Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [78]
“I can’t think of a thing.”
Jackson had sat silently during the exchange. Rollins’s coolness in the face of what had occurred was impressive to the young detective. He chalked it up to two things: being a shrewd, hardened attorney, and putting up a front for his wife’s sake. But his face changed as Kloss asked his questions. For the first time a modicum of tension crossed it, even nerves. Jackson looked at Kloss to see if the veteran detective had picked up on the same thing. His expression was noncommittal.
As dusk settled over the nation’s capital, Kloss took Jackson and Hall aside to say that the Rollinses had asked that they be retained on the case, at least for the near duration. “But I won’t need both of you here at the same time. I suggest one of you go home, get a few hours’ sleep, pack a bag, and head back.”
“You, Mary?” Jackson asked.
“No, Matt, you go ahead. Mrs. Rollins and I are getting along fine. I don’t want to leave her.”
“Suit yourself,” Kloss said.
As Jackson prepared to leave, he said, “Hatcher called a while ago. That was the call I was on when you told me to end it.”
Kloss pulled Jackson and Hall into a corner and spoke in low tones. “Matt,” he said, “forget about Hatcher. This case takes precedence over everything. I told Chief Carter that the family wanted you and Detective Hall on the case until further notice, and he whole-heartedly agreed. Don’t sweat it.”
Jackson and Hall looked at each other. “Want anything from the apartment?” he asked her.
“No. I’ll pick some things up at my place tomorrow. Get some sleep. This looks like it could go on for a while.”
• • •
Paul and Greta stood in the living room. He’d removed his maroon sweatshirt and baseball cap, replacing them with a dark blue windbreaker, no hat.
“You have the phone?” she asked.
He pulled a slender cell phone from his jacket pocket. Greta had stolen it from picnickers at the Mall less than an hour before snatching Samantha. Amazing, she’d thought after doing it, how careless people are. The phone was resting in plain view on top of a wicker picnic hamper.
“I’ll drive into the District,” he said, “and call from there, dump the phone, and head back.”
“Take a different route to the city than we took here,” she admonished.
“Hey,” he said, “I’m not a dummy. Not to worry. I’ll hit a pizza parlor on the way back. What you want—pepperoni, sausage?”
“Both. And extra cheese.”
“Yeah, extra cheese.”
He pulled a black Volkswagen Jetta from a one-car garage at the rear of the property, drove away from the house, and stuck to the speed limit. He was aware of the number of state patrol cars on the roads, and listened to an all-news radio station which reported nothing that concerned him. He crossed the bridge into the District and made his way to the Southwest waterfront, where some of the city’s best fish restaurants were located. The parking lot was bustling but he maneuvered the Jetta to a relatively secluded spot alongside the Washington Channel, the body of water that diners feasted their eyes on along with their crabs and lobsters and Chilean sea bass. He turned off the car’s lights, got out, and walked to the edge of the channel. The illuminated keypad gave him enough light to dial the number.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Rollins?” he said.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Your daughter is safe and won’t be hurt, provided you do what we tell you to do.”
“Let me talk to her,” Rollins demanded.
“You’ll hear from us again,” Paul said. He pushed the OFF button, flung the phone far into the channel, returned to the car, and drove away.
TWENTY-SIX
“This is Governor Colgate.”
Mary Hall, who’d been monitoring calls at the Rollins house, had picked up.
“Yes, sir?”
“My wife and I want to visit with Mr. and Mrs. Rollins. I assume that can be arranged.”
“I’ll check,” she said.
Kloss had just returned from home, where he’d picked up a change of clothes and other necessities. “We don’t need more of a media circus than we already have,” he said.
“I’ll tell