Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [27]
As Deborah and her entourage, flanked by Secret Service agents, entered the Crystal City Hotel, among those observing them were Detectives Walt Hatcher and Mary Hall. They’d arrived early for their meeting with Congressman Morrison and occupied chairs in the recently renovated lobby.
“That’s Mrs. Colgate,” Mary commented.
Hatcher removed his sunglasses and looked in the direction of the Colgate group. “Big deal,” he muttered.
“You don’t like her?” Mary asked.
He shrugged. “You?”
“Yeah, I like her. I like her husband, too.”
Hatcher guffawed. “He’s not worth a damn,” he said.
“He’s a lot better than Pyle,” Mary said, aware that she was moving into dangerous conversational territory. Hatcher’s views of politicians, particularly those who leaned left, were well known within MPD.
“Like the rest of them,” Hatcher said. “You know what I think?”
Mary sighed. “What?”
“I think he’s a whore, and I think his wife is a dyke.”
“That’s—that’s ridiculous. Why do you say that?”
“I’ve got a sense about things like that. You spend enough time on the streets, kid, and you get to know people, can size ’em up in ten seconds. Trust me.”
She knew dissent would be both futile and inflammatory.
Ten minutes later, they left the lobby and went to Restaurant Mez where they were to meet Morrison. They asked for and were given a table in a far corner of the restaurant. They ordered coffee and waited. At fifteen minutes past eleven, Hatcher said, “Looks like the son-of-a-bitch decided not to show.”
“Looks that way,” Hall agreed.
“Big mistake on the congressman’s part,” Hatcher said. “Very big mistake.” He pulled a small bottle of Tylenol from his pocket and downed two gels with water.
At twenty after eleven, Hatcher said it was time to leave. As he motioned for a check, Congressman Morrison burst through the door, surveyed the room, and came to them. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, “but some pressing business came up. I’m on the House Commerce Committee and—”
“Sit down,” Hatcher said, indicating the chair they’d pulled over from an adjacent table.
Morrison was shorter than he appeared to be on TV, at least from Mary Hall’s perspective. His wide face was deeply tanned, which highlighted the whiteness of his teeth. His brown hair had obviously been dyed, albeit tastefully done, and was combed over his bald pate from just above one ear. He wore a navy double-breasted blazer, gray slacks with a razor crease, a pale blue shirt, and a solid burgundy tie. His smile seemed perpetual.
“You didn’t tell me what the two of you looked like,” he said, “so I took a guess.” He fixed on Mary. “You’re the lovely young lady who called. The police obviously have good taste when it comes to hiring female officers.”
A waitress took Morrison’s coffee order.
Hatcher observed the look exchanged between Morrison and Mary with a sour expression on his mottled face. He’d removed his sunglasses and placed them on the table. The headache, which came and went, hung on, and his grimace confirmed it. He put on the glasses. “You finished?” he said to Morrison.
The congressman looked at him quizzically.
“With the patter. Let’s get to why you’re here.”
“All right,” Morrison said. “Why am I here? The young lady said something about a prostitute being murdered. What does that have to do with me?”
“Her name was Rosalie Curzon,” Hatcher said.
“And?”
“And, Congressman, we know that you and she were friends.”
“That’s nonsense.”
Hatcher gave him a counterfeit smile.
“Look,” said Morrison, “I—”
Hatcher’s smile disappeared. He leaned forward and pointed an index finger at Morrison. “No, Congressman, you look. If you want to sit here and BS us, that’ll make me pretty damned mad, and when I get mad, I do things people don’t like,