Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [54]
“I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Thompson.” Hatcher now slowly stood and leaned over the table. Gone was his pleasant, I’m-just-a-regular-guy-in-your-corner smile. Replacing it were angry eyes, compressed lips, and a voice that was more a raspy growl. “You’re a liar, Thompson,” he said.
Thompson recoiled back against the chair as though struck physically. His eyes opened wide, and his lips quavered.
“You hear me, Mr. Consultant? You’re a liar.”
“What are you saying. I haven’t lied. I—”
Hatcher turned to the two-way glass and signaled to the uniformed cop, who’d been watching the scene in the room. The cop entered and said, “Phone call for you, Detective Hatcher.”
“Please,” Thompson said, “there’s a misunderstanding here. The last time I saw Rosalie was—”
Hatcher slammed the door behind him. He stood where the officer had been standing and watched, and listened, as Thompson tried to get the officer to listen to him. His words were wasted. The young cop, as he’d been instructed, stood behind Thompson with his arms folded across his chest, a stern look on his face.
Hatcher was about to reenter the room when Thompson suddenly got to his feet, came to the door, and opened it. He and Hatcher were face-to-face.
“Going someplace?” Hatcher said.
“I want a lawyer,” Thompson said weakly.
“Yeah, I think you’re going to need one,” Hatcher said. “But I’ll tell you this, Mr. Thompson, you already lied to the other detectives, and now you’re lying to me. We have witnesses who saw you with her as recently as two weeks ago.”
Thompson’s lips were doing a jig now; he was on the verge of tears.
“Let’s go back inside and continue our little talk,” Hatcher said, back to his pleasant, reassuring voice, a solo performance of good cop–bad cop. “When we’re done, you can call a lawyer. How’s that sound?”
Hatcher had him pegged right. Thompson melted, fighting back tears, and followed Hatcher back into the room.
“Now,” Hatcher said, “let’s go back over things, Mr. Thompson, starting from the beginning and right up until last Tuesday.”
The video- and audiotapes ran silently as Craig Thompson began to tell the truth.
EIGHTEEN
A woman with a molasses accent answered Matt Jackson’s call.
“May I speak with Micki Simmons,” Jackson said.
“Who might ah say is callin’?”
“Ah, Mr. Jackson. Matt Jackson. I’m calling from Washington.”
“May I tell her what this is in reference to?”
“Oh, she’ll know. We’re friends.”
The woman called to Micki. The sounds of loud children played in the background, and a dog barked, evidently a large one. Its bark was deep. Did it bark with a southern accent? Jackson couldn’t be sure.
“Hello,” Micki said.
“Hi. It’s Matt Jackson, Washington MPD.”
She spoke in a harsh whisper. “Why did you have to call me here?”
“It’s the number you gave me.”
“I didn’t think you’d be actually callin’ me here.”
“We need to talk to you again,” he said.
“I don’t know,” she said after a long pause.
“You promised you’d make yourself available if we needed to speak with you, Micki.”
“But not here. That was my mother who answered the phone.” She placed her hand over the mouthpiece, but Jackson heard her yell, “It’s nothing, Momma. Just a friend.”
“Micki?” Jackson said.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“We want to ask some more questions about Rosalie Curzon, and your relationship with her.”
“I told you everything I know.”
“That may be true,” Jackson said, “but I’m afraid you’re going to have to come back to Washington for a day or two.” She started to protest, but he added, “There’s no argument, Micki. I was nice enough to let you leave town, but now you have to return. Sorry.”
“I was planning on stayin’ here, calling the apartment manager and telling him to get rid of my stuff.”
“You can do that while you’re here.”
Mary Hall smiled at the exasperation on Jackson’s face.
“Look, Micki,” Jackson said, adding steel to his voice, “either you come back within the next few days or I