Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [120]
“God, how could this be happening?”
Rollins exhaled and tasted his drink. He’d read Hatcher’s obit and realized its ramifications. The detective had been the one person who could clear Colgate of any charges that he’d killed the call girl, and the man had taken that knowledge to his grave. Although Jackson had speculated that Hatcher had been Rosalie Curzon’s killer, that’s all it was, speculation. No one had publicly accused Hatcher, nor, Rollins was sure, were posthumous charges likely to be filed.
But any conjecture about the murder was almost irrelevant from a political perspective. That would float in the air for a while and then fade into the ether. Even someone as crass as Burton Pyle and his people wouldn’t level that charge. What was crucially, perhaps terminally, damaging to Colgate’s chances for the White House was that he’d paid for sexual services and was captured in the act on videotape. All the talk about Colgate’s extramarital affairs would rise above gossip and be there in garish living color for a nation to witness.
“So what you’re saying,” Colgate muttered, “is that you believe I got caught on tape with some hooker.”
Rollins shrugged but realized it was an inadequate response. “I have to assume that it’s true,” he managed. “Is it true?”
“All right. It’s true. But who the hell would ever think that a hooker was taping her johns? It only happened once, Jerry, and I’m taking a big chance in confiding that in you.”
“Have you spoken with Deborah about it?” Rollins asked.
“No, and she’s the real problem. I can ride out the political fallout, but I don’t know how to finesse this with her.”
Maybe you can’t ride it out politically, Rollins thought. As for finessing it with Deborah…
“I need answers, Jerry,” Colgate continued.
You needed to control your libido, was what Rollins was thinking. You should have thought of your wife when you made your date with the hooker.
“This is outrageous,” Colgate said. “People can go around making tapes of other people in private moments and turn them into freak shows on somebody’s website?”
“Unfortunately, Bob, that’s today’s reality, and there’s nothing to be gained by denying it’s happening.”
“You met with Ziegler.”
Rollins’s stomach dropped. Did Colgate suspect something?
“Right,” he said. “We couldn’t reach an agreement on the Miami debate.”
“But maybe you can cut a deal with him. Hell, if those tapes go public, there’s no question who’s behind it. How did Pyle’s people get hold of them? That’s what I’d like to know. What did this hooker do, sell them to Pyle and his thugs?” His eyes suddenly brightened. “Maybe Pyle’s people learned about the tapes and killed her to get their hands on them. Can we counter this thing by floating that possibility? We’ve got journalists we control.”
“That’s not a good idea, Bob. Frankly, I don’t see any recourse but to wait until the tapes show up—and they may not—and face the storm head-on.”
“That’s the best you can do?” Colgate asked.
“I didn’t put you in this position, Bob,” Rollins said, realizing how easy it was to lie to one of his best friends, a man who depended on him in a most profound way. “By the way, Samantha seems to have weathered her ordeal nicely, no nightmares, no evidence of having been traumatized.”
“That’s good. Glad to hear it.”
“Just thought you’d want to know.”
Silence permeated the room.
“Any ideas about how to smooth this over with Deb?”
“No. And don’t ask me to speak with her, Bob.” Rollins got up to leave. “Let’s see how this plays out,” he said, heading for the door. “You’ve weathered some blows before. I’m sure you’ll weather this one.”
He left Colgate sitting in a chair near the window, his chin drawn down, his eyes staring straight ahead as though Rollins, as though no one, had been there. No matter how many loyal supporters were on hand to buoy his spirits, no matter what advice the collective genius of his close advisors could offer, the crowds at campaign stops, the media attention to his policies and visions for the