Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [12]
“What?”
“Where were you last night?”
“Right here.”
“I suppose there’s an army who’ll testify to that.”
Yankavich’s grin was crooked, his large lips moist. “That’s right,” he said.
“What’d she do, Joe, call you Godzilla or something?”
Yankavich stood. “Unless you got somebody who puts me at her place last night, I’ve got customers to take care of,” he said. He moved toward the door, but Hatcher stood his ground. They were a foot from each other.
“I’m just doing my job, Joe, that’s all. Somebody gets murdered, I go find who did it. I believe you when you say you weren’t with her last night, but if I find out different, I’ll do my job.”
Hatcher stepped aside to allow Yankavich to open the door and leave the tiny room. He extracted the envelope from his pocket, opened it, counted the bills it contained, returned it to his pocket, and stepped back into the restaurant. He went to where he’d been sitting and laid money on the bar. “Good burger, Joe. There’s a tip there, too. Thanks for the offer, but freebies are against the rules.”
• • •
Officer Al Manfredi was on a training field teaching a class in defensive maneuvers when Jackson and Hall arrived. He noticed them standing just outside the door but didn’t acknowledge them.
After ten minutes, he dismissed the class and fell in line with his students as they headed for the door.
“Officer Manfredi,” Mary Hall said as he approached.
“Yeah?”
“I’m Mary Hall. I was in your class a few years ago.”
“Oh, sure, Mary Hall. Hail Mary.” He laughed. “That’s what they used to call you.”
She, too, laughed. “I remember it well. This is my partner, Detective Jackson.”
Jackson and Manfredi shook hands. Jackson’s immediate thought was that up close, Manfredi looked like the comedian Don Rickles. A stiff wind over the open area sent the few strands of hair Manfredi possessed into action.
“So, what brings you back to the old stomping ground? Refresher course or just hanging out?”
“Actually,” Mary said, “we need to talk with you.”
His pleasant façade abruptly changed to stone. “About what?” he asked.
“It’s about a homicide we caught last night,” Jackson said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Jackson said. “A prostitute in Adams Morgan, name Rosalie Curzon.”
This time, Manfredi’s smile was forced. “Looks like you were in the wrong place, wrong time, huh? I’m glad I don’t catch cases any more; keep me up all night. Sorry, but I’ve got a ton of paperwork to do.”
They followed him inside.
“Officer Manfredi,” Jackson said as they walked closely behind him down a long hallway, “we have reason to believe that you were acquainted with the victim.”
Manfredi slowed his pace like a mechanical figure whose batteries have run out, stopped, turned, and said, “What the hell are you two, IA?”
“No, we’re not from Internal Affairs,” Jackson said. “Look, can we sit down someplace alone and go over this?”
“Get lost,” the academy instructor said, resuming his march up the hallway, with Jackson and Hall in close pursuit.
“We know you were one of the victim’s customers,” Jackson said loud enough to be heard over the sound of their shoes on the hard floor.
Manfredi never broke stride as he walked through an open doorway and slammed the door shut. Hall and Jackson looked through the window and saw him disappear into another room.
“I don’t think he wants to talk to us,” Jackson said.
“Looks that way.”
“Do we keep after him?”
She shook her head. “We report back what transpired here and let the department handle it.”
Her cell phone rang. She walked away from Jackson and spoke with the caller out of earshot. When she’d finished, she returned and said, “Congressman Morrison’s office. We’re on for eleven tomorrow, the Crystal City Marriott.”
“A hotel?”
“I suppose the congressman doesn’t want to be seen with us in the District. I’ll call Hatcher.”
“He wants us to go back to Adams Morgan and help a team that’s canvassing the neighborhood,” she reported after talking to Hatcher. “We meet up with him in the morning, eight sharp. Come on, let’s get it over with. Dinner’s on me.