Philip Margolin - Capitol murder

“But you didn’t get the chance.”

“No. I was about to knock when I heard someone scrambling down the hill. I called out to him, and he shot at me. I returned fire, but I didn’t hit him. I got his car, though.”

“Did you get a license, make?”

“No, it was dark, and I spent a lot of time ducking. When I was sure I was safe, I went in through the patio to see if Crispin was okay. She wasn’t.”

Monte Pike would have been suspicious of any other witness who was this calm after seeing how Dorothy Crispin had been defiled, but Pike knew a little about Dana’s history.

“Can you describe the man who shot at you?”

“No. It was dark. I dived for cover when he fired at me. When I fired back, he was down the hill and his back was all I saw.”

“If I tell you something, will you promise me I won’t read it in Exposed?”

Dana nodded.

“The killer took Crispin’s pinkie.”

Dana had not spent much time with Crispin’s corpse after determining that she was dead, so this revelation came as a complete surprise.

“Clarence Little?” she said.

“Do you think the man you saw was Little?”

“I have no idea. I’ve never seen him in person, and I was intent on staying alive, so I wasn’t trying to see who was shooting at me. Do you have any idea why Little would want to murder Crispin?”

“None whatsoever.”

“When can I go home, Monte?”

“Tomorrow, unless some concrete reason to keep you here pops up, but I can’t think what that might be.”

“I’ll tell the people at Exposed I’ll be delayed. They’ll want me to write this story anyway.”

“But nothing about Little unless I clear it,” Pike reminded Dana.

D ana got back to her hotel at five thirty in the morning and banged out her story. She was out on her feet, but she called Brad at his office before getting into bed. Thanks to the three-hour time difference, she caught him at his desk.

“Good morning, Brad. I’m calling from Portland, Oregon.”

“Are you still investigating the senator for Exposed?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I thought. Wait a minute, isn’t it early there?”

“Yeah, I’ve been up all night at a crime scene. Dorothy Crispin was murdered.”

“Why are you telling me?” Brad asked.

“The information I’m going to give you is not public knowledge. I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone about a certain aspect of the case until I got permission. If I tell you, I’ll be breaking that promise, so you can’t tell anyone.”

“Sure. What gives?”

“Crispin was tortured, and the killer cut off her pinkie and took it with him.”

“What?”

“I got to Crispin’s apartment just as the killer was leaving.”

“You saw Little?”

“I was too far away to see the killer’s face, so I can’t say it was him, but I can say that the killer followed Little’s MO.”

“So let me get this straight. Little escapes in Oregon. Rather than head for some country without an extradition treaty, he flies to D.C. and kills Koshani. Then he flies back to Oregon, where everyone is looking for him, and murders Carson’s lover. Does any of what I just said make any sense to you?”

“Not one bit,” Dana answered.

The phone in Dana’s hotel room rang at four in the afternoon. She was going stir crazy, and she hoped that Monte Pike was calling to tell her she could head for the airport. Pike was calling, but he had something else in mind.

“Meet me at the Peet’s coffee shop on Broadway and Washington,” he said. “I’ve got something for you.”

“Why don’t you come to my hotel? It’s closer to the courthouse.”

“I don’t want anyone to see us talking. I’m sitting at a table for two near the back door, and I’ve got a cup of coffee waiting for you. Don’t let it get cold.”

Fifteen minutes later, Dana was sitting opposite Monte Pike, who was hunched forward and speaking low enough to avoid being overheard.

“You were right to be suspicious of Dorothy Crispin. One of the guys from Vice thinks he recognized her picture. Crispin may have been a high-priced call girl.”

Dana frowned. “So she wasn’t a law student?”

“Oh no, she was enrolled as a second-year student, and she was definitely working toward her degree, but she may also have turned tricks on occasion-expensive tricks, from what I’m told-for a high-end escort service.”

“What’s expensive?”

“Four figures.”

Dana whistled.

“What those figures were depended on what the client wanted.”

“This puts Senator Carson’s relationship with Crispin in a whole new light.”

“True, but that’s not all, as they say in those obnoxious TV infomercials. There’s more. Guess who ran the escort service?”

“How would I know? I don’t live here.”

Pike grinned from ear to ear. “I could make you guess-and you’d get it eventually if I threw in a few hints-but I’m not going to torture you. There’s good reason to believe that the service was owned by the late Jessica Koshani.”

Dana recoiled and almost spilled her drink. “Holy shit!”

“I thought you’d appreciate that tidbit.”

Dana frowned. “I notice you used a lot of ‘may have beens’ and ‘good reasons to believe.’ Aren’t you sure about what you just told me?”

“Proving Crispin was a hooker or that Koshani was involved with the escort service won’t be easy. Koshani was well insulated. In fact, my conclusion about her connection is an educated guess. My office was looking at Koshani for some time, and we were never able to nail her.”

“Is there any evidence that Carson used Koshani’s escorts?” Dana asked.

“No, but there have been rumors circulating for some time that Carson used prostitutes and had kinky tastes.”

“Like?”

“S and M, bondage-but this is all rumor on rumor.”

Dana sat back. “You’ve certainly given me a lot to think about.”

“Glad to be of service.”

Dana cocked her head to one side and studied the DA. “Why are you being so nice?”

Pike grinned. “I owe you one from the Woodruff case. I figure we’re even now.”

It was Dana’s turn to smile. She looked Pike in the eye and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dana parked the Rover in front of a branch of U.S. Bank a little after six. The bank was at one end of a strip mall next to a beauty parlor. A stairway between the beauty parlor and a hardware store led up to a second-floor landing. EXECUTIVE ESCORTS was etched into a plaque next to a frosted-glass door two offices down from the stairwell. Dana walked into the small waiting room at the front of the office, and a chubby middle-aged woman with mousy brown hair looked up. She had a phone plastered to her ear and she seemed surprised to see a visitor.

“Eight o’clock at the Heathman Hotel,” she said as she held up a finger to indicate that Dana should wait. There were two chairs on either side of a cheap end table, but Dana decided to stand. There were none of the usual waiting-room magazines on the table. From the woman’s reaction and the lack of reading material, Dana guessed that the office received few visitors.

The woman responded to a question Dana could not hear. Then she said, “Yes. Yes,” and hung up.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked after making several notations on an index card.

“Are you the manager?” Dana asked with a smile.

“No, that’s Mrs. Cronin.”

“Is she in?”

“Yeah.”

Dana waited a bit. Then asked, “Can I see her?”

The woman frowned as if this type of situation was highly unusual.

“My name is Dana Cutler.” Dana offered to make the woman’s task easier. The woman thought for a moment. Then she got up and walked through the only other door in the office.