Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [57]
He looked across at the MPD building from outside the fast-food restaurant and thought of what his father had said, that Hatcher would love to see him fold and slink away, the half-black college nerd with a degree in sociology unable to take the heat.
No! He wouldn’t allow that to happen.
As he stared at the building, he saw Mary come through the doors and stand on the steps, shielding her eyes against the sun as she peered in his direction. She navigated the busy avenue and came to where he sat, his Styrofoam cup empty. She pulled up a plastic chair. “Taking the day off?” she said, playfully.
“Not a bad idea. What’s up?”
“I got hold of Patmos in Senator Barrett’s office. He’s meeting us in an hour at a coffee shop in Georgetown.”
“These pols sure don’t want us coming to their offices, do they?”
“Can’t blame them. Come on. I reserved a car.”
“Yeah, okay.”
As they prepared to retrace steps to Metro, Matt asked, “Has Hatch said anything about that other guy on the tape, Yankavich, who owns that joint in Adams Morgan?”
“No, I don’t think so. He was following up on him.”
“I never saw a report. Did you?”
“No. We can ask.”
“Yeah. Let’s do that.”
• • •
James Patmos, Senator Charles Barrett’s chief-of-staff, had told Mary that he’d be wearing a tan suit, blue shirt, and green tie. They spotted him the minute they walked into the coffee shop. He was seated at a table he’d obviously chosen because it was relatively distant from the others. He stood as they approached, smiled, and extended his hand. “Jim Patmos,” he said as though campaigning. “Pleased to meet you.”
A waitress took their order, coffees all around.
“Now,” said Patmos, “I understand you want to speak with me concerning the murder of a woman in Adams Morgan.”
“Rosalie Curzon,” Mary said.
“Yes. I knew her. We dated at one time. Not for long. Nothing serious.”
“Dated?” Jackson said.
An expansive smile came across Patmos’s tanned face. “Yes. Does that strike you as unusual?”
“Well, I guess it does,” Jackson said. “Ms. Curzon was a prostitute.”
Patmos’s expression went serious, as though he wore the twin masks of comedy and tragedy, each there to be called upon when needed. “Prostitute?” he said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t believe that.”
“Believe it or not, sir,” Jackson said, “that’s what she was. You had no knowledge of it?”
“None whatsoever. I will tell you what turned me off, though.”
“Yes?”
“Turns out she went both ways.”
“Meaning?” Mary asked, knowing the answer.
“Men, women. She was really turned on, but the lesbian thing turned me off once I heard about it.”
Mary surveyed their surroundings. It was not the sort of conversation to be shared with others. Confident that their words stayed between them, she leaned closer to Patmos and said, “Sir, we have tapes from her apartment. Her customers are on them.”
“Are you saying that I’m on a tape with her?”
Jackson was tempted to lie, to say that Patmos had, indeed, been photographed by Rosalie’s video camera. But he didn’t. Hatcher probably would have, but he wasn’t Hatcher. “No, sir,” he said, “but a friend of yours was. He gave us your name as the person who’d introduced him to Ms. Curzon.”
Patmos laughed. “Maybe I did,” he said. “Who told you that?”
“I’m not at liberty to divulge that, sir,” Jackson replied. “But it’s our understanding that you sent this friend to her because she was a prostitute.”
Patmos thought for a moment, then said, “Which would make me a pimp.”
Jackson was glad Patmos had said it, not him.
“Look, Mr. Patmos,” Mary said, “we’re not interested in everyone’s sex life. We’re investigating the murder of a woman.