Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [21]
“No. Have a good evening.”
Now alone, Rollins went to a James Vann neo-cubist painting of a jazz musician hanging on the wall—Smoke Gets in Your Eyes; Rollins was a devoted jazz lover. He took it down and opened the wall safe behind it. He reached beneath dozens of envelopes and assorted documents and withdrew a smaller sealed envelope, which he took to his desk. He sat quietly, the envelope in his hand, staring at it as though he might be able to see through the heavy paper. His fingers traced the contours of the flat, four-inch by seven-inch item contained inside.
He’d retrieved the envelope that morning from where he’d been instructed it would be. As he turned it over in his hands, he was stricken with a rare sort of inertia. He was known as a decisive man, someone who quickly summed up a situation and made the right decision.
But this was different. The impotency of his inability to act stabbed him in the gut.
He put off the decision he knew must be made, placed the envelope in the safe, locked it, and returned the painting to its place on the wall. Then, turning out the lights, he slowly left the building.
NINE
That same morning, a blinding headache had been Hatcher’s sunrise. He’d been suffering more such headaches lately but refused to see a doctor. To Mae, “Doctors only make people sicker and then send a bill. Besides,” he said, hauling himself out of bed, “it was the wine last night. Red wine always gives me a headache.”
Her creased face reflected her concern as she watched him disappear into the bathroom, losing his balance as he went and bumping against the doorjamb.
She threw on a robe and slippers and went downstairs to prepare breakfast. When he appeared a half hour later, showered and dressed, he smiled and said, “Feeling better, Mae. Damn wine always does it to me.”
She didn’t buy it but didn’t say anything except, “That’s good, Walt. I’m glad your headache is better.”
Mae went to shower, leaving her husband to enjoy his breakfast. He consulted a slip of paper on which he’d listed things to be accomplished that day. Heading the list was the eleven o’clock meeting at the Crystal City Marriott with Congressman Slade Morrison. The contemplation of grilling the congressman was pleasing. Hatcher had little use for elected officials: “Whores whose only interest is in preserving their power, the nation be damned.” Whether Morrison had murdered Rosalie Curzon was almost irrelevant; Hatcher’s pleasure would come from seeing the Arizona congressman squirm.
He decided to bring Mary Hall with him. She’d made the initial contact, and her presence at the meeting would add an interesting dimension. Matt Jackson would not accompany them, Hatcher further decided. The rookie detective had demonstrated an annoying softness during the questioning of suspects, rounding off the rough edges that Hatcher preferred. The kid would never make a good detective, from Hatcher’s perspective, any more than most of the new breed coming into MPD. They were all book-learning and theory, or knee-jerk do-gooders without the necessary street smarts to work the city.
Also on the list was the name of Curzon’s friend, Micki Simmons. Hatcher had intended to follow up on her personally, but changed his mind. Jackson could chase her down while Hatcher and Mary met with the congressman.
He also intended to revisit the lobbyist, Lewis Archer, and make contact with the man who’d recommended Archer to the dead hooker, Jimmy Patmos, chief-of-staff to Utah Senior Senator William Barrett.
And there was the question of what to do about Al Manfredi. He’d need to think that through before going upstairs with what Jackson and Hall had reported to him about their run-in with the police instructor.
The list ended with Manfredi, but Hatcher knew they’d have to widen the circle of suspects and do it fast. Had Rosalie Curzon’s client list not included men like Archer, Congressman Morrison, a top senatorial staffer, and the cop Manfredi, her killing would soon be relegated to the bottom of unsolved D.C. murders. But once he’d shared