Free Murder Inside the Beltway by Margaret Truman Page A

was too tight across her sizable bosom, and jeans that were also too tight. This was a woman who would fight a weight problem as she aged, he thought. But that was in the future. Right now, she was a tall, solidly built woman who looked as though she spent considerable time in a gym, maybe even lifting weights. The most striking thing about her was a mane of copper hair.
    “Coffee will be ready in a minute,” he said, pulling up a yellow director’s chair.
    She spread her arms. “So, go ahead and ask your questions.”
    He pulled a slender notebook and pen from his inside jacket pocket, removed the jacket, hung it over a matching chair, and resumed his seat. “I suppose I can start by asking why you were leaving D.C. and going home. Home is South Carolina?”
    “How did you know that?”
    “Your, ah, your sheet.”
    She winced. “Pretty sad, huh, a nice southern girl like me having a rap sheet?”
    “We all make mistakes.”
    “It wasn’t a mistake. It’s what I chose to do with my life, at least for part of it.”
    “Prostitution.”
    She nodded.
    “I’m not judging you, Ms. Simmons.”
    “Good. You can call me Micki.”
    “Okay, Micki, and I’m Matt.”
    “Micki and Matt,” she said with a laugh. “Sounds like a TV sitcom.”
    “It does, doesn’t it?”
    An expression crossed her face. “I can’t believe Rosalie is dead.”
    “Tell me about her, Micki.”
    She shrugged and wiped a single teardrop from her cheek. “We were friends, that’s all.”
    “How’d you meet her?”
    “The agency.”
    “Which agency?”
    “Beltway Escorts. I’m sure that’s on my rap sheet, too.”
    “Yeah, it is. You both worked there for a while?”
    “We both worked there for too long. More than one day is too long as far as I’m concerned.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “The slob that runs it.”
    His raised eyebrows said that he wanted the name.
    “Billy McMahon,” she said. Jackson noted it. “He’s a low-class bastard.”
    “He why you were leaving D.C.?”
    “It’s time I left,” she said. Her laugh was sardonic. “Ah came here because I thought living in the city would be neat, you know? Small-town girl makes it big. Jesus, what a dope I was.”
    “Did you have any jobs here besides turning tricks?”
    “Sure. Lousy ones, low pay, long hours. That’s why…”
    “That’s why turning tricks appealed. Money.”
    “Why else do it?”
    “I don’t know. Tell me about Rosalie.”
    “She was great. Man, she had a sense of what was going on and how things went down. She made me look like the naïve jerk that I am.”
    “Did she like the life?” Micki’s expression was quizzical. “Prostitution,” Jackson clarified.
    She sat back and blew a stream of air at a red strand of hair that had fallen over her forehead. “She hated it as much as I did,” she said, “only she knew how to make it work. How do I say it?—She was worldly. I guess that’s the way to say it. She knew how to make the most out of a bad situation.”
    His immediate thought was of the video recorder and tapes found in Rosalie Curzon’s apartment. Was that what the woman seated across from him was referring to, her dead friend’s ability to “make the most out of a bad situation”? He almost brought it up but thought better of it. Instead, he said, “Tell me more about the escort service and this guy McMahon.”
    Her expression was worth a hundred words. “Billy McMahon is a creep. Maybe you should talk to him about Rosalie’s murder.”
    “Oh?”
    “Yeah. When Rosalie decided to leave the agency and go solo, she encouraged me to go with her. I did. Billy never forgave her. Not only did I walk away along with her, he accused her of taking clients with her, lots of them. He said she promised them better service at lower prices if they’d come directly to her instead of booking through the agency. He threatened to kill her.”
    “Literally?”
    “That’s right.” She leaned forward, a sense of urgency in