Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [96]
Jackson read both stories, and passed the paper to Mary Hall. They were alone in the kitchen. Mr. and Mrs. Rollins had been there earlier and invited them to join them for breakfast. After the Rollinses had left, Jackson said to Hall, referring to the newspaper piece, “Looks like he got together with Ziegler for legit reasons after all.”
“Seems that way. Did you notice a change in them this morning?”
“The Rollinses? Yeah, I did. More relaxed. She certainly seems to be.”
“Why?”
Jackson shrugged. “Maybe it’s just a matter of time doing its number. You get numb after a while.”
“Did you hear what he said just before they left this morning, that he has renewed confidence that everything will turn out all right?”
“I’m glad he feels that way. It would be hell if he felt otherwise.”
“It was almost as though he knows something.”
“I don’t think so, Mary. Just simple, hopeful optimism.”
“He’s spending another day in the office?”
“That’s the plan.”
“It’s been three days since she was grabbed. Not another word from whoever has her.”
“Seems more like three weeks.”
“Are you staying here today?”
“No. Kloss wants me to replace one of the detectives at Rollins’s office. You know, stay close to him.” He checked his watch. “I’d better get going. Kloss wants me there before Rollins arrives, and I need to swing by Metro on the way.” He made sure no one was about to intrude upon them before leaning over and kissing her on the mouth. “I miss you,” he said.
“Soon,” she said.
“Never soon enough. I’ll check in with you later.”
As he walked from the house, a reporter yelled, “Hey, when’s the family going to make a statement?”
Jackson ignored him, went to a department car parked across the driveway, got in and told the uniformed cop at the wheel to drop him at Metro.
“Anything new?” the cop asked.
“No.”
“Know what I figure?”
“What?” Jackson said, not really interested.
“I figure it’s some nut who got screwed by the father in a court case. You read about it all the time, some whack-job gets a bad decision and starts shooting at everybody—his lawyer, the judge, anybody.”
“As good a theory as any,” Jackson said.
“You wait and see,” said the cop. “Just wait and see.”
Jackson walked into Metro and headed directly for the detectives’ section, where Hatcher sat at a table with a couple of other veteran cops.
“Hey, look who’s here,” Hatcher bellowed. “Solve the kidnapping yet, hot shot?”
“Hello, Hatch,” Jackson said, heading for the locker room to retrieve some things he needed from his space. Hatcher followed.
“So, how’s it feel to rub elbows with the rich and famous?” the crusty detective asked.
“I don’t look at it that way,” Jackson said as he found the right numbers on the combination lock.
“Ah, come on, Jackson, sure you do. Guys like you are always sucking up to anybody who can do something for you. Hey, kid, play your cards right and you’ll end up running this joint.”
Jackson continued to ignore Hatcher, carefully placing items in a small athletic bag.
“Hey, Jackson, I’m talking to you.”
“I hear you, Hatch,” Jackson said, not turning.
“You really hate my guts, don’t you?”
Jackson looked down at the floor and slowly shook his head. “Let’s just say that we don’t get along, Hatch.”
“Jackson, you know why we don’t get along, as you put it? We don’t get along because you’re a piss-poor excuse for a cop. We don’t get along because I’ve forgotten more about being a cop than you’ll ever know. You can take all your books and your degrees and shove ’em, pal, because they ain’t worth the paper they’re printed on.”
“You finished with the lecture, Hatch?” Jackson said, slamming closed the locker and spinning the lock with conviction.
“Oh, I’m finished, all right. Maybe you heard. I put in my retirement papers.”
“I did hear that. Congratulations.”
“Yeah, I figured I’d get out’a here before you filed some dumb charge that I’m a racist or something.”
Jackson drew a deep breath. “Enjoy