Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [70]
“More today with a no-holds-barred attitude by the media. Politicians used to get a free pass from the press when it came to their dalliances. Those days are gone forever.”
“Gary Hart might have been president.”
“Might have.”
“He might have been a good president.”
“We’ll never know.”
Their conversation was interrupted by Samantha. “Let’s go over there,” she said, pointing to another area of the Mall, close to where they’d parked the car. “There’s an awesome band playing, not old folksy music like this, really cool.”
Sue and Jerry smiled. “Okay, princess,” he said, starting to put things back into the cooler, and emptying trash into a nearby pail. The cleanup completed, they folded the chairs and headed in the direction of a large crowd gathered in another performing space. Samantha was right; the music was more of the rock-’n’-roll variety, the band’s large amps pumping the dissonance out to the audience. As they walked, Jerry turned suddenly when he sensed that someone was watching them. It was a nondescript man, middle-aged, wearing jeans, a maroon sweatshirt, and with a baseball cap with a large bill pulled down low over his forehead. He didn’t look familiar. As Rollins turned, the man swiveled his head to look in another direction.
“Someone you know?” Sue asked.
“No.”
“Hey, Jerry.”
“But this guy I know,” Rollins said, shaking hands with an attorney and his wife with whom he and Sue had been friends for years.
“Dad,” Samantha said, pulling him by the hand in the direction of the group onstage.
“You go ahead, sweetheart,” Rollins said, “but don’t go far.”
After a few minutes of banter, the Rollinses went to where Samantha had secured a spot from which she could see the performers. “Isn’t it cool?” she asked, beaming.
“Yes, it certainly is,” Rollins replied, wincing against the audio assault and wishing it had been jazz instead of folk and rock. He took comfort that there would be a jazz fest later that month at Wolf Trap; he’d already gotten tickets for it.
They’d tired by mid-afternoon and decided to call it a day. Rollins was pleased that they were relatively close to their parked car.
They’d almost reached it when they were approached by another set of friends.
“Give me the keys, Daddy,” Samantha said. “I’ll open the car.”
“Enjoy the music?” one of their friends asked.
“What?” Rollins said. “Oh, yes, very much, but you know—”
Samantha poked his arm.
“Oh, sure, honey, here,” he said, handing her the keys.
Their conversation with friends lasted only a few minutes more.
“Great seeing you,” Rollins said. The women pressed their cheeks to each other and the men shook hands. Rollins and Sue took steps toward the car.
“Samantha?” he called.
Sue turned. “Samantha?” she said.
“Where the hell—?”
Sue came to his side. “Where is she?”
“Look,” Rollins said, pointing to the ground near the rear of the car. The keys he’d given his daughter rested in a clump of grass.
“Samantha!” he shouted, and repeated it two more times.
Sue pushed through a crowd of tourists on the sidewalk, frantically looking for their daughter. Her voice carried over the din of the music and car horns and chattering people—“S-A-M-A-N-T-H-A!”
TWENTY-THREE
It had gone easier than expected.
They’d pulled the car, a nondescript tan four-door sedan, up next to the Rollinses wagon. The man and woman got out through the rear doors. The driver stayed behind the wheel, the engine running. The man and woman noticed that Samantha’s parents were preoccupied with another couple, saw the girl run to the car, keys outstretched, and observed that there was no one else at that moment in the immediate vicinity. It helped, too, that she came around to the rear of the station wagon and started to open the tailgate, keeping her out of the path of anyone who might stroll by. It took only an instant for the man to sweep the girl up, a hand over her mouth, and toss her into the backseat. The driver pulled away, easily, slowly, so as not to arouse attention. As far as