Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [52]
And what of Manfredi? Sure, if he’d killed Curzon and it could be proved, that would be too big an issue to sweep under the rug to preserve MPD’s reputation. But the guy had broken the law by soliciting a prostitute. He’d get a lecture from some higher-up, maybe be given a week off without pay, and be right back teaching recruits how to be good, law-abiding cops.
His zeal for pursuing Craig Thompson had abated, but he knew he had to do it. He called the home number and was greeted by a sleepy-sounding Thompson.
“This is Detective Hatcher, Mr. Thompson,” he said in as pleasant a voice as he could muster.
“Oh? Yes?”
“I need to get a statement from you regarding a homicide I’m investigating.”
“I’ve already given one.” Hatcher heard Thompson blow his nose.
“Yeah, I know you spoke with my two partners, but I need a formal statement from you.”
“A formal statement?”
“Right. Look, I hate to bother you like this, but it’s my job. My partners told me that you cooperated and were open with them, that you hadn’t seen the victim for a couple of years, so this is just a formality. We’re doing it with everyone who’d had some connection with her.”
“I don’t know, I—”
“It’ll only take a half hour or so. I can pick you up if you need a ride.”
“You want me to come to where you are?”
“Right. All formal statements are taken here at Metro. We’re on Indiana. Want me to swing by and pick you up?”
“No, that’s not necessary. Look, Detective, do I need an attorney with me?”
“Hey, Mr. Thompson, that’s up to you, but I suggest you save your money. We’re not charging you with anything. We know you had nothing to do with the girl after you broke up. That was years ago. Right?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Just want to get down on paper what you told my partners when they called.”
There was a long pause before Thompson said, “All right. I can come this morning.”
“That’d be perfect, Mr. Thompson. Like I said, I hate bothering you. But that’s what I’m paid for, bothering good people.”
Thompson said he would be there in an hour. Hatcher hung up and grinned. Usually, he would have played the tough, no-nonsense detective. But he’d decided to be nice with Thompson, lull him into cooperating. It had worked. As far as Thompson knew, they’d bought his story that he hadn’t seen Rosalie Curzon in two years. He’d find out differently in an hour, and it would all be on tape.
• • •
Jackson and Hall stopped for coffee after leaving Beltway Entertainment and Escorts.
“What do you think?” Jackson asked as he stirred in sugar. They stood at a small bar at the front window of the Dunkin’ Donuts.
“He is a creep,” Mary replied. “Ooh, that’s hot,” she said as the black coffee burned her lips. “What about his comment about the woman you met with, Micki Simmons? She seem like the sort of woman who’d kill a female friend?”
Jackson smiled. “No, but what I think doesn’t mean much.”
“Judging from the way Rosalie Curzon was killed, I’d say it had to be a man.”
“Not necessarily. Ms. Simmons is a solidly built young lady. She’s capable of it.” Another sip. “But nah, I think McMahon threw us her name to get the light off him.”
“You’re probably right. Still, Matt, we’ve got to follow up on her.”
“I know.”
“You said she went home. South Carolina?”
“I have her number there.”
“Let’s get back and call her. And I have to try Mr. Patmos at Senator Barrett’s office again.”
On the drive back to Metro, Mary brought up Hatcher’s health. “I think he’s sick, Matt,” she said.
“Maybe.”
“He doesn’t look good, and there was the vomiting the day we interviewed Congressman Morrison.”
“He’ll be all right,” Jackson said. “Guys like that live to be a hundred.”
When she didn’t respond, he added, “And become grouchy old men, snarling at kids and puppies and making life miserable for everyone around them.”
She laughed. “Is that