Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [28]
“Go ahead,” a deflated Morrison said. “I’m listening.”
Hatcher leaned even closer and lowered his voice. “We know that you and the dead hooker used to get it on.”
“That’s a lie.”
“You want to come with us to headquarters and we’ll roll the videotape? You know, like a football game replay.”
“Videotape?”
“Uh-huh.”
“In color,” Mary said.
Hatcher glared at her for interrupting.
“How can that be?” Morrison asked, weakly.
“She made tapes of her customers,” Mary explained.
“Ain’t this a great technical age we live in?” Hatcher said. “Imagine that, you and Ms. Curzon live and in living color.”
Morrison sat back, his eyes darting between Hatcher and Hall. The two detectives said nothing, allowing the congressman to process the fix in which he’d found himself. Finally, he said to Hatcher, “Could you and I talk privately?”
Hatcher screwed up his face into a question mark.
“Just you and me, man-to-man,” Morrison clarified.
“No,” Hatcher said, “Detective Hall is—”
“Please?”
“It’s okay,” Mary said, standing. “I’ll be right over there.”
She left the table and Morrison’s smile returned. He shook his head and said, “I think it’s great how many women are in law enforcement. Pilots with the airlines, too. I had a female pilot just the other day.”
“Is that so?”
Morrison moistened his lips before continuing. “Let’s be honest, Detective,” he said. “You look like a sensible man, someone who’s been around and knows something about human nature. Let’s say I did spend some time with this woman. Frankly, I don’t remember her, but I’ll take your word for it. You say there’s a tape?”
A blank stare from Hatcher.
“I may be an elected official, Detective, but I’m also a human being, like any other man who occasionally has certain needs.”
“You married?” Hatcher asked.
“Yes. I have a wonderful wife, a wonderful family. But what man doesn’t now and then seek out the companionship of another, maybe a younger woman? I’m sure you’ve done it yourself.”
Hatcher looked around the restaurant before fixing on Morrison. “If I wanted to blow my pension, Congressman, I’d bust your jaw right here and now. I’d really enjoy doing that.”
Morrison started to protest but Hatcher cut him off. “Because you’re a sleazebag, Congressman, doesn’t mean everybody is. I’ve got a wonderful wife and family, too, and I don’t go around buying hookers.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Detective. All I meant was that as two worldly men, we could see eye to eye.”
“You were wrong.”
Morrison’s posture and expression suddenly changed. Until that moment he’d been all smiles, a model of pleasantness, his tone smacking of easy camaraderie, the way Hatcher assumed he schmoozed with potential voters in his hometown of Phoenix. Now his voice was firm, his expression matching it. “I don’t intend to be insulted by someone like you,” he said. “You’re dealing with an eight-term U.S. congressman.”
“And maybe a murderer,” Hatcher said flatly.
Hatcher’s comment pierced Morrison’s newfound bravado. “Murderer?” he said. “That’s absurd.”
“Tell you what, Mr. Eightterm U.S. Congressman, I suggest you get off your high horse and answer what questions we have for you.” He waved for Mary to rejoin them. “We’re investigating the murder of a high-priced hooker, and we know that you were one of her customers. That makes you a suspect.”
“I did not kill anyone.”
“That remains to be seen. When did you last spend time with the victim, Rosalie Curzon?”
“I have no idea. It must have been years ago.”
“You’re failing the test, Congressman. The tape has the time and date on it. You were taped two weeks ago.”
Hatcher could see the wheels spinning in Morrison’s head. Is this a bluff? Does the video recording actually indicate when I was there? He evidently decided not to fight such evidence. “All right,” he said. “I was there a couple weeks ago. What does that have to do with her death? She had many clients, dozens of them. Why pick on me?”
“Why not?”
Mary Hall interjected herself. “Maybe you could give us the