Murder Inside the Beltway - Margaret Truman [97]
“I have to go, Hatch. I’m running late.”
“Go ahead.”
“You’re in the way.”
Hatcher’s grin was crooked, nasty.
“Oh, pardon me, hot shot. Sure, I’ll get out of your way, but first let me give you a word of advice.”
Jackson knew it was senseless to protest.
“Stay out of my way till I’m gone. Got that?”
Hatcher moved aside and Jackson went to the door. He could feel Hatcher’s eyes boring into his back. He turned and said, “When you were working vice, Hatch, who were the cops shaking down hookers like Rosalie Curzon and Micki Simmons?”
His question elicited an audible expulsion of air from Hatcher.
Jackson stared at him, awaiting an answer.
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Jackson.”
“Just asking, Hatch. Somebody was putting the arm on them. No doubt about that.”
“They tell you that?”
“Curzon was in no position to tell me anything,” Jackson said, “but Simmons—”
“And you take the word of a freakin’ whore.” Hatcher laughed, too loud and long. “Go crawl back in your hole with the rest of your people, Jackson. Get out’a my sight.”
Jackson left the locker room, afraid of what he might do next. There was a time during the confrontation that he thought of the handgun he carried, how easy it would be to pull it out and put an end to the man who’d berated and demeaned him at every turn, the man who caused sleepless nights and fantasies of revenge. He’d never felt that way before about anyone. The thought of using his weapon, even on the criminals he’d pursued, was unpleasant at best. He sometimes wondered whether he’d be able to do it, draw the weapon, aim, and take another person’s life. He knew he wasn’t alone. He’d heard a few fellow cops express such doubts, always privately, of course, and beyond the earshot of those who would find such reservations unmanly. There were veteran cops who’d never had to draw their weapons during a long career, and were obviously happy that they hadn’t needed to.
He stood just outside the locker room, leaned against the wall, and drew deep breaths. He thought of his father’s advice on the phone the other night about not allowing someone like Hatcher to drive him from the job he’d coveted since high school. He had to smile. If his father thought that walking away was bad, imagine if his son decided to blow away Hatcher in a locker room at Metro.
Although he was running late, he preceded Rollins to the office by fifteen minutes and was standing in the reception area talking with Caroline when Rollins walked in. They exchanged greetings before Rollins disappeared into his office and closed the door behind him; Jackson joined a second detective in the small, previously unused room, in which recording devices had been installed. There was an issue that had to be resolved before the taping of calls began. Rollins was an attorney, which meant that his conversations with clients were protected under attorney-client privilege. It had been agreed that the detectives monitoring calls would immediately cease recording once they realized it was a client on the line. It wasn’t a perfect system, and Rollins had balked initially, but eventually gave in to reason. After all, his daughter’s life was at stake. It was also agreed that outgoing calls would not be monitored or taped.
“I wish this thing would get resolved,” the second detective said. “I’m getting tired of sitting around.”
“Yeah, I know,” Jackson said, not offering up the obvious, that much of a detective’s life is spent doing just that, sitting or standing around.
“What’s he like?” the detective asked, nodding toward Rollins’s office, separated from them by a single interior wall.
“Mr. Rollins? He’s a nice guy, as far as I can tell. He’s cool, a real lawyer, treats those of us assigned to the house pretty good.”
“I don’t get to see him much. He holes himself up in his office most of the time.”
As the day dragged on, Jackson’s thoughts kept reverting back to that morning’s exchange with Walt Hatcher. He’d done nothing to provoke Hatcher, and