Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [43]
Mary smiled and looked to McMahon for a response.
“Looks like you’re a history buff,” McMahon said to Matt. “So am I. I love history.”
Jackson and Hall sat and stared at him. He, too, took a chair.
“Now, what can I do for you gentlemen?” he said. “Oops, ladies and gentlemen.” He gave them a toothy smile.
“We’re here investigating the murder of Rosalie Curzon,” Hall said.
“So you said, so you said,” Billy replied. “Terrible thing, all the murders that happen in this city. A bunch’a animals out there.”
“She worked for you as an escort,” Jackson said.
“That’s right,” Billy said. “When you mentioned her name on the phone, it didn’t ring a bell. But I took the trouble of going back through our employee records, and sure enough, she did work here, but only for a very short time.”
“How long a time?”
“Oh, let me see… maybe a week or two.”
“We’d like to see those records,” Mary said.
Billy curled his mouth into an O, as though about to blow a smoke ring. He exhaled loudly. “Those are private records,” he said. “Privileged, like between lawyers and clients.”
“No they’re not,” Jackson said. “If you’d prefer, I’ll make a call and have a subpoena for them here within the hour. Might as well make it a subpoena for all your records. Everything.”
Billy’s expression said he’d been insulted.
“Look, Mr. McMahon,” Mary said, leaning a little closer to him, “we know you run a prostitution business here. The last time I heard, that’s illegal.”
“What are you saying?” Billy said, pressing his palms against his heart. “Beltway Entertainment is a legit business. Besides, prostitution isn’t illegal in D.C.”
“You left out the ‘escort’ part of the name,” Jackson said. “Besides, solicitation is illegal, ninety days, big fines.”
“Yeah, whatever. But we don’t provide sex as part of our services. We offer high-class female companionship for gentlemen who’d like an attractive female on their arm. Strictly legit, aboveboard, no sex allowed. If I catch one of my escorts breaking that rule, she’s gone—man, gone, out the door with my footprint on her rear end.”
“The employment records for Rosalie Curzon,” Jackson said, pulling his cell phone from where it was clipped to his belt.
“All right, all right, but there’s really not much in the way of records.” He glanced at the phone in Jackson’s hand. “I’ll be right back.”
“What a creep,” Mary said after McMahon had left the room.
“Hey, like the man said, he runs a legitimate business here. Maybe you could moonlight for him, you know, be that attractive woman on the arm of some fat cat.”
“There’s gay escort services, too,” she said, lightly. “Maybe you could—”
McMahon returned, carrying a single sheet of paper, which he placed on the table in front of Matt. It contained handwritten scribble—Curzon’s name a few times with dates next to mentions of her.
“This is it?” Jackson said.
“The girls come and go, a revolving door. No need to keep more than this.”
“According to the dates on this sheet,” said Jackson, “she worked here for more than a year.”
“Yeah? Lemme see.” He frowned as he read the handwriting. “Looks like she did. I guess she didn’t make much of an impression on me. Don’t remember her at all, not at all!”
Jackson sat back and sighed. “I’m getting tired of this BS,” he said. “How about you, Detective Hall?”
Her sigh matched his.
Jackson pointed his index finger at McMahon. “We know that when Ms. Curzon quit working for you, McMahon, you threatened to kill her.”
“That’s a lie.”
“You were pissed at her because she took clients away from you, cost you money. Am I right?”
McMahon shook his head.
“Like I said, McMahon, I’m getting tired of this BS from you. You knew her a lot better than you claim, and you had a motive to kill her. Where were you the night she was murdered?” He provided a date.
“Jesus, how am I supposed to remember that?”
“Do yourself a favor and try.”
“I’ll check my calendar,” he said.
“When’s the last time you saw Rosalie Curzon?” Hall asked.
He shrugged. “I guess when she left.