Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [67]
“And you paid them,” Mary said.
“Every month, like clockwork. I will say this, they kept their part of the bargain. No busts once the payments started.”
Now Jackson got up and went to the window. It overlooked an alley. Across it was another apartment building, with a restaurant on the ground floor, its sidewalk café bustling with customers.
“Are we through here?” Micki asked.
Jackson turned. “Did you know that Rosalie videotaped some of her johns?” he asked.
“Oh,” Micki said, “let’s not get into that.”
“Why not?” Jackson asked, retaking his seat.
“I told her she was playing with fire, but she wouldn’t listen. She said those tapes would be her ticket out of here someday.”
“She intended to blackmail her johns?” Mary said.
“Sure. That’s why she did it.”
“Had she?” Mary asked. “Used them to blackmail anyone?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Who else knew about the tapes?” Jackson asked.
Micki shrugged. “Nobody.”
“Just you? You really think you’re the only person she would have confided in?”
“Maybe.”
“What about you? Who did you tell about the tapes?”
“Nobody.”
“Oh, come on, Micki,” Jackson said. “I may be young, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“All right. Maybe I mentioned it to a couple of people.”
“The cops who were shaking you down?”
“I don’t remember. Yeah, one of them anyway.”
“And that same cop was shaking down Rosalie?”
She nodded. “Look, I really have things to do and—”
“Was Rosalie bisexual?” Jackson asked.
“Why ask me that?”
“Because we’ve been told that she was.”
Micki lit another cigarette—she’d gone through four of five since their arrival—and drew deeply on it. “Rosalie bisexual?” she said absently. “No, Rosalie wasn’t bisexual,” she said, “but she serviced a few women.”
“Really?” Mary said. “Women came to her as a prostitute? I’ve heard of women paying male prostitutes but—”
“I never got into that,” Micki said, proudly. “But Rosalie—hell, she’s not the only one—she had a few lesbian clients. I guess you can’t call them johns.” She laughed at her joke. “Janes maybe, huh?”
“Yeah, janes maybe,” Jackson said.
“We finished?” Micki asked.
“I want to know the names of the vice squad cops who were shaking you and Rosalie down,” Jackson said.
“It doesn’t matter,” she protested.
Jackson slammed his palm on the coffee table. “It matters to us, Micki,” he said in a voice louder than he’d intended. “Your friend, Rosalie, was murdered, damn it, beaten and strangled to death. We need help solving it.”
“Sorry, but I don’t remember any names. Besides, it’s all behind me. If you’re finished, I want to—”
“Don’t leave town, Micki,” Jackson said.
“I’m going home.”
“You’re going home when I say you’re going home. Want to come with us as a material witness and spend a few nights in a cell? You’ve been in a cell before.”
“You bastards are all the same.”
“No we’re not, Micki. Don’t play games. You leave D.C. and you’ll have cops knocking on your mother’s door in South Carolina.” To Mary: “Let’s go.”
As they opened the door, Jackson turned and said, “Did you kill Rosalie, Micki?”
“No.”
They left. Once back on the street, Jackson drew deep breaths to calm down. His annoyance at Micki’s lack of cooperation had surprised him. He seldom experienced anger, sometimes wondering whether it represented some sort of inadequacy in him.
“I like her,” Mary said.
“You do?”
“I think she’s gone through a tough time and is trying to maintain some dignity. She’s entitled to that.”
“Stay at my place tonight?” Matt asked.
“Yes.”
It was after they’d both changed into pajamas and were sitting in front of the TV that she asked, “There’s something really bothering you, isn’t there, Matt. What is it?”
“Those cops who were shaking down Micki and Rosalie.”
“What about them?”