Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [26]
“Where in Carolina did you grow up?” he asked.
“A little town outside of Sumter. You have any more questions?” she asked, slipping her feet into her shoes.
“I’m sure I’ll have more, Micki, but none at the moment.”
“That’s good.” She stood and picked up her raincoat. “Hey, how did you know about me?”
“Somebody in the neighborhood told me that you and Rosalie were friends.”
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You get to ask questions but I can’t?”
“Yeah, that’s the way it works. Sorry.”
“Stinks.”
He slipped into his jacket and held the raincoat for her. “How are you traveling to South Carolina?” he asked.
“Train.”
“Okay. I’ll drop you at the station. I need to know how to reach you in South Carolina. We may want to have you come back to D.C.”
She pouted, but wrote down an address and phone number in Sumter.
“What will you do about your apartment?” he asked as they left his place and went to where he’d parked the car.
“Keep it for a while, I guess.”
“That’s probably smart,” he said, holding open the car’s door. “You’ll have to come back to D.C. at some point.”
As she got out of the car in front of Union Station, and Jackson had retrieved her suitcase from the trunk, she smiled at him and took his extended hand. “You’re okay,” she said.
“For a cop?”
“No,” she said. “Just okay.”
He watched her disappear into a crowd of people, and for the first time allowed his concern about Hatcher’s reaction to allowing her to leave town—to have helped her leave—to surface. He’d be furious and demeaning. No doubt about that.
Jackson used the radio in his car to ask headquarters for information about Beltway Escorts. Its phone number was cross-referenced to a street address, and Jackson headed in that direction. He’d deal with Hatcher when he had to, and the senior detective faded from Jackson’s thoughts as they shifted to the pimp, Billy McMahon.
TEN
Deborah Colgate was picked up at the Georgetown house for the short trip across the Potomac to her scheduled appearance at a fundraiser in the Crystal City Marriott. She was accompanied this morning by her personal assistant, her press secretary, and her best friend, Connie Bennett. Roommates at the University of Maryland, Deb and Connie had hit it off almost immediately and became inseparable during their undergraduate years. Their friendship carried over into their post-university lives—maid of honor at each other’s weddings, godmothers to their children, and most important, close confidants. Connie didn’t often accompany Deborah to her campaign appearances, but was always available following them to hear her friend’s analysis of how things went.
“Bob’s in the Midwest?” Connie asked as the limo crossed Memorial Bridge.
“Yes.”
“Getting the teacher’s union endorsement was wonderful.”
“Not unexpected. Pyle’s record on education is dismal.”
“Like his record on almost everything else.”
“He scares me,” Deborah said.
“Scares you?” Connie replied, adding a quizzical laugh. “Oh, you mean what he’s doing to the country.”
“No,” Deborah said. “I mean he’s capable of anything. He’s been running the dirtiest campaign in history. I wake up every morning and wonder what new trash he’s had his people spread overnight.”
“We’re way ahead in the latest polls,” Deborah’s assistant weighed in. “Every one of them.”
Deborah ignored her and said to Connie, “I just have this feeling that a second shoe is about to drop.”
Connie knew what her friend was talking about. They’d spent many hours discussing the impact of Bob Colgate’s alleged extracurricular romantic life on the campaign—more important, on Deborah, and the scrutiny to which she was subjected on a daily basis. It wasn’t so much a matter of people asking her directly about the myriad