Murder Inside the Beltway Read Online Free PDF Page B

Yankavich snorted.
    Hatcher waited until his burger had been served before saying anything else to Yankavich. He ate enthusiastically, having poured on plenty of ketchup. A few locals arrived and took tables to the rear of the place. Hatcher finished eating and summoned the owner.
    “You want dessert, Hatcher?”
    Hatcher shook his head.
    “Good to see you,” said Yankavich. “The burger’s on me.” He pulled an envelope from the rear pocket of his pants and slid it across the bar. Hatcher picked it up and put it in his inside jacket pocket.
    “We need to talk,” Hatcher said.
    “About what?”
    “In the back.”
    Yankavich left the bar and retreated into a closet-sized back room that functioned as an office and storeroom. Hatcher followed. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, arms folded.
    “You know a pretty lady named Rosalie, Joe?” Hatcher asked.
    Yankavich looked up from his chair behind the desk. “Huh?”
    “Rosalie Curzon,” Hatcher said. “She lived in the neighborhood.”
    Yankavich exhaled loudly and sat back. “I heard,” he said. “It’s all over the street. Somebody whacked her last night, as I understand it.”
    “You know her, Joe? She was a customer?”
    “No. She never came in here.”
    “So, you knew her.”
    “I didn’t say that.”
    “If you didn’t know her, Joe, how could you be sure she never came in here?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe I met her once or twice.”
    “You send her customers?”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hatcher.”
    “Come on, now, Joe. We both know you run broads out of here, and some of that white stuff that goes up the nose. I mean, not you personally, but you—how shall I say it?—condone it. Right?”
    “That’s what you want to talk about, Hatcher?”
    “What’d she charge, Joe?”
    “Huh?”
    “Her fee for a trip to heaven. How much?”
    “You’re blowing smoke, Hatcher.”
    “You visit the lovely Ms. Curzon last night?”
    “Hey, wait a minute, Hatcher. What the hell are you getting at?”
    “We know you were a customer of hers, Joe. It’s on tape.”
    “What?”
    “Where were you last night?”
    “Right here.”
    “I suppose there’s an army who’ll testify to that.”
    Yankavich’s grin was crooked, his large lips moist. “That’s right,” he said.
    “What’d she do, Joe, call you Godzilla or something?”
    Yankavich stood. “Unless you got somebody who puts me at her place last night, I’ve got customers to take care of,” he said. He moved toward the door, but Hatcher stood his ground. They were a foot from each other.
    “I’m just doing my job, Joe, that’s all. Somebody gets murdered, I go find who did it. I believe you when you say you weren’t with her last night, but if I find out different, I’ll do my job.”
    Hatcher stepped aside to allow Yankavich to open the door and leave the tiny room. He extracted the envelope from his pocket, opened it, counted the bills it contained, returned it to his pocket, and stepped back into the restaurant. He went to where he’d been sitting and laid money on the bar. “Good burger, Joe. There’s a tip there, too. Thanks for the offer, but freebies are against the rules.”
     
•  •  •
     
    Officer Al Manfredi was on a training field teaching a class in defensive maneuvers when Jackson and Hall arrived. He noticed them standing just outside the door but didn’t acknowledge them.
    After ten minutes, he dismissed the class and fell in line with his students as they headed for the door.
    “Officer Manfredi,” Mary Hall said as he approached.
    “Yeah?”
    “I’m Mary Hall. I was in your class a few years ago.”
    “Oh, sure, Mary Hall. Hail Mary.” He laughed. “That’s what they used to call you.”
    She, too, laughed. “I remember it well. This is my partner, Detective Jackson.”
    Jackson and Manfredi shook hands. Jackson’s immediate thought was that up close, Manfredi looked like the comedian Don Rickles. A