Murder Inside the Beltway by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online Page A

activity to another, and a party, too, of course.”
    Rollins laughed as he came around behind and massaged her shoulders through her robe.
    He’d married later in life than most of his friends; Sue was twelve years his junior. Their daughter, Samantha, “Sammy” to friends and family, was a precocious seven. There were times, many of them, when Rollins found it hard to believe that the beautiful, bright, delightful little creature was actually his daughter, wide-eyed and trusting in his love and that of her mother. She’d never have to doubt their love and devotion. It was total and unconditional. The world, however, was another story. He sometimes wondered how any child grew up, considering the threats out there, illness, accidents, bad deeds. If he could, he would wrap her in an impenetrable sheath and never allow the world to touch her. If only that were an option.
    After downing his nightly ration of vitamin pills, he said he was going to bed. He stopped in front of Samantha’s bedroom and peered into the darkened room, the only illumination a clown night-light. He quietly stepped into the room and sat on the edge of her bed, observed her steady breathing and the small, sweet smile on her lips. Sensing his presence, she opened her eyes and said sleepily, “Daddy’s home.”
    “That’s right, sweetheart, Daddy’s home.”
    “Did you bring me something?”
    “Of course I did.” He hadn’t. “I left it at the office. I’ll bring it home tomorrow.”
    “Okay.”
    “You go back to sleep now. I’ll see you at breakfast before you go to school.”
    “All right.”
    She turned over and buried her face in the pillow. He adjusted her covers and sat for a few minutes before going to the master bedroom and climbing into bed next to Sue. “Good night, hon,” he said.
    “Good night. Was Deborah there with you in San Francisco?”
    “Yes, but I only saw her briefly this morning.”
    “Good night,” she repeated. “I’m glad you’re home.”
     
     
     

SEVEN
     
     
    B efore meeting Mae for dinner at Amalfi’s, a family-owned restaurant not far from their home, Hatcher made a few stops after leaving Joe’s Bar and Grille.
    The first was the apartment building where Rosalie Curzon had been murdered. He was about to enter when Jackson and Hall approached. They’d been questioning residents of nearby buildings and were about to call it a day.
    “Pick up anything?” Hatcher asked.
    “No,” Mary Hall said, “except that the victim’s profession wasn’t a secret to some people.”
    “They knew she was turning tricks?”
    “Those willing to admit it,” said Jackson. “She evidently had a favorite hangout, The Silver Veil, around the corner.”
    “You checked with them?”
    “Yes. The owner—maybe he’s the manager—he says that she used to come in pretty regularly with a friend.”
    “Male?”
    “Female. He gave us her name.”
    Jackson fished a slip of paper from his pocket and read from it: “Micki Simmons.”
    “Mickey?”
    “The female version. M-i-c-k-i.”
    “You get an address for this female Mouse?”
    “No. We just left the place.”
    “I’ll follow up on it,” Hatcher said, taking the paper from Jackson. “What happened with Manfredi? You get to talk to him?”
    They filled him in on their brief, abrasive encounter with the instructor.
    “I’ll take it from here,” Hatcher said.
    “We were about to call it quits for the night,” Hall said. “That okay with you?”
    “Half a day, huh?” They stared at him. “Lots to do. See you at eight sharp.”
    Hatcher watched them walk away and wondered if there might be more to their relationship than being cops. He’d had that suspicion before, but always dismissed it as implausible. They had nothing in common. They weren’t even the same color.
    He went inside and found the Hispanic superintendent, whose expression at seeing the big, menacing Hatcher again was less than welcoming.
    “You decide to be straight with me now,