Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [60]
“That’s interesting. But why call me about it?”
“My sources tell me that your friend Governor Colgate might have a… well, a tangential connection with the victim.”
“Is that so?”
“I thought you might be able to help me shed some light on this.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Langdon.”
“No comment on it?”
“It sounds to me that you’re chasing after some politically motivated rumor that’s nothing but trash.”
“Okay, Mr. Rollins. I appreciate you taking the time to talk with me.”
“You mention your ‘sources.’ Who might they be?”
Langdon’s laugh was dismissive, and nasty. “Can’t say, Mr. Rollins. But I will say that they’re pretty reliable. Nothing like a good story about sex and politicians. Craig, Vitter, Spitzer. Who’s next? There are all those rumors about Governor Colgate and other women that—”
“Anything else?” Rollins asked.
“Not unless you have something to offer, Mr. Rollins.”
“I don’t. Good-bye.”
Rollins realized he’d begun to sweat, and wiped his brow with a tissue. His secretary called on the intercom: “Your wife’s on the phone.”
“Tell her to hold on,” he said, getting up, going to the wall safe, and laying fingertips on the dial. He snapped out of the momentary trance he’d lapsed into, returned to the desk, and greeted Sue on the phone. “Hi,” he said.
“I don’t know how your weekend is shaping up,” she said, “but I thought that if you could get free on Saturday we could attend the Smithsonian folk music festival on the Mall. Samantha would enjoy it, so would I, and we haven’t done a family thing in too long. Can you shake free on Saturday?”
He glanced down at his large desk calendar. He was scheduled to meet with Colgate at noon to go over speeches he was scheduled to give on the economy and health care.
“Sure,” he said, pleased that he hadn’t hesitated to make the decision. “I was supposed to meet with Bob, but I’ll cancel. You’re right. We need some time together as a family.”
He could see the smile on her face.
“Yeah, let’s do it.”
TWENTY
When Jackson and Hall returned from their Patmos interview, they sat with Hatcher to go over reports of their questioning of those captured on Rosalie Curzon’s tapes. Jackson gave a brief oral recap of what Patmos had said; Hall provided the two names Patmos had given them to confirm his whereabouts the night of the murder.
“Follow up on them,” Hatcher said.
“Shall do,” said Hall.
“I also want you two to go back to the building where the murder took place and reinterview everybody.”
“Everybody?” Jackson said.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Detective Jackson. Will that be too much of a burden for you?”
“Not at all, Detective Hatcher.”
“Don’t cop an attitude on me, Jackson,” Hatcher said.
Jackson turned away, visibly ignoring him.
As they were about to break up the meeting, Mary asked Hatcher, “Did you ever write up a report on that guy who owns the restaurant in Adams Morgan, Yankavich?”
“No,” Hatcher said. “Haven’t gotten around to it yet. Doesn’t matter. He’s not at the top of the list. I interviewed him. His alibi is tight.”
Jackson and Hall said nothing, although their thoughts were similar: It wasn’t like Hatcher to summarily dismiss a suspect, or to ignore writing a report of his interview.
“Where will you be later on today, Hatch?” Mary asked.
Hatcher’s hesitation spoke loudly. He grimaced and closed his eyes, opened them and stared at Jackson. “Among other things, I’m meeting with Amos and Andy.”
Jackson looked at him quizzically.
“Williams and Shrank. Your buddies.”
Jackson’s jaw tightened.
“They say I’m a racist. You think I’m a racist, Jackson?”
Mary looked back and forth between them.
Jackson didn’t respond.
“I have to tell them I’m not a racist, tell them I shouldn’t have said some of the things they claim I said. That make you happy, Jackson?”
“We’ll interview people at the building,” Jackson said, and left the room.
“He’s got a thin skin, kid, too thin to be a good cop,” Hatcher told Mary.
“Why don’t you lay off him, Hatch?”
His grin was crooked. “I just want