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

José?” Hatcher asked.
    “I know nothing,” the super responded. “I swear it. She was a nice lady, that’s all I know. No money from her. I get no money.”
    Hatcher grinned and patted the super on his shoulder. “Okay, amigo, relax. But what about the men who visited her, her customers? You must have seen lots of them.”
    The super shrugged. “They come, they go, like everybody in the building.”
    “You wouldn’t remember what any of them looked like if I showed you some pictures?”
    He shook his head.
    “You’re sure about that?”
    “
Sí
. Yes.”
    “All right, buddy,” Hatcher said, adding an additional slap on the shoulder, harder. “I’ll be back. We’ll talk again.”
    Hatcher next drove to Constitution Avenue on Capitol Hill, where he pulled up in front of Charlie Palmer Steak House. He went inside and asked to see the manager, who happened to be the man he’d approached.
    “Walt Hatcher, MPD,” Hatcher said, showing his gold badge.
    “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”
    “I need to know if a certain person had dinner here last night.”
    “Who is that?”
    “Lewis Archer. He’s a lobbyist. I understand a lot of them come here.”
    The manager smiled. “Oh, yes, of course. Mr. Archer is a regular customer. He was here last night with his wife. Is something wrong?”
    “No, nothing’s wrong. I’m just touching all the bases. You remember what time he and his wife showed up?”
    The manager frowned. “Let me check.” He returned a few minutes later holding a computer printout. “He got here at quarter of nine. They sat right over there. He likes that particular table.”
    “They arrive together?”
    “Ah, no, as a matter of fact. She got here first, but that’s not unusual. Mr. Archer tends to run late.” He laughed. “He has a very understanding wife.”
    “I guess he does. Thanks for the info.”
    “Anytime. I hope Mr. Archer isn’t in some sort of trouble.”
    “Not at all. Just routine checking. Have a good night, pal.”
    He preceded Mae to Amalfi’s and enjoyed a drink with one of the owners while waiting for her. She arrived on time and they were shown to a table.
    “How was your day?” she asked.
    “Nothing new and exciting. I’m glad I left early. Calamari to start?”
    They ordered a bottle of Chianti with the calamari. A waiter poured the shimmering red wine into their glasses, and they touched rims. Mae observed him across the small corner table. Her husband of many years seemed to have aged unreasonably over the past year, gray bags beneath his eyes more pronounced now, the sparkle in his green eyes muted. He’d been taking medicine for an enlarged heart since his last physical, which was three years ago, and a nagging pain in his lower back, along with a knee that the orthopedist said needed replacing, caused him to walk differently. Hatcher was a stubborn man when it came to medicine—when it came to most things—and he seldom complained about his physical ailments. Of course, Mae reasoned, she was getting older, too, and undoubtedly didn’t look the same to him either.
    But she didn’t suffer the strain and tensions of his job. She’d read many articles about how police work, particularly in large cities, took its toll on cops, and on their families, too. The divorce and suicide rates for cops were far above the average. To spend each day going to gruesome murder scenes was bound to change a man, she knew, and not for the better. The few friends they had through Hatch’s work were bitter and cynical, men hardened by their daily routines, their women cautious in the way they approached them.
    “Florida’s looking better every day,” he said.
    “I spoke with Christina today,” Mae said, pleased that the topic had come up. “I told her that you might retire and that we’d move to the house in Florida and—” He was frowning. “That’s okay, isn’t it, that I told her?”
    “What? Yeah, sure. I stopped at Charlie Palmer Steak House on my