Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [113]
“I thought I’d take a ride,” Jerry Rollins said, “rev up the monster out in the garage. Take a spin with me?” he asked Jackson.
“I don’t know, I—”
“Oh, come on, I know you’re dying to. I need to get out now that this ordeal is over. I’ll drop you wherever you want.”
“Go ahead,” Mary said to Matt. “Do you good. We’ll catch up later.”
“Sure?”
“Jerry and his toy,” Sue said without malice. “Just as long as he doesn’t wrap himself around a pole.”
Jackson laughed. “Any danger of that, Mr. Rollins?”
“No, and it’s Jerry. Remember?”
“Sure, Jerry, I’d love to.”
As Rollins fetched his driving gloves and Sue disappeared into the kitchen, Mary said to Matt, “I’ll grab some things at home and go to your apartment.”
Once it became evident that there would be no statement that night from the Rollinses, much of the media had abandoned their stakeout in front of the house. The few who remained were taken by surprise as Rollins, with Jackson in the passenger seat, backed the Porsche from the garage, turned, and roared onto the street, tires screeching.
“Where’s he going?” a reporter asked a colleague who was getting ready to leave.
“Beats me. Who’s the guy with him?”
“That cop who’s been here from the git-go.”
“We follow?”
“Nah. I just caught that hostage situation. See ya.”
The rain that had pelted the city earlier in the evening had stopped, the clouds breaking to allow a three-quarter moon and a smattering of stars to become visible. Rollins drove fast, glancing occasionally in the rearview mirror to be sure no one, especially media, was following.
“Slow down,” Jackson said.
“Nervous, Matt? She really performs,” he said to Jackson over the rush of air and the engine’s fine-tuned hum.
“Sure does,” Jackson agreed. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d drive slower.”
Rollins laughed and maintained his excessive speed.
“Where are we heading?” Jackson asked.
“One of my favorite spots.”
“Where’s that?”
“Out by the airport.”
Rollins sharply turned off into what Jackson recognized as West Potomac Park, a spit of land between the Potomac River and the Tidal Basin. As Rollins maneuvered into a parking spot away from a few other cars, a jet aircraft departing from Reagan National Airport thundered above; Jackson had the impression that he could almost reach up and touch its underbelly. Rollins turned off the ignition, sat back, sighed, and closed his eyes. Jackson didn’t say anything to disturb his reverie. Another jet broke the silence, awakening Rollins. “Like to fly, Matt?” he asked.
“Always a little nervous.”
“I love it. I wanted to take flying lessons but never got around to it. You know, business and family getting in the way.”
“Must be fun flying your own plane.”
“I’ll never know. I sometimes come out here just to enjoy the takeoffs. Of course, it depends on which runway is being used. Planes always take off and land into the wind. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“It takes such power to lift one of those planes off the ground. Such power.”
Jackson agreed, and wondered why they were there.
“I’m always curious why people pursue certain careers. Why did you become a cop, Matt?”
Matt laughed. “I’ve been asking myself that same question a lot lately.”
“Disillusioned?”
“Sometimes.”
“I imagine you became a cop because you were going to do something good, get the bad guys off the streets, make society better. Am I right?”
“Something like that.”
“We all come into our chosen professions with lofty ideals. I know I did.”
“The law?”
“That, and politics. You know, Matt, politics in its purest sense is a noble profession. It has the power to change things for the better, cure social ills, promote a peaceful world, lift men’s spirits.”
Rollins glanced at the detective, who sat passively, waiting for more.
“The problem is that idealism too often gives way to cynicism. The power that can be used for the good soon corrupts the idealist. Reality