Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [82]
“You married, Detective?”
“No, sir.”
“Been a detective long?”
“About four years.”
“Working with Kloss?”
“No, sir. I was assigned to his squad right after I made detective, but was transferred to another unit.”
“He seems to have a lot of faith in you and your partner.”
“Detective Kloss is a good man,” Jackson said. “I’ve always admired him and was pleased when he asked me to be part of this case.”
Rollins fell silent, his gaze at the curtained front window.
“Can I get you anything, sir?” Jackson asked.
“What? No, thank you. Thank you very much.”
The FBI agents took Rollins aside to question him further about possible enemies. Jackson strolled into the kitchen, where Detective Garcia, Kloss’s second-in-command, drank coffee and chewed on a buttered roll.
“Kloss tells me that you and Hall work for Walt Hatcher,” he said absently, using a knife to spread the butter more evenly.
“Right.”
“How’s he to work for?”
“Hatch?” Jackson was tempted to vent his true feelings, but held back. “He’s okay,” he said.
Garcia laughed. “That’s not what I hear,” he said.
“No,” Jackson reassured, “he’s okay, a little difficult sometimes but—”
“Kloss is high on you.”
“I’m happy to hear that.”
The roll consumed and the coffee finished, he stood, stretched, and slapped Jackson on the shoulder as he passed his chair. “Hang loose,” he said.
“Not much else to do,” Jackson said.
• • •
Hatcher ended up bunking at Tommy G’s Saturday night after consuming too much alcohol and getting into an argument with a man and a woman who were Colgate backers. Hatcher berated them for buying the former governor’s liberal line of BS. It became so heated that Tommy Gillette had to pull Hatcher aside and maneuver him into the back room, where he stayed until the couple had left. He reemerged, ordered another drink and slouched at a corner table, brooding over his bourbon and the insults he’d suffered that day.
Chief Carter had effectively pushed him out of the loop, taken his staff away, and reduced him to poring through old missing persons reports on the slim chance that a previous abduction might shed a clue on the Rollins case. He’d seethed for the rest of Saturday, snapping at anyone who approached, left Metro at six and went directly to the restaurant.
The drinks eased his inner turmoil, at least that portion of it caused by the chief’s dismissal of him. But there was another level of anxiety that he couldn’t shake. He didn’t like that Jackson and Hall had been assigned to the kidnapping, didn’t like it one bit. The more he drank, the more he conjured scenarios involving them. He’d indicated to the chief that Jackson might be the leak within the department regarding the Rosalie Curzon murder. It was probably true, Hatcher decided. Jackson was like a lot of cops, getting perverted pleasure out of sucking up to the press, feeding them info from inside, jeopardizing cases, and thumbing their noses at the system.
Not only that, Jackson and Hall were probably sleeping together. He’d picked up on subtle clues, the way they looked at each other, knowing that they spent time together off-duty. Mixed race couples upset him. It wasn’t the way human beings were supposed to behave, it violated the laws of nature. Every year it seemed there were more and more mixed couples in D.C., flaunting their transgressions and daring anyone to challenge them. Such thoughts turned Hatcher’s stomach. Mae said she agreed with him, although she was less vehement about it. He was proud of his kids. They’d followed the rules, his rules, and were the better for it. Sure, he’d been a tough father. He’d set the bar high and expected them to reach it. He knew his relation-ship with them wasn’t as smooth as Mae would like it to be, but being liked was never his goal. Being respected, even feared, was more important than winning a popularity contest.
He stayed at his table and avoided the bar for the rest of the evening, becoming more morose with each drink. As the alcohol coursed through his bloodstream and invaded his already addled