Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [88]
“Drink?” Ziegler asked.
“You?”
“I’ve decided that a glass of wine with lunch prolongs life, Jerry,” Ziegler replied. “I admire the French. With all their heavy meals and fatty foods, they still have less coronary disease, not necessarily because the wine they drink is beneficial, but because sipping it pro-longs the eating process, allows the digestive tract to more effectively
do its job. Join me?”
“Yes.”
Ziegler gave the waiter an order for a specific cabernet, and indicated to the waitress that she could serve the soup, which was a delicate crab bisque, accompanied by fresh, hot, small rolls. A simple endive salad followed. Conversation during this portion of the luncheon was limited to the kidnapping of Samantha, direct questions from Ziegler about progress on the case, and repeated expressions of sympathy from him and from President Pyle. Rollins gave cursory answers to the queries about the investigation, denying that they’d heard from the kidnappers, and avoiding any details about how the detectives were proceeding. He was sorry he’d accepted Ziegler’s invitation. This was obviously a grandstanding effort to carve some sort of relationship between them that had nothing to do with Samantha, and more to do with the presidential campaign. Though Ziegler’s questions about Colgate and how the campaign was progressing were few, and couched as idle curiosity, Rollins wasn’t seduced.
“I’m going to have to be getting back soon,” Rollins announced after they’d finished the main course, a rack of lamb cooked perfectly pink, baby carrots, and lyonnaise potatoes.
“No dessert? Coffee?”
“Thank you, no. You mentioned when you called, Kevin, that there was something you, or the president, might be able to do concerning Samantha’s abduction. If there is something—tangible—I’d like to hear it.”
Ziegler sat back and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. They were alone in the room. The waitstaff had departed, the French doors were tightly closed. Ziegler leaned forward. “I don’t mean to insult you, Jerry, but by any chance did your detective friends convince you to wear some sort of recording device?”
Rollins’s laugh was involuntary. “No. Of course not.”
“Would you mind if I assured myself of that?”
“Yes, I would, as a matter of fact. But here.” Rollins stood and opened his jacket, revealing his mid-section. “You have insulted me, Kevin,” he said, closing the jacket and sitting.
“Just my naturally paranoid nature, I suppose,” said Ziegler. “My apologies.”
“Just what is it you have to say that shouldn’t be recorded for posterity?” Rollins asked, unable to keep the pique from his voice.
“All right,” Ziegler said, as though he would continue despite his better judgment. “Someone I know whose name shall not be mentioned here has been contacted by another party, who might be involved in the abduction of your daughter.”
The words struck Rollins like a punch. “Say that again,” he said.
“There is someone out there, Jerry, who might be able to—how shall I say it?—who might be instrumental in securing your daughter’s release.”
Rollins sat back and twisted in his chair, threw one leg over the other, waved a hand in front of his face as though to dissipate a cloud that had formed. He looked at Ziegler, who sat stoically, eyes fixed on his lunch guest.
“Who is this person?” Rollins demanded.
“I’m unable to tell you that, Jerry, but does it really matter? Get-ting Samantha back should be all that counts.”
Rollins stood and went to the windows. He could see a garden through the white gauzy drapes, distorted red and yellow and green shapes undulating in the breeze. “What is it you want?” he asked, his back to Ziegler.
“It isn’t what I want, Jerry, it’s what these other people want.”
Rollins spun around. “Stop talking about these so-called other people, Kevin. Stop it! Level with me. For God’s sake, there’s a seven-year-old girl’s life at stake. What do you want me to do, call in the detectives sitting