Murder Inside the Beltway Read Free Page A

doing.”
    She led him to the bed, where their gyrations were captured on the tape. When they were finished, she complimented him on his lovemaking. She slipped back into her kimono, and he dressed. She kissed his cheek. “Don’t be such a stranger,” she cooed. The screen went black.
    “Do we have to watch this stuff?” Mary Hall asked.
    “Turn you on?” Hatcher said.
    “Turns me off.”
    Hatcher used chopsticks to shovel beef and broccoli into his mouth. Images and sound appeared again on the screen. The same scenario was played out, but with a different man. When that segment had run its course, the screen went blank again, and stayed that way.
    Hatcher muttered an obscenity.
    “Looks like she didn’t have it rolling when she was killed,” Jackson offered.
    “Another brilliant observation from Detective Jackson,” Hatcher said. “Let me have another tape.”
    “Do we have to watch more?” Mary asked.
    “Yeah, we do,” said Hatcher.
    Neither Jackson nor Hall ate while sitting through scene after scene of Rosalie Curzon entertaining her paying male customers. For Jackson, the initial scenes had been sexually arousing, but numbness soon set in, the sameness of the act becoming anything but erotic, sometimes even silly. But after the third tape started to play, everyone’s attention perked up. The john’s face was all too familiar, a six-term pol with a penchant for publicity. There was no mistaking him—Congressman Slade Morrison of Arizona.
    “What’a you know,” Hatcher muttered, writing down the name.
    On the fourth tape, Hatcher recognized another john, although neither Jackson nor Hall did. “The guy’s name is Joe Yankavich,” Hatcher said. “Runs a bar in Adams Morgan, Joe’s, bad food and watered drinks.”
    Hatcher rewound and again played the portion where Rosalie Curzon had turned the naked man toward the camera.
    “I recognize him now,” Jackson said. “I’ve been there a few times. It’s a couple of blocks from my apartment.”
    Hatcher noted Yankavich’s name on the pad.
    In the middle of the final tape—it was now almost six in the morning—Mary, who’d had to fight falling asleep and had nodded off on a few occasions, let out an involuntary gasp.
    Hatcher stopped the tape. “You recognize him, Mary?” he asked.
    “Ah, no. Forget it.”
    “Hey, Mary, this is a murder investigation,” Hatcher said. “If you know the guy, speak up.”
    “He’s a cop.”
    “Yeah?” Hatcher said.
    “An instructor at the academy. Defensive tactics, baton training,” she said glumly.
    “What’s his name?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Get it for me.”
    “Okay,” she said.
    After the final scene had played, Hatcher stretched, yawned, and turned on the overheads. He looked at Jackson, who rubbed his eyes.
    “So, we’ve got us three live ones to talk to,” Hatcher said.
    “What are you going to do with the tapes?” Jackson asked.
    “Take ’em upstairs and let ’em know what we’ve got. I can see political fallout written all over this.”
    Hatcher placed the tapes in the evidence bag and opened the door. He looked back at Jackson and Hall, who remained in their chairs. “Coming?” he asked. “Go grab a couple of hours. I want to get back on this at noon.”
    Jackson and Hall wearily pushed themselves up from their chairs and followed Hatcher through the door. “Funny,” Jackson muttered.
    “What’s funny?” Mary asked.
    “Every time the victim is seen on the tapes, she’s wearing that red bathrobe.”
    “It’s a kimono,” Mary corrected.
    “Okay, a kimono. But she’s wearing it every time.”
    “So what?” Hatcher said.
    “So, she wasn’t wearing it tonight when she was murdered.”
    “Sooo?” Hatcher said.
    “She was wearing a sweat suit,” Jackson said, “like runners wear. Maybe whoever killed her wasn’t there for sex, hadn’t made an appointment or anything.”
    Mary looked at Hatcher. “Good point,” she said.
    Hatcher grimaced and said,