Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [65]
“I’ll call Hatch.”
She reached him at home on his cell phone. “Yeah,” he growled, “knock off. See you Sunday.” The following day, Saturday, was a day off for the Hatcher team.
“Feel like Middle Eastern food?” Jackson asked Mary.
“Always in the mood for that.”
“The Silver Veil’s around the corner.”
“Where we first learned about Micki Simmons.”
“And where the owner told me about seeing the guy who used to date her, Craig Thompson. We know Thompson lied based upon what the owner told me after seeing his picture. By the way, I learned more than that from the owner,” Jackson said.
“What else did you learn in here?” Mary asked after the owner, Kahil, had seated them and taken drink orders.
“A couple of MPD types have been shaking him down,” Jackson said in a low voice, nodding toward Kahil.
“Who?”
“Don’t know. He wouldn’t say. Can’t blame him, I suppose.”
They perused the menu and decided to share dishes—baked falafel, macaroni béchamel, and lamb chops. After a second round of drinks had been served, and they’d ordered their dinner, Jackson’s cell phone sounded.
“Hello?”
“It’s me, Micki Simmons.”
“Hey, Micki. Are you in D.C.?”
“I’m at Union Station.” She didn’t sound happy.
“Ah—my partner and I just ordered dinner. We’re at a place you know, the Silver Veil.”
“That dump?”
Jackson’s head jerked as though her comment had stung. “I kind of like it,” he said. “Join us?”
Mary looked at him quizzically. He held up his fingers to indicate he knew what he was doing.
“No thanks,” she said.
“Well, then, how about we catch up after dinner? Your apartment?”
“Let’s just get it over with, okay?” she said.
“We’ll be as brief as possible. Sure you don’t want dinner? My treat.”
“I’ll be at my apartment,” she said flatly.
“Matt,” Mary said after he’d ended the conversation, “don’t you think we should take her to Metro for a formal statement, get it on tape?”
“Let’s see how it goes at her apartment. We’ll take notes. If she gives us a hard time, we’ll take her down for further questioning. Besides, I don’t want to show up at Metro with these drinks under our belt.”
On the way out, the owner took Jackson aside. “No need for you to pay,” he said.
“I told you last time that it’s against the law for me to accept free food.”
“I know, but—you didn’t say anything about what I told you, did you?”
“No, but I wish you’d file a complaint. I can show you how to do it.”
He shook his head vehemently. “I don’t want trouble.”
“Suit yourself,” Jackson said. “If you change your mind, you have my number.”
Jackson rang Micki Simmons’s bell in the vestibule of her building. She didn’t bother answering through the speaker, just activated the latch to allow them to enter. They rode the elevator to her floor, where she stood in her doorway.
“Micki, this is Detective Hall,” Jackson said. “We work together.”
“Hello,” Micki said, no hand extended.
Jackson and Hall took in the apartment as Micki led them to the living room. Unlike Rosalie Curzon’s apartment, it didn’t scream “prostitute.” Of course, Curzon had been murdered in her bedroom, where she plied her trade. The detectives noticed that a door, presumably leading to a bedroom—Micki’s place of business—was closed. What it looked like in there was anybody’s guess.
“Mind if we sit down?” Jackson asked.
“Go ahead.” She lit a cigarette and dropped the match into an ashtray already overflowing with butts and matches.
“Okay,” Jackson said, “let’s get this over with. First of all, I appreciate you coming back on short notice.”
“I didn’t have a choice, did I?”
“No, I suppose you didn’t. The reason we wanted you back here, Micki, was to learn more about your relationship with Rosalie.”
“I already told you we were friends.”
“Good friends, as I understand it,” Jackson said.
“We were close. We were in the same rotten business.”
“Both working for Beltway Escorts.”
“That’s where we met.”
“And the two of you decided to go freelance.”
She leaned forward on the couch to emphasize what she