Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [29]
“How would I know who else saw her? It’s not like we were some sort of club or anything.”
Hatcher cited the evening she was killed, and asked Morrison where he’d been that night.
The congressman shrugged and shook his head. “I’ll have to check my calendar.”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea, Congressman,” said Hatcher. “You check your calendar and let us know what it says.”
They asked him a series of questions that lasted fifteen minutes. When they were through, Hatcher handed him his card, and Hall passed over hers. “I expect a call no later than tomorrow morning, Congressman, with the information we need. And I’d like to see that calendar of yours.”
Morrison ignored Hatcher as he shook Mary Hall’s hand. “I’ll be back to you tomorrow, Detective Hall,” he said. He cast a final hateful glance at Hatcher and walked from the room.
“What’a you think?” Hatcher asked Hall.
“I don’t know. It’s hard for me to conceive of a U.S. congressman murdering someone, but I suppose it has happened.”
“Bet on it. Did you see the weasel squirm?”
She said nothing.
“These guys think they’re holier than thou, but they’re nothing more than a bunch of lowlifes.” He laughed. “I think he was putting the make on you, kid.”
“Let’s go,” she said, wanting to leave the restaurant, get in the car, and return to headquarters. Most of all, she wanted to find time to talk to Matt about last night. She’d decided that she’d overreacted and had been insensitive to his feelings. Who was she to judge the pressures an African-American man felt in what was still a white, racist society?
On their way back to headquarters, Hatcher continued his rant against politicians, particularly those like Morrison who lived hypocritical lives, standing tall in public for so-called family values, but living a private life very different from their public proclamations. Mary had heard it from him before, plenty of times, and had developed an internal filter through which the words passed without evoking a reaction.
As they stopped at a light, Hatcher moaned and massaged his temples.
“You okay?” Mary asked.
“What? Yeah, I’m okay. Guys like that always give me a headache.”
They progressed another block before Hatcher abruptly pulled to the curb, opened his door, leaned out, and vomited. When he’d finished and had wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, Mary said, “You look like hell, Hatch. Maybe we should go to the emergency room.”
“Ah, don’t be silly,” he said, using the back of his hand to wipe his lips again. “Just some damn bug that’s going around. I’m fine.”
Matt Jackson was at headquarters when they arrived. “How’d it go with the congressman?” he asked.
“Good. How about you? You run down Mrs. Mouse?”
Matt looked at Mary, who suppressed a smile.
“I found her,” Jackson said. “I interviewed her.”
“Yeah? What’d she have to say?”
“I’m writing up the report now,” Jackson said, not anxious to deliver it verbally.
“Good.”
“I also tried to interview the guy who runs the escort service where the deceased and Ms. Simmons once worked. He wasn’t there. I’ll give it another stab tomorrow.”
“All right. Look, we have to make contact with this senate aide. What’s his name? Patmos? You take care of that, Mary. The hooker’s father is due here this afternoon. Finish up your report, Matt, and Mary, you get hold of Patmos. Talk to the father when he gets here. I’ve got some stuff to do this afternoon. Catch you in the morning.”
They watched him walk from the office.
“I think he’s sick,” Mary said.
Matt laughed.
“I don’t mean that kind of sick,” she said. “He threw up on our way back here from Crystal City.”
“Where? I mean—”
“He stopped the car. Matt, about last night—”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I am, too.”
“Dinner when we get off?”
“Sure. Dinner sounds great. Glad our leader is otherwise occupied.”
ELEVEN
Jackson and Hall did paperwork while waiting for Rosalie Curzon’s father to arrive.
Matt paid particular attention to how he worded his report about interviewing Micki Simmons, leaving out that the meeting took place