“Nah, I got a question. Congressman Leighton. You know him?”
“You mean have I ever run across him out here? No. But word is he’s into some pretty kinky shit.”
“Exactly. Word is. I need to nail it down. You know anyone who’s serviced him? Maybe someone who you owe a favor? Or a decent CI? I don’t want someone too motivated, if you catch my drift.”
Overly motivated people lied. She understood.
“You just need the real scoop, huh? He died Tuesday. Why bring this up now?”
“Because there’s a bigger issue going on.”
“Ah.” Thompsen was a cop, she knew the drill. Cross the i’s and dot the t’s. “Let me think.” She tapped her finger to her forehead, disturbing the bangs of her platinum pageboy-cut wig. “We had that bust back in April, they were running dope and girls through the back of that Chinese place on U Street. I hauled in a couple of cookies that are old-school, been around the block a hundred times, and then some. They’re specialists, too. I know word is he likes multiples, boys and girls. Right?”
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
“The kinky ones aren’t on the street as much, though. They run things off craigslist now. Everyone who’s anyone just does it online. Supposed to be safer, but I don’t know. I tell the girls, you don’t date men whose eyes you can’t look into. You can tell a lot about a john just by looking at him. But they don’t all listen to me.”
“Wise advice.”
“What exactly do you want to know?”
“I want one of them to sit down with a sketch artist.”
Thompsen leaned back against the door. “You think someone’s using his name?”
“You are quick, London.”
“Hey, that’s why they have me out here, running the streets. It’s a good ploy, it’s not like the working girls and boys spend a lot of time reading Congressional Quarterly. If they don’t know who he is, what he looks like, then it would be easy to impersonate him. So sure, I can wrestle you up a couple of cookies for that. Need them downtown?”
“JTTF.”
“Ooh. Aren’t you the bee’s knee?”
“Hardly. I’m just trying to be sure I’m not a horse’s ass. Tomorrow doable?”
“Sure. I’ll bring them in once I finish this shift and grab two winks. Say, ten, eleven?”
“That sounds good. Thanks, Morgan. I owe you one.”
He pulled to the curb. He was a block away from where he first sighted her.
She put her hand on the door handle. “Thanks for the interlude. We should get together, Fletch. Hang out. You can buy me a beer.”
“Let’s do that.”
In the blink of an eye, she became London, rolling around in the front seat, a wide smile on her face. She opened the car door, hooting, “Whew, honey. I don’t know who gave who the ride there.”
Then she leaned in the window and adjusted her bra. She had a rather amazing rack, and he chided himself. They were colleagues. He wasn’t supposed to be admiring her tits. But she was giving him a show. Maybe there was something there after all. He tucked it away to follow up on another time.
She cupped her right breast and said in a husky, come-hither voice, “By the way. If you owe me? I intend to collect.”
With a smile she flounced off, and it was all Fletcher could do not to run after her and beg her to get back in the car and take him to an alley. Five minutes with her would probably be worth throwing away his entire career.
*
The more he thought about someone using the congressman’s name on the street, the more drawn to the idea he was. It was a good ploy, and the congressman had plenty of enemies. People hated what he stood for, sure; no matter what your views, you were guaranteed around fifty percent agreed with you and fifty didn’t, and the ones who didn’t could get vociferous at times. And he’d changed sides on a very important issue—the military. Doves don’t become hawks, they get eaten by them. So he could easily have foes on both sides of the aisle that could benefit from some well-placed, well-timed rumors surfacing in the media.
He needed more time. More time to figure out all the angles. But he didn’t have that luxury. The killer may have made his latest move, or the chess game could just be beginning. The sooner he worked out Leighton’s life, the closer the rest of the JTTF would be to the killer’s identity.
While he digested that, Fletcher put a call in to Inez. Though it was late, she answered on the first ring sounding chirpy and fresh.
“You’re chipper.”
“I’ve got Conlon’s computer.”
“Oh, good. Did you call his mother and ask her to give it to us, or did she bring it in?”