Free Murder Inside the Beltway by Margaret Truman Page B

her voice. “Hey, look, don’t tell him I told you this. Right? I mean, I think the guy is capable of anything.”
    “Including murder.”
    She sat back, closed her eyes, and nodded.
    He dropped the pad on the table and stood. “I forgot about the coffee,” he said, and went to the kitchen. He returned carrying two steaming mugs on a tray, along with sugar and a pint container of half-and-half. He placed it on the table.
    “Do you have Sweet’n Low?” she asked.
    He brought it from the kitchen.
    “You won’t tell Billy what I told you,” she repeated.
    “No need to. Did you and Rosalie share clients? I mean, did you pass them back and forth between you?”
    “Sometimes. If Rosalie was away, or I was, we’d suggest that one of our clients see the other if they were upset or didn’t have much time. But we didn’t do that much, just now and then.”
    “We’re looking for Rosalie’s killer,” Jackson said. “Chances are that it was one of her johns. Can you give me some names of men you sent to her when you were away?”
    She shook her head with conviction. “I would never do that,” she said solemnly.
    “Even if it might help solve the murder of your friend?”
    She looked down and thought before responding. “Ah don’t think it’s right to just name a bunch’a names and have them dragged through the dirt. If you know somebody who you think did it, and if I know that person, then I might talk about it. But ah don’t want to be sending you on some wild-goose chase that’ll hurt people for no good reason.”
    He silently agreed with her, although he knew he shouldn’t. Hatcher certainly wouldn’t have bought her rationale. So what if a bunch of men were embarrassed at having bought the services of a prostitute? Chances were, they had those who would be deeply hurt by knowing of the infidelity. Was it more unsavory to have paid for sex rather than having fallen into an affair with a neighbor or office colleague? It didn’t really matter. Hurt was hurt, regardless of its genesis.
    “Where in Carolina did you grow up?” he asked.
    “A little town outside of Sumter. You have any more questions?” she asked, slipping her feet into her shoes.
    “I’m sure I’ll have more, Micki, but none at the moment.”
    “That’s good.” She stood and picked up her raincoat. “Hey, how did you know about me?”
    “Somebody in the neighborhood told me that you and Rosalie were friends.”
    “Who?”
    “It doesn’t matter.”
    “You get to ask questions but I can’t?”
    “Yeah, that’s the way it works. Sorry.”
    “Stinks.”
    He slipped into his jacket and held the raincoat for her. “How are you traveling to South Carolina?” he asked.
    “Train.”
    “Okay. I’ll drop you at the station. I need to know how to reach you in South Carolina. We may want to have you come back to D.C.”
    She pouted, but wrote down an address and phone number in Sumter.
    “What will you do about your apartment?” he asked as they left his place and went to where he’d parked the car.
    “Keep it for a while, I guess.”
    “That’s probably smart,” he said, holding open the car’s door. “You’ll have to come back to D.C. at some point.”
    As she got out of the car in front of Union Station, and Jackson had retrieved her suitcase from the trunk, she smiled at him and took his extended hand. “You’re okay,” she said.
    “For a cop?”
    “No,” she said. “Just okay.”
    He watched her disappear into a crowd of people, and for the first time allowed his concern about Hatcher’s reaction to allowing her to leave town—to have
helped her
leave—to surface. He’d be furious and demeaning. No doubt about that.
    Jackson used the radio in his car to ask headquarters for information about Beltway Escorts. Its phone number was cross-referenced to a street address, and Jackson headed in that direction. He’d deal with Hatcher when he had to, and the senior detective faded from Jackson’s thoughts as