Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [0]
Rosalie Curzon, a Washington, D.C., call girl, is found bludgeoned to death in her Adams-Morgan apartment. At the murder scene a video camera is discovered nestled high on a bookshelf. Had the victim taped some of her clients during their sexual liaisons?
As the investigation proceeds, so does business inside the Beltway. President Burton Pyle is heatedly running for reelection against consummate politician Robert Colgate, who is expected to win. Colgate, though, is not without cracks in his slick exterior: Rumors swirl about his failing marriage and various dalliances. But no one is prepared for the explosive development that erupts when the daughter of Colgate’s closest friend is kidnapped and Detective Mary Hall and rookie cop Matthew Jackson uncover a shocking connection between the abduction, the Curzon case—and a killer no one will see coming.
MURDER INSIDE
THE BELTWAY
A Novel by
Margaret Truman
Capital Crimes Series: Book 24
Copyright © 2008
by Margaret Truman
eISBN: 978-0-345-50966-6
Dedication:
Dedicated, with love, to our mother, Margaret Truman Daniel. For more than thirty years, she liked nothing better than to sit at home in New York, murdering people in Washington, D.C., one at a time.
Clifton Truman Daniel, Harrison Gates Daniel, Thomas Washington Daniel
ONE
“What a waste.”
Matthew Jackson went to where Walter Hatcher stood holding a framed eight-by-ten color photograph he’d pulled from a bookshelf. “She’s a knockout,” Hatcher said. “I wouldn’t have minded getting some of that myself.”
Jackson ignored Hatch’s comment—it wasn’t unexpected from the senior detective—and simply agreed that she was, indeed, beautiful.
The woman in the picture was posed the way photographers liked to shoot glamour girls of yesteryear, provocatively positioned on a white divan. She wore a bloodred kimono, left open enough to display plenty of leg and cleavage. Jackson tried to discern her lineage; probably Mediterranean a few generations back judging from her inky black hair and large, almond eyes. Her expression was inviting, slightly parted full crimson lips hinting at a mischievous smile, teasing whoever viewed the photograph.
Hatcher put the picture back on the shelf facedown and turned to look at the body sprawled in the center of the bedroom floor. “Looks like some john figured he didn’t get his money’s worth.”
“She’s a hooker?” Jackson said.
Hatcher looked at the young detective as though he’d mispronounced a simple word. “What do you figure she was, Jackson?” he asked. “Your mother decorate her bedroom like this?”
Jackson drew a breath. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said. He’d almost gotten used to his partner’s put-downs. Almost.
The room to which Hatch referred was a large bedroom on the second floor of an apartment in the Adams Morgan section of Washington. If a set designer had been charged with creating the quintessential bordello, he might have used the same approach. There was the requisite mirror on the ceiling over the king-sized bed, which was suspended by four gold chains. A few feet from it was a mirrored ball that, when rotated, caught the light from tiny red and blue pin-spots. The bedding was golden and silk-like. Animal-print rugs (leopards and zebras) and upholstery created a cross between Animal Planet and Vegas. Dimmers controlled the lights. A fully stocked minibar occupied one corner. Soft rock music that had been playing when the detectives arrived continued to sound from small speakers high up in the room’s four corners.
Whoever killed her hadn’t attempted to maintain the room’s décor. It was a mess. Bottles and glasses from the bar were strewn on the floor. The bedding was bunched up; one corner of the duvet was smeared with her blood. A red barrel chair had been overturned, as had a wrought-iron stand, its furry-leafed plant resting in the middle of a dark water stain on the carpeting.
She’d obviously put up the good fight.
The cops knew her name. The building’s super, who sat in the apartment’s living room with two other