Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [10]
“What if I did? I mean, I had nothing to do with her murder, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“When did you last see her?” Jackson asked.
Archer pressed his eyes shut as though that would help jog his memory. When he opened them he said, “Months ago. At least two months ago.”
“Sure about that?” Mary Hall asked.
“I can’t be sure about a date,” he said, “but I know it was a long time ago. How did you know I knew her?”
“You starred in one of her movies,” Hatcher said.
“Her movies?” He slapped the side of his head. “Oh, no, don’t tell me she made tapes of her…”
“Johns,” Hatcher filled in for him.
“Jesus,” he muttered, and laughed. “I can’t believe this.”
“Where were you last night?” Hall asked.
“Last night?”
“That’s what the lady said,” Hatcher growled.
“I was… let me see… I was with my wife. Hey, there’s no need to drag my family into this… is there?”
“Where were you and your wife last night?” Hall followed up.
“We went out to dinner. I worked late and—”
“How late?”
“I don’t know, eight, eight-thirty.”
“Anybody here testify to that?” Jackson asked.
“Sure. No. I mean, the place cleared out around seven. I was here alone after that.”
“Sure you didn’t decide to drop in on Ms. Curzon before having dinner with your wife?” Hatcher said. “You know, get a piece before hooking up with the missus.”
“I resent that,” Archer said, not sounding as though he did. It seemed the thing to say.
“She resented getting her head bashed in,” Hatcher said. “How’d you end up with her, Mr. Archer? You look up hookers in the Yellow Pages?”
“I don’t think I should be talking to you,” Archer said. “I don’t like the way this is sounding.”
“Please answer Detective Hatcher’s question,” Jackson said. “How did you first become a client of Ms. Curzon’s?”
“A friend of mine told me about her.”
“Who was that?” Hall followed up.
“I don’t want to involve other people.”
“Suit yourself,” said Hatcher. “Maybe your wife will remember the names of your friends.”
“This is harassment,” Archer said.
They stared at him.
“All right, a friend of mine named Jimmy told me about Rosalie.”
“Jimmy have a last name?”
“Patmos. Jimmy Patmos. He’s Senator Barrett’s chief-of-staff.”
Hall noted the name on her pad.
“Look, if you talk to him, don’t say that I gave you his name, okay? I do a lot of business with him and the senator.”
“Know of anyone else who availed themselves of Ms. Curzon’s services?” Jackson asked.
“No.”
Hatcher stood and tossed his card on the table. “Give me a call if you think of anything else that might help us. By the way, where did you and the missus have dinner last night?”
“Charlie Palmer’s.”
“Expense account, huh?” Hatcher said.
“It is expensive,” Archer agreed.
“Have a good day, Mr. Archer,” Jackson said as they left the room.
“What’a you think?” Hatcher asked as they climbed into their car.
“I don’t think he killed her,” Hall offered.
“Based on what?” Hatcher asked as he pulled away.
“Gut feeling.”
“A woman’s instinct?” Hatcher said. “Not worth a damn.”
“If she feels that way,” Jackson said, “I think she’s entitled to it.”
“Right, and present that to a jury.” He added dramatically: “ ‘My instincts tell me, Your Honor, that the accused did it.’ Beautiful.”
The two younger detectives fell silent. Hall smiled. Jackson clenched his fists and looked out the window.
Jackson and Hall checked out an unmarked car at headquarters and headed for the Maurice T. Turner, Jr., Metropolitan Police Academy in Southwest.
“You okay?” Hall asked from the driver’s seat.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“He really gets to you, doesn’t he?”
“Hatch? I try not to let him.”
She laughed. “You should try a little harder, Matt.”
“He’s a racist.”
“That’s pretty harsh. He’s just old-school.”
“What’s that mean, lynching’s okay?”
“You know I don’t mean that.”
“Williams and Shrank are considering filing a bias complaint against him.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“He evidently got into it with them the other day, called them stupid, said there’s proof that blacks’ IQs are lower than whites’, the usual garbage from him.”
“Do you