Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [39]
“I appreciate that,” Matt said, “but it’s really out of the question.”
As Matt fumbled in his wallet for his credit card, Kahil leaned over to see the photos on the table. Matt looked up at him. “Just some pictures of someone we’re talking to,” he said.
“You know him?” Kahil asked.
“We’ve spoken on the phone. Do you know him?”
“Yes. He used to come in with the woman who was killed. Ms. Curzon.”
“They knew each other at one time,” Matt said, sliding the photos back into his briefcase.
“They used to come in together maybe two years ago. I remember because they fought sometimes, were angry with each other.”
“Really?”
“Then he no longer was with her, until maybe two weeks ago.”
Jackson had taken a swallow of coffee, which he almost spit out. “Two weeks ago?”
“Yes. Only once. And then he came alone a week or so ago. He sat at the bar and had too much to drink. I was worried about him driving, but he called for a taxi.”
Jackson quickly paid the bill. On his way out, he thanked Kahil. “If you ever decide to put a stop to whatever certain cops are doing to you, let me know.” He handed Kahil his card. “Remember that.”
Kahil said nothing as Jackson left the restaurant. When he got in his car, he pulled out his cell phone and called Mary Hall.
“Wake you?”
“No. I’m watching Law and Order. They really get it right.”
“I know. Lennie Briscoe was my idol. Look, Mary, I just left the Silver Veil, that restaurant around the corner from Curzon’s apartment. Ready? Catch this. Mr. Craig Thompson…”
FOURTEEN
Billy McMahon lived a charmed life, considering how many times he’d broken the law.
He’d started getting in trouble as a twelve-year-old in Oakland, California. His offenses were considered by the police and the judges as more public nuisances than serious crimes, and he’d been able to get away with stern warnings from the bench—and a smack from his father—rather than ending up in a facility for troubled, disruptive youths. As he progressed into adulthood, he learned two things: only chumps worked hard, and the key to success was to be charming, especially when the heat was on.
“Charming Billy Boy.”
Billy loved that tune from an unknown Welch songwriter, and sang it often. But its final line, “She cannot leave her mother” didn’t apply to him. He’d gotten away from his mother at the first chance, leaving home when he was sixteen, lining his pockets with money stolen from his mother’s “retirement fund,” a wad of cash she kept in a bag in the freezer. His father had cut out two years earlier.
Billy never looked back, and had no further contact with “the old hag” until the day she died. He told friends that he was hurt that she hadn’t provided for him in her will, and they sympathized with him. How could a mother be that cruel? “She was an evil woman,” was Billy’s explanation. Poor Billy. Charming Billy.
He bounced around the country doing odd jobs, stealing when he thought he could get away with it, conning a few old ladies with his boyish, freckled face, curly red hair, and engaging grin. What a nice young man, these older women believed until they realized that their bank account was bare and Charming Billy was gone. They never knew his real name; he had an array of aliases, and forged documents to support them. He ran afoul of the law on a few occasions, but wasn’t punished for his misdeeds aside from a two-month stint in a small town Oklahoma jail, where the jailer’s wife was so taken with him that she saw to it that he was well fed.
His break into the “big time” came one day in Baltimore, where he’d ended up selling chimney repairs to senior citizens whose chimneys worked just fine. He’d been on that job for only a week when he befriended Augie, a fellow salesman with big ideas. Augie had recently come out of prison, where he’d served a sentence for running an escort service in Baltimore. He’d been caught in a sting. He’d sent two of his girls to hotels to meet with clients who’d phoned for their services. The problem was that the men were undercover vice squad cops, who