.

He’d retrieved the envelope that morning from where he’d been instructed it would be. As he turned it over in his hands, he was stricken with a rare sort of inertia. He was known as a decisive man, someone who quickly summed up a situation and made the right decision.

But this was different. The impotency of his inability to act stabbed him in the gut.

He put off the decision he knew must be made, placed the envelope in the safe, locked it, and returned the painting to its place on the wall. Then, turning out the lights, he slowly left the building.

T
hat same morning, a blinding headache had been Hatcher’s sunrise. He’d been suffering more such headaches lately but refused to see a doctor. To Mae, “Doctors only make people sicker and then send a bill. Besides,” he said, hauling himself out of bed, “it was the wine last night. Red wine always gives me a headache.”

Her creased face reflected her concern as she watched him disappear into the bathroom, losing his balance as he went and bumping against the doorjamb.

She threw on a robe and slippers and went downstairs to prepare breakfast. When he appeared a half hour later, showered and dressed, he smiled and said, “Feeling better, Mae. Damn wine always does it to me.”

She didn’t buy it but didn’t say anything except, “That’s good, Walt. I’m glad your headache is better.”

Mae went to shower, leaving her husband to enjoy his breakfast. He consulted a slip of paper on which he’d listed things to be accomplished that day. Heading the list was the eleven o’clock meeting at the Crystal City Marriott with Congressman Slade Morrison. The contemplation of grilling the congressman was pleasing. Hatcher had little use for elected officials: “Whores whose only interest is in preserving their power, the nation be damned.” Whether Morrison had murdered Rosalie Curzon was almost irrelevant; Hatcher’s pleasure would come from seeing the Arizona congressman squirm.

He decided to bring Mary Hall with him. She’d made the initial contact, and her presence at the meeting would add an interesting dimension. Matt Jackson would not accompany them, Hatcher further decided. The rookie detective had demonstrated an annoying softness during the questioning of suspects, rounding off the rough edges that Hatcher preferred. The kid would never make a good detective, from Hatcher’s perspective, any more than most of the new breed coming into MPD. They were all book-learning and theory, or knee-jerk do-gooders without the necessary street smarts to work the city.

Also on the list was the name of Curzon’s friend, Micki Simmons. Hatcher had intended to follow up on her personally, but changed his mind. Jackson could chase her down while Hatcher and Mary met with the congressman.

He also intended to revisit the lobbyist, Lewis Archer, and make contact with the man who’d recommended Archer to the dead hooker, Jimmy Patmos, chief-of-staff to Utah Senior Senator William Barrett.

And there was the question of what to do about Al Manfredi. He’d need to think that through before going upstairs with what Jackson and Hall had reported to him about their run-in with the police instructor.

The list ended with Manfredi, but Hatcher knew they’d have to widen the circle of suspects and do it fast. Had Rosalie Curzon’s client list not included men like Archer, Congressman Morrison, a top senatorial staffer, and the cop Manfredi, her killing would soon be relegated to the bottom of unsolved D.C. murders. But once he’d shared the juicy portions of the tapes with his bosses, the Curzon file rose to the top of the pile and would stay there until there was a resolution.

Mae returned to the kitchen and cleared the table.

“Home for dinner?” she asked while walking him out to his car.

“Hard to say. I’ll give you a call.”

“How’s your headache?”

“Fine. Better.” It had abated slightly, but was now back with a vengeance. He put on dark glasses to shield his eyes from the sunlight.

“That’s good.” She kissed his cheek and watched him drive off to spend another day experiencing Washington, D.C.’s underbelly. Retirement and Florida couldn’t come fast enough.

Matt Jackson also woke with a headache that morning, although it was minor compared to Hatcher’s. Wine had, indeed, contributed, along with a lack of sleep.

After leaving Hatcher, he and Mary had gone to dinner at the Reef on 18th Street, known for its organic and free-range foods. From there they walked to Columbia Road to catch a local blues band at Chief Ike’s Mambo Room. That’s where the argument ensued.

Like most of their spats—and there hadn’t been many—he couldn’t remember the following day what had triggered it, although he knew it had to do with their racial differences. He splashed water on his face, made a cup of instant coffee, and sat by a window that overlooked the street. Looking down into the cup, he remembered that a previous argument had erupted over his using instant coffee, rather than brewing fresh. Mary refused to drink his instant concoction. To add insult to injury, she accused him of not having taste buds, or standards. He found that to be an unnecessary assault on his character and told her so, which sent her from his apartment back to her place, near Dupont Circle. Silly, they both knew, and they were back together the following day, sipping coffee he’d brewed in a coffeemaker she’d delivered that morning, along with herself. But, alone at the moment, instant would do just fine.

As he pondered the previous night at Chief Ike’s, he realized why MPD had a policy of cops not becoming intimately involved. It would be one thing if they’d had a fight and went off the following morning to their different jobs. But that wasn’t the case. They’d both have to arrive at headquarters on Indiana Avenue and spend the day together, much of it in the close confines of a car, tempted to bring up the previous night but knowing they couldn’t, or shouldn’t, especially not with Hatcher around.

The genesis of the argument came to him as he stepped into the shower and stood beneath the streaming water.

He’d fallen into a sour mood as the evening progressed, nothing to do with Mary, all having to do with Walter Hatcher. The senior detective’s persistent jibes at Matt, especially those with racial overtones, gnawed at him.

It wasn’t as though Matt was obsessed with race. While aware that prejudice existed despite advances made by African-Americans, he’d suffered little of it growing up in an affluent, multi-racial area of Chicago. His parents were professionals—his father was an optometrist, his mother a high school teacher, a thesis away from her Ph.D. Yes, there had been schoolyard incidents, but his slight stature had invited more taunts than his color. He was aware that there was plenty of racism in Washington, and within the MPD, but most of it was veiled, certainly less overt than forty or fifty years ago. Jackson witnessed those subtle messages but usually dismissed them.

But there was something about Hatcher as the messenger of bias that particularly irked him, which was very much on his mind last night. The bottle of wine at dinner, and drinks at Chief Ike’s, did a good job of allowing his feelings to surface and his tongue to loosen. As the Mose Allison lyrics went: “Your mind is on vacation, your mouth is working overtime.” Mary was usually effective at changing the subject whenever he fell into a funk about it, but she’d failed this time.