Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [66]
“Yes, we did interview him, Micki. Did you and Rosalie ever have any problems between the two of you?”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know, get into a hassle over money or johns and anything else?”
“No.”
“You know a man named Craig Thompson?”
She guffawed. “Poor Craig,” she said. “He’s pathetic. He followed Rosalie around like a puppy dog, begging her to marry him. He was—how should I put it?—he was one of those jerks who decided he’d save a hooker.” Another dismissive sound from her. “Jesus, spare me those types.”
“Think he might have killed Rosalie?”
“No. He’s too weak.”
“When was the last time you saw Rosalie alive?” Jackson asked. He glanced over at Hall, who was quietly making notes in a slender steno pad.
“The night she got it.”
“Oh? You didn’t mention that before.”
Of course she hadn’t. He hadn’t asked. Maybe he wasn’t cut out to be a detective after all.
“Tell us about it,” he said.
“We had dinner together in that place you just left, the Silver Veil. Rosalie liked that kind of food, why I don’t know.”
“Did she seem upset?” Mary asked, her first question since they’d arrived.
“Sure.”
“Sure? You make it sound as though we should know why she was upset.”
“A couple of things. One, I’d decided to pack it in and go home. She wasn’t happy with that. She liked having me around.”
“Because you were a friend.”
“Of course.”
“What was the other reason she was upset?”
“She was tired of being shaken down, that’s why.”
Shakedowns certainly weren’t unknown in MPD. There were always cops who used their positions of authority to make an extra buck from businesses who paid for protection, especially those whose activities were less than honest. Cops who traveled that route were in a minority, of course, usually older ones brought up in that tradition. They didn’t consider it illegal or unethical. For them, they rationalized that it represented being adequately compensated for doing a thankless job and putting their lives on the line to protect the city’s citizens—a rationalization, to be sure, but adequate to salve what was left of their consciences.
“Who was shaking her down?” Mary asked.
“Oh, come on,” Micki said. “You know damn well who.”
Jackson laughed and held out his hands. “Hey, I don’t know. Tell me.”
“You. Cops. Vice squad. You either want money, or a piece of what I’m selling. Man, can you really be that naïve? It’s bad enough making a living the way we do, catering to rich fat cats with big bellies and body odor and telling them what great lovers they are. On top of that we have to pay off cops who’re supposed to protect us, not rip us off.”
Jackson’s immediate reaction was to not feel sorry for Micki, or any other woman who chose to become a prostitute. She wasn’t like those young women, even kids, who are sold into sexual slavery, or streetwalkers being beaten by their pimps every night and given just enough money to support their drug habits. Micki Simmons, Rosalie Curzon, and others like them—Washington, D.C., had more prostitutes per capita than any other city in the country, according to a report he’d recently read—weren’t disadvantaged women. They’d chosen to become hookers because it was easier money than doing an honest day’s work in an office or factory.
On the other hand, she was right. Cops who preyed on them were part of the problem, abettors of their illicit lives.
“Who were these cops, Micki?” Mary asked.
“They don’t matter to me anymore,” Micki answered. “I’m giving up my apartment here—and the life. I want out of D.C. as fast as possible, away from all the phonies and users. I’ve had it with all these guys puffed up with their importance, as though working for the government makes them special—full of talk, nice suits, lying through their teeth every time they open their mouths.”
“Tell us who the cops were, Micki,” Mary repeated. “We’ll try and do something about it.”
“Sure you will. You’re going to change the system? Christ, you sound like