Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [106]
The tapes?
Jackson couldn’t shake that possibility from his mind.
He sat alone in the kitchen and mulled over his conversation with Micki Simmons. He liked her and was sympathetic to her situation, no matter that it had been self-generated. It was Rosalie Curzon with whom he had trouble mustering sympathy. Deciding to videotape some of her trysts with men, primarily those with high profiles in D.C., had been a shabby and certainly foolhardy thing to do, and had probably led to her murder. He admired Micki for adhering to the prostitute’s so-called code of honor, maintaining the secrecy of customers. It didn’t make prostitution more honorable, but there was, at once, a certain kind of honor in even considering a code of conduct in a distinctly dishonorable, albeit ancient profession.
He used the downstairs guest bathroom to brush his teeth, stripped down to his shorts and T-shirt, and climbed into one of two single beds in the guestroom, where he quickly fell asleep, his final thoughts of himself behind the wheel of Rollins’s Porsche, Mary in the passenger seat, racing through a fall countryside, the top down, the sweet roar of the engine bringing wide smiles to both of them. It was a pleasant way to end a distinctly unpleasant day.
THIRTY-FOUR
As was by now their custom, Jackson preceded Rollins to his office the next morning and was with the second detective in the reception area when Rollins arrived. The attorney and confidant to the high-and-mighty was grim-faced as he walked past them, grunting a greeting, and closed his office door behind him.
Caroline raised her eyebrows. “A good morning to stay clear,” she commented, returning to her chores.
At quarter of ten, Rollins left, carrying his briefcase. He stopped at Caroline’s desk to say he’d be meeting with Kevin Ziegler at his office, but he expected to be back by noon.
Rollins took a taxi to the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, separated from the White House’s West Wing by a narrow street. Many of the administration’s offices were located there, as was the vice president’s ceremonial second office. Richard Nixon had made more daily use of it than any other VP. Built between 1871 and 1888, the imposing building held a rich history in a city of rich histories. It took up an entire city block, and had been the site of the nation’s first televised press conference. Top political advisors to presidents maintained their working offices there, although much of their time was spent in the West Wing, where they could be in closer proximity to their clients-in-chief.
After being cleared, Rollins was escorted to Ziegler’s office, a large, airy room with tall windows that afforded an unhindered view of the West Wing of the White House, a fitting perch from which to look down on his presidential protégé to make sure he didn’t do something stupid and stray from the Ziegler political Bible.
“Sit down, Jerry,” Ziegler said, indicating one of two matching blue leather club chairs on either side of a small, round table. “Thank you for being on time.”
Rollins placed his briefcase on the floor next to him. He kept his leg in touch with it, as though expecting a hand to reach in and steal it at any moment. His emotions had run the gamut since his initial meeting with Ziegler and his decision. This day, at this moment, anger prevailed, anger at Ziegler and at himself, at Washington, and at Bob Colgate, at the sewer into which politics had sunk, and at the world in general and his place in it. It took all the restraint