eliciting further contact information, they walked him to the front reception area and shook hands. As Jackson did, he said what he always heard politicians say when speaking to someone from the military: “Thank you for your service to the country, sir.”
Curzon nodded and left. Hall and Jackson returned to the room in which the interview had taken place.
“Breaks your heart,” she said.
“Tough for a man like that to find out his kid is turning tricks.
“What about this guy Craig Thompson? He falls in love with a hooker.”
“Maybe he wanted to save her from prostitution. Lots of books written about shining white knights coming to the rescue,” Mary said.
“For a hooker with a heart of gold,” Matt said.
“He must have been serious, going to West Virginia to ask her father for help.
“Let’s find him and ask what it was all about,” Mary suggested.
“And where he was the night she was killed,” Matt added.
“Yes, that, too.”
TWELVE
H atcher left headquarters and went directly to Tommy G’s restaurant and bar, a hangout for the city’s cops, politicians, and wiseguys. Telling them apart wasn’t always easy.
Tommy Gillette had arrived in Washington ten years before with a stash of cash from various projects in his native New Jersey, some of them legal. He’d left New Jersey when a new governor waged war on “businessmen” of Tommy’s ilk. The heat was turned up; the Garden State was no longer fertile ground, and so Tommy went south, to D.C., where an older brother had settled and opened a succession of restaurants, none of which lasted very long. He convinced Tommy that together they could make a killing in D.C.
Their first partnership was the Gillette Grill, a shot-and-beer joint in the non-trendy, non-gentrified Southwest quadrant. It wasn’t long before more than bad food was being served along with the whiskey. A pusher cut a deal with them and used the place as a cover. There were women, too, who were kept busy making outcalls to hotels where male clients awaited their arrival.
Within a year, the Gillette brothers were arguing daily. Tommy, who’d been accustomed to rubbing elbows with fat-cat Jersey politicos and show-business types from Atlantic City, considered the restaurant’s clientele to be beneath him: “They’re all a bunch’a losers,” he constantly told his brother. Two years into their partnership, his brother dropped dead of a heart attack while hauling a beer keg up a flight of stairs, which left Tommy as the sole owner. He sold the place to the drug dealer and headed for downtown, where he found a location for a new, more upscale restaurant and bar—Tommy G’s, Fine Spirits and Quality Cuisine. It was a large space consisting of two rooms, the bigger devoted to a long bar manned by wisecracking bartenders, the smaller, the dining room in which a simple menu was served—shrimp cocktail, steak, salmon, and a few other items that didn’t tax the kitchen.
Although the Prohibition era was long gone, Tommy ran the place as though it were a speakeasy, palling around with customers, doing favors, slapping backs, and making everyone feel like a high roller in a posh casino—D.C.’s answer to Toots Shor. The décor was an eclectic mix of Paris and the Old West, huge prints of nudes and scenes from the Folies Bergère sharing the walls with black-and-white and sepia photos of mining towns, saloons, and roundups.
It worked. Business was usually brisk, especially later at night when other places were winding down. Tommy worked the crowd wearing expensive, custom double-breasted suits that slenderized his bulked-up body. He was in his element.
“Hey, Detective Hatch,” Tommy said as Hatcher walked through the door. “Long time, no see.”
“Been busy keeping the city safe,” Hatcher said. “Things good with you?”
“Everything’s cool, man. What’ll you have? First one’s on Tommy.”
“I need a snooze, Tommy.”
“Hey, no
Curzon nodded and left. Hall and Jackson returned to the room in which the interview had taken place.
“Breaks your heart,” she said.
“Tough for a man like that to find out his kid is turning tricks.
“What about this guy Craig Thompson? He falls in love with a hooker.”
“Maybe he wanted to save her from prostitution. Lots of books written about shining white knights coming to the rescue,” Mary said.
“For a hooker with a heart of gold,” Matt said.
“He must have been serious, going to West Virginia to ask her father for help.
“Let’s find him and ask what it was all about,” Mary suggested.
“And where he was the night she was killed,” Matt added.
“Yes, that, too.”
TWELVE
H atcher left headquarters and went directly to Tommy G’s restaurant and bar, a hangout for the city’s cops, politicians, and wiseguys. Telling them apart wasn’t always easy.
Tommy Gillette had arrived in Washington ten years before with a stash of cash from various projects in his native New Jersey, some of them legal. He’d left New Jersey when a new governor waged war on “businessmen” of Tommy’s ilk. The heat was turned up; the Garden State was no longer fertile ground, and so Tommy went south, to D.C., where an older brother had settled and opened a succession of restaurants, none of which lasted very long. He convinced Tommy that together they could make a killing in D.C.
Their first partnership was the Gillette Grill, a shot-and-beer joint in the non-trendy, non-gentrified Southwest quadrant. It wasn’t long before more than bad food was being served along with the whiskey. A pusher cut a deal with them and used the place as a cover. There were women, too, who were kept busy making outcalls to hotels where male clients awaited their arrival.
Within a year, the Gillette brothers were arguing daily. Tommy, who’d been accustomed to rubbing elbows with fat-cat Jersey politicos and show-business types from Atlantic City, considered the restaurant’s clientele to be beneath him: “They’re all a bunch’a losers,” he constantly told his brother. Two years into their partnership, his brother dropped dead of a heart attack while hauling a beer keg up a flight of stairs, which left Tommy as the sole owner. He sold the place to the drug dealer and headed for downtown, where he found a location for a new, more upscale restaurant and bar—Tommy G’s, Fine Spirits and Quality Cuisine. It was a large space consisting of two rooms, the bigger devoted to a long bar manned by wisecracking bartenders, the smaller, the dining room in which a simple menu was served—shrimp cocktail, steak, salmon, and a few other items that didn’t tax the kitchen.
Although the Prohibition era was long gone, Tommy ran the place as though it were a speakeasy, palling around with customers, doing favors, slapping backs, and making everyone feel like a high roller in a posh casino—D.C.’s answer to Toots Shor. The décor was an eclectic mix of Paris and the Old West, huge prints of nudes and scenes from the Folies Bergère sharing the walls with black-and-white and sepia photos of mining towns, saloons, and roundups.
It worked. Business was usually brisk, especially later at night when other places were winding down. Tommy worked the crowd wearing expensive, custom double-breasted suits that slenderized his bulked-up body. He was in his element.
“Hey, Detective Hatch,” Tommy said as Hatcher walked through the door. “Long time, no see.”
“Been busy keeping the city safe,” Hatcher said. “Things good with you?”
“Everything’s cool, man. What’ll you have? First one’s on Tommy.”
“I need a snooze, Tommy.”
“Hey, no
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