Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [11]
“All I know is that I can’t wait to get transferred to another unit.”
“You won’t miss me?”
“Why? You planning on staying with him?”
“Hey, Matt, I’m no fan of Hatch either, but the job’s the thing. He’s a good cop.”
“A good old-school cop, as you say. That’s a whitewash, Mary.”
She fell silent. They’d had few conversations about their racial difference since becoming intimately involved. She knew and respected his sensitivity about the subject and avoided that topic.
He shifted gears. “How do we approach Manfredi?” he asked.
“I think Hatch is right. I’ll mention that I was one of his students, sort of like we’re just stopping in to say hello. I’ll keep it light and then you bring up the homicide.”
“Good cop, bad cop,” he muttered.
“If you have a better suggestion I’ll—”
“No, no, that’s the way to go. Sure, you set him up and I’ll hit him with the real reason we’re there.”
• • •
After splitting off from Hall and Jackson, Hatcher drove to Adams Morgan and parked in front of Joe’s Bar and Grille. Its owner, Joe Yankavich, was behind the bar when Hatcher entered. He had the place to himself. The detective grabbed a stool at the far end of the bar. “Hello, Joe,” he said.
“Hello, Hatcher. You on duty? What, a Diet Coke or a Shirley Temple?”
“A Bloody Mary, Joe, and a burger. You got any chopped meat that hasn’t been in the freezer for a month?”
The burly owner ignored the comment and shouted through an opening to the kitchen.
“With fried onions,” Hatcher said.
“Fried onions on that burger,” Yankavich instructed.
Hatcher watched as Yankavich mixed his Bloody Mary and wondered what it would be liked to tangle with the bar owner. He was a bear of a man, with a barrel chest, shaved head, and massive arms that strained against the sleeves of the red shirt he wore. A bush of chest hair protruded through the open upper buttons. He plopped Hatcher’s drink down in front of him.
“Hey, Joe…” Hatcher said.
Yankavich turned and glared. “You here to break my chops today, Hatcher?”
Hatcher grinned. “Why would you say that, Joe? I never break chops.”
“And Congress isn’t on the take,” Yankavich snorted.
Hatcher waited until his burger had been served before saying anything else to Yankavich. He ate enthusiastically, having poured on plenty of ketchup. A few locals arrived and took tables to the rear of the place. Hatcher finished eating and summoned the owner.
“You want dessert, Hatcher?”
Hatcher shook his head.
“Good to see you,” said Yankavich. “The burger’s on me.” He pulled an envelope from the rear pocket of his pants and slid it across the bar. Hatcher picked it up and put it in his inside jacket pocket.
“We need to talk,” Hatcher said.
“About what?”
“In the back.”
Yankavich left the bar and retreated into a closet-sized back room that functioned as an office and storeroom. Hatcher followed. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, arms folded.
“You know a pretty lady named Rosalie, Joe?” Hatcher asked.
Yankavich looked up from his chair behind the desk. “Huh?”
“Rosalie Curzon,” Hatcher said. “She lived in the neighborhood.”
Yankavich exhaled loudly and sat back. “I heard,” he said. “It’s all over the street. Somebody whacked her last night, as I understand it.”
“You know her, Joe? She was a customer?”
“No. She never came in here.”
“So, you knew her.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“If you didn’t know her, Joe, how could you be sure she never came in here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I met her once or twice.”
“You send her customers?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hatcher.”
“Come on, now, Joe. We both know you run broads out of here, and some of that white stuff that goes up the nose. I mean, not you personally, but you—how shall I say it?—condone it. Right?”
“That’s what you want to talk about, Hatcher?”
“What’d she charge, Joe?”
“Huh?”
“Her fee for a trip to heaven. How much?”
“You’re blowing smoke, Hatcher.”
“You visit the lovely Ms. Curzon last night?”
“Hey, wait a minute, Hatcher. What the hell are you getting at?”
“We know you were a customer