Happens, I guess, to women.”
“Men, too,” Lydia said.
He glanced down at his waist and nodded. “Well, it’s different too. I saw a play once where somebody says that men get better looking as they get older, and that women get to look more like the men.”
“What was the name of the play?”
He shrugged. “I never can keep them straight.”
The clerk brought in the file, and Jenkins handed Lydia six typewritten pages from it.
“Mind if I read it now?” she asked.
“When else? It’s not leaving here.”
She dropped the papers on the desk and leaned forward. “Why do we have to go through this all the time? I don’t want to use the committee’s subpoena powers, but you keep forcing the issue.”
“Department policy, Lydia, and you know it.”
“You won’t make me a copy?”
He winced, placed his hand over his heart. “What do you want to do, Lydia, blow my pension?”
She said nothing, just sat there and stared.
He removed his hand from his chest. “All right, all right, I’ll give you a copy.” He opened the file folder and handed her a Xerox of the original she held in her hands. It was obvious that he’d intended all alongto give it to her but was going to drag out the process. No easy victories with Jenkins.
“I’d still like to look at it here,” she said.
“Be my guest.”
She quickly scanned the list, and recognized many of the names, including both Caldwell sons; Veronica Caldwell; Jason DeFlaunce; Quentin Hughes; Caldwell’s aide, Richard Marvis; Boris Slevokian; Charles, the assistant Senate restaurant manager; various members of the Caldwell Performing Arts Center’s board of directors; Senator Wilfred MacLoon and his wife; the pianist who’d played at the party and Clarence Foster-Sims.
“Some of these names are ridiculous,” she said.
He puffed up one cheek and ran a finger around the perimeter of his ear. “Tell me why?”
“Clarence Foster-Sims, Boris Slevokian, the piano player?”
“What’s the matter, Lydia, you got a thing for over-aged musicians?”
“I won’t say what I’m thinking,” she said. “Veronica Caldwell? Now, why would she kill her husband?”
“I didn’t say everybody on that list necessarily had a reason to do him in. All I said was that this list narrows down the possibilities. Everybody on it was
un
-accounted for at the time he was killed… Okay, so you’ve got the list. What next?”
“The transcripts of the interviews you did with everyone at the party.”
“Why everybody? We already cut the list in half.”
“That’s right,
you
did. I haven’t had a chance to make those same decisions.”
“That’s not my problem, Lydia. What you want is for the MPD to do your work. You want interviews? Then grow your own.”
She sighed and pulled the hem of her dress down a little lower over her knees. He took his eyes from them and focused on something behind her. “Look, Chief,” she said, “I don’t understand why you’re viewing me and the committee as adversaries. It seems to me that a lot of money and time could be saved by sharing what we have. Doesn’t that make sense?”
“Sure, if you had something to share. Have you?”
“I hope to soon. We’re beginning to follow up leads and ideas. I have a small staff. We’ll do all we can, but your help would make things much easier. Why won’t you cooperate?”
“Because it’s one-sided, Lydia. More than that, this department is under the gun from everybody and his brother. Somebody gets killed in D.C. and we’re supposed to solve the crime. If we don’t, people say we’re bums. Nobody likes to be called a bum, never mind being one. Add on that the victim is a senator and everything gets magnified a hundred times. You remember the McNab case? Two years and nothing, not a damn lead. Did you read the column in the paper a couple of days ago? The hotshot who wrote it all of a sudden is Sherlock Holmes, and he claims there must be a connection between Caldwell
“Men, too,” Lydia said.
He glanced down at his waist and nodded. “Well, it’s different too. I saw a play once where somebody says that men get better looking as they get older, and that women get to look more like the men.”
“What was the name of the play?”
He shrugged. “I never can keep them straight.”
The clerk brought in the file, and Jenkins handed Lydia six typewritten pages from it.
“Mind if I read it now?” she asked.
“When else? It’s not leaving here.”
She dropped the papers on the desk and leaned forward. “Why do we have to go through this all the time? I don’t want to use the committee’s subpoena powers, but you keep forcing the issue.”
“Department policy, Lydia, and you know it.”
“You won’t make me a copy?”
He winced, placed his hand over his heart. “What do you want to do, Lydia, blow my pension?”
She said nothing, just sat there and stared.
He removed his hand from his chest. “All right, all right, I’ll give you a copy.” He opened the file folder and handed her a Xerox of the original she held in her hands. It was obvious that he’d intended all alongto give it to her but was going to drag out the process. No easy victories with Jenkins.
“I’d still like to look at it here,” she said.
“Be my guest.”
She quickly scanned the list, and recognized many of the names, including both Caldwell sons; Veronica Caldwell; Jason DeFlaunce; Quentin Hughes; Caldwell’s aide, Richard Marvis; Boris Slevokian; Charles, the assistant Senate restaurant manager; various members of the Caldwell Performing Arts Center’s board of directors; Senator Wilfred MacLoon and his wife; the pianist who’d played at the party and Clarence Foster-Sims.
“Some of these names are ridiculous,” she said.
He puffed up one cheek and ran a finger around the perimeter of his ear. “Tell me why?”
“Clarence Foster-Sims, Boris Slevokian, the piano player?”
“What’s the matter, Lydia, you got a thing for over-aged musicians?”
“I won’t say what I’m thinking,” she said. “Veronica Caldwell? Now, why would she kill her husband?”
“I didn’t say everybody on that list necessarily had a reason to do him in. All I said was that this list narrows down the possibilities. Everybody on it was
un
-accounted for at the time he was killed… Okay, so you’ve got the list. What next?”
“The transcripts of the interviews you did with everyone at the party.”
“Why everybody? We already cut the list in half.”
“That’s right,
you
did. I haven’t had a chance to make those same decisions.”
“That’s not my problem, Lydia. What you want is for the MPD to do your work. You want interviews? Then grow your own.”
She sighed and pulled the hem of her dress down a little lower over her knees. He took his eyes from them and focused on something behind her. “Look, Chief,” she said, “I don’t understand why you’re viewing me and the committee as adversaries. It seems to me that a lot of money and time could be saved by sharing what we have. Doesn’t that make sense?”
“Sure, if you had something to share. Have you?”
“I hope to soon. We’re beginning to follow up leads and ideas. I have a small staff. We’ll do all we can, but your help would make things much easier. Why won’t you cooperate?”
“Because it’s one-sided, Lydia. More than that, this department is under the gun from everybody and his brother. Somebody gets killed in D.C. and we’re supposed to solve the crime. If we don’t, people say we’re bums. Nobody likes to be called a bum, never mind being one. Add on that the victim is a senator and everything gets magnified a hundred times. You remember the McNab case? Two years and nothing, not a damn lead. Did you read the column in the paper a couple of days ago? The hotshot who wrote it all of a sudden is Sherlock Holmes, and he claims there must be a connection between Caldwell
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