Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [44]
“Not since?”
“No. Hey, look, so maybe we did have some words when she quit on me, but that doesn’t mean I’d kill her, ferchristsake.” His face lit up, like a cartoon character with a balloon over his head signifying a sudden brilliant idea. “You want a lead in this case? Maybe you should check her girlfriend Micki. Her and Rosalie left the same day. Micki was a real problem, a really big problem. Vicious type. Man, sometimes she scared me.”
“What’s Micki’s last name?” Jackson asked, pretending to write it down.
“Simmons. She’d kill her own mother for a buck.”
Matt and Mary ended the interview by asking for his driver’s license and other ID. “You live at this address?” she asked.
“Yeah. Nice pad, really nice.”
“We’ll be back, Mr. McMahon. You wouldn’t think of going anywhere, would you?”
“You mean I can’t?”
“You’re very astute,” said Mary. “You’re not to leave the city.”
“So what am I, a suspect?”
“You might say that.”
As they returned to the main office, the woman who’d taken over phone duty was cooing into the headset: “Beltway Escorts and Entertainment. Would you like a date with one of our lovely ladies?” She looked up at the detectives, smiled, and continued taking the order.
As they drove away, Jackson said, “I don’t care whether he killed her or not, I’m going to break his chops, pull his tax returns for the last hundred years, get vice on his case, the works.”
“You know who you sound like, Matt?”
“Who?”
“Hatch.”
“I’ll forget you ever said that, Mary, and don’t ever say it again.”
SIXTEEN
Jerry Rollins, respected Washington attorney and confidant to the presumptive next president of the United States, was, among many things, a methodical man, perhaps even obsessive-compulsive. His days were structured by a strict set of personal rules, every move anticipated and planned for in advance, little left to chance. Of course, unexpected occurrences did crop up now and then. He disliked it when they did, and had trouble shifting gears to compensate for them.
Deborah Colgate’s phone call the previous evening was one of those intrusions into his ordered life. Not that he wouldn’t want to talk with her. They spoke often, and spent considerable time together in the normal course of events, going back to Colgate’s days as Maryland’s governor, and especially since Deborah’s husband launched his bid for the White House.
But during this brief phone call her voice had been tinged with palpable desperation, a tone foreign to him. To not respond quickly was out of the question.
His wife usually slept later than he did, leaving to him the routine of getting Samantha ready for school, and driving her on most days. He enjoyed that time with his daughter and didn’t resent Sue’s habit of sleeping in. He was surprised this morning when she joined him and their daughter in the kitchen.
“Busy day?” she asked casually.
“Very. Between the practice and the election, there never seem to be enough hours.”
“I saw Bob’s new commercial last night. He’s getting tougher on Pyle and his record.”
“Against my advice. He’s way ahead in the polls. No need to leave the high road and get down to Pyle’s level.”
“I thought he always listened to you,” she said as she pulled a Greek yogurt from the fridge.
“He usually does. He didn’t this time.”
“Maybe Deborah could get through to him.”
Was there a hint of sarcasm in her voice?
“I’m meeting with Karl Scraggs today about representing his book,” Rollins said, bluntly changing the subject. Scraggs was a former member of the Pyle cabinet who’d resigned, and was now shopping his memoir to publishers. Rollins had recently begun representing high-profile D.C. types in their book deals, a slice of business that he found refreshing compared to others.
“How can you represent someone like that?” she asked.
Rollins laughed. “You could ask that about many of my clients, Sue, and you have.”
“And you never give me a reasonable answer,” she said. To Samantha: “Cereal, sweetheart? And toast with jam? I bought your favorite, blueberry.”
“Yum,” Samantha said. She turned to her father. “Are