Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [37]
“As long as you’re not catching his personality.”
“Sure you don’t mind if I bail out? I know we should talk about what happened last night but—”
After a quick glance about, he silenced her with a kiss on the lips. “We’ll talk another time. You go on home, drink some hot tea, and get in bed. I’ll see you back here in the morning.”
As he turned to leave, she grabbed him and returned the kiss, harder and longer than his had been. “Take care, Matt. Enjoy an early night.”
He got in his car and headed for Adams Morgan and his apartment. As he went, the comment by one of his superiors about Officer Al Manfredi stuck with him. Did the brass intend to cover up Manfredi’s involvement with the slain prostitute? Would they sweep it under the rug, turn their eyes away, for fear of tainting the department? It was a possibility. He’d seen it happen before when a cop, especially one higher in rank, got into some sort of trouble. Sure, there were departmental sanctions and punishments for misdeeds that embarrassed MPD, but that’s usually as far as it went. As the former FBI head J. Edgar Hoover famously said repeatedly, “Don’t embarrass the Bureau.” That was Hoover’s mantra, and God help any agent who violated it.
But would MPD go that far if Manfredi was Rosalie Curzon’s killer? Matt couldn’t conceive of that, but if it happened, it would mark Matt Jackson’s last day as a cop.
He decided on his way home to stop for something to eat. Chinese takeout was an option, but he preferred to eat a meal where it had been cooked. He settled on the Silver Veil, the restaurant and club around the corner from Rosalie Curzon’s apartment, where he’d first learned about Micki Simmons. Word around the neighborhood was that it served decent Lebanese food, which appealed to him.
Evidently, he was the only Washingtonian in the mood for Middle Eastern food that night. He had the place to himself. He was shown to a table and ordered a white wine. A middle-aged waitress brought him a menu. “Suggest something for me,” he said. She did, and he approved the choices—hummus b’tahini, rolled grape leaves, hot pita bread, and lamb kabobs.
As he sipped his wine and nibbled at the bread, he saw the manager—or was he the owner?—eyeing him from where he stood near the entrance. The man came to the table. “Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Yes, everything’s fine.”
“You’re the detective who was here the other night.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you… ?”
Matt waited for him to finish.
“Did you find Ms. Simmons?”
“Oh. Yes, I did.”
“I hope you didn’t tell her where you heard about her.”
Matt smiled and shook his head. “No, I didn’t mention you. I wouldn’t do that—unless it was absolutely necessary.” Matt took in the empty restaurant. “Care to join me?” he asked. “Looks like you have time on your hands.”
The man surveyed the empty dining room. He shrugged. “Yes, thank you.”
He was obviously of Middle Eastern origins, complexion swarthy, eyes almost black, and with a heavy beard line. There was no hint of an accent.
He looked worried.
“Everything okay?” Matt asked. “Business okay?”
“It’s been slow lately. I appreciate that you didn’t tell her about me. I wouldn’t want to cause her any trouble, or cause myself trouble with the police.”
“Why would you have trouble with the police?” Matt questioned. “All you did was help us.”
The man looked around before saying, “It isn’t easy running a restaurant.”
Matt laughed. “From what I’ve seen, it’s got to be one of the toughest businesses in the world.”
The man nodded.
“You own this place?” Matt asked.
“Yes.”
The waitress brought a course to the table, and the owner started to leave.
“No, wait,” Matt said. “Keep me company.”
“Thank you, but I wouldn’t want to intrude. There is no charge for your dinner.”
Matt waved his hands over the table in denial. “Sorry,” he said, “but that’s against the rules.”
The owner’s laugh was dismissive.
“I mean it,” Matt reiterated. “It’s against the rules for a police officer to accept free meals—free anything.