Murder on K Street

by Margaret Truman

  They closed the restaurant that night and went to his apartment, where they made love for the first time. The next morning, they both knew without saying it that they were in it for the long haul.

  “We should take a weekend and visit my folks,” she said. “You’d like them. My dad is every bit as hard-ass as you are.”

  His thoughts flew back to the University of Illinois and to Jeannette Boyton, but only for a moment.

  “I’d like that,” he said.

  They made that weekend trip two weeks later. Kathleen had been right. Rotondi liked her parents and brother, felt very much at home with them. The wedding took place three months later. Phil’s sisters and their families attended the small ceremony; his brother sent his regrets but wished him well. Their honeymoon consisted of a long weekend at the acclaimed Inn at Little Washington, in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Washington, Virginia, where they got to know each other even better. Four days later, they were back in the courtroom.

  Kathleen had come directly to Phil’s retirement party dressed in her all-business tailored black suit and white blouse. Had she been able, she would have chosen a dressy outfit for this special occasion honoring her husband. But she’d spent the day in court arguing before a notoriously dim-witted judge who moved things along slowly in order to keep up with what was going on. Kathleen Moran-Rotondi was a highly respected assistant U.S. attorney, as much at home in a courtroom as she was in the kitchen of their high-rise apartment in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor development.

  “Come on, Phil, ’fess up,” a colleague yelled from across the table. “You use some kind of superman drugs, right?” His comment caused others to laugh, and to follow up with the same accusation. Rotondi was the star player on a once-a-week recreational basketball team that pitted prosecutors against defense lawyers. His intensity on the court matched his concentration in the courtroom, and although some joked about how seriously he took the games, few failed to appreciate his talent, on the court and off.

  “All right, all right,” Rotondi said, standing and holding up his hands for silence. “I admit it. I’ve been taking steroids every morning with my granola. But even if I hadn’t, I’d still outplay all of you clowns.”

  Kathleen looked up him and beamed. He’d started the evening stiff and reserved, but the drinks, and the outpouring of goodwill from everyone in attendance, had loosened him up. He was thoroughly enjoying himself.

  Over dessert, Rotondi was roasted. It became raunchy as the evening wore on, but it was all in good fun, and the room roiled with laughter, Phil and Kathleen leading the charge.

  Farewells took forever. Everyone wanted to shake Phil’s hand on the way out of the restaurant, and hug him, tell him how sorely he’d be missed, and warn Kathleen that having a retired husband was a recipe for marital disaster, wishing him many happy years of leisure and warning him to drive home safely lest he end up with a DUI and sully the department’s reputation.

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” Phil told them. “I’ve got the Jensen case on the docket tomorrow. My retirement doesn’t kick in for another month.”

  “Know what I’d love?” he told Kathleen after everyone was gone and they stood alone on the sidewalk in front of Caesar’s Den.

  “What’s that?”

  “A cigarette. Can you imagine that? I’ve never smoked in my life but I have this urge to puff on a cigarette.”

  “Well, get over it, my dear,” she said.

  “Maybe you’d be willing to substitute another vice when we get home,” he suggested.

  She gave forth with a wicked laugh. “I’ve been planning that all evening,” she said. “Come on. I parked around the corner.” She’d dropped him off at the office that morning and driven to the courthouse for her appearance.

  He put his arm around her and held tight as they walked down the street, their gait a little rocky from all the wine, their spirits equally as intoxicated. They turned the corner, waited for passing traffic to clear, crossed, and proceeded down a deserted, dimly lit street.

  “It’s down there,” she said, indicating the cream-colored Toyota Camry parked at the end of the block. When they’d almost reached it, Kathleen pulled keys from her purse. “You okay to drive?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  They were within a few feet of the car when a man’s voice said, “Hey, Rotondi!”

  Phil and Kathleen turned in the direction of the voice, which came from behind a tree. Its owner stepped out of the shadows. “Hey, Rotondi,” he repeated. “Remember me?”

  Phil ignored him and moved Kathleen closer to the car.

  “You bastard!” the man said.

  “Look, fella, I suggest that—” Rotondi said.

  The man moved quickly to cut off their path to the Toyota. Now the handgun he wielded was visible.

  Rotondi squinted to better see his face.

  “You put me away six years ago, Rotondi. Remember? Paulie Sims?”

  “Get in the car,” Rotondi said to Kathleen. He said to the gunman, “Yeah, I remember you, Paulie. What the hell do you think you’re doing with the gun? Put it down before you end up in bigger trouble.”

  “You and your cop buddies planted that evidence on me and used it to put me away.”

  “The hell we did,” Rotondi said. “You did the crime and you did the time. Now wise up and get out of our way.”

  Sims raised the weapon and pointed it at Rotondi’s head. Rotondi growled at Kathleen, “Get in the car, Kathleen.”

  She didn’t move.

  He turned to Sims. “You’ve got a beef with me, Paulie, fair enough, but this is my wife. She had nothing to do with your case, so let her get in the car. You and I can talk this out.” Rotondi extended his hand. “Give me the gun, Paulie. Give it to me!”

  The tranquil silence of the side road exploded with gunshots, one after the other, a staccato barrage of bullets, the smoke and smell of cordite drifting up into the still night air. The pop-pop-pop of the gun was replaced by an anguished scream from Kathleen and a tortured groan from Rotondi as pain pulsated through his leg, causing it to collapse beneath him. He hit the sidewalk face-first, breaking his nose and taking the skin off his cheek. He twisted his head to see their assailant run out of sight. Rotondi turned in Kathleen’s direction. She was sprawled on the sidewalk six feet from him, on her back, legs akimbo, hands crossed defensively over her face.

  “Kathleen,” Phil said. He tried to stand but his one leg was useless. He crawled toward her, a hand outstretched, saying her name over and over. He hauled himself on top of her body and pushed her hands away from her face. “Kathleen, say something. Say something, damn it!”

  No words came, nor would they ever come from her again.

  “…and so I spent two months in rehab for my leg,” Rotondi told those gathered in Mac and Annabel Smith’s apartment. “They arrested the punk the next morning. He’s doing life without parole. My sentence? They almost had to take the leg off, but the surgeons were great.”

  Mac and Annabel knew about Rotondi’s wife but respected his decision to leave out that part of the story.

  Emma squeezed Rotondi’s hand. His telling of the tale never failed to send chills through her, and to make her nauseous.

  “What a horrible thing to go through,” Marla said.

  “Yeah, but it’s history.” Rotondi turned to Annabel: “Hey, when’s dinner, sweetheart? I’m starving.”

  As they enjoyed their dinner, a violent thunderstorm roared into the city. Blinding shafts of lightning were like strobe lights outside the glass doors to the terrace, and sharp cracks of thunder caused them to start. It was over as quickly as it had arrived.

  “Maybe it’ll break the heat wave,” Emma commented.

  Mac went to the sliding glass doors and opened them. “Heavenly,” he announced. “It must have dropped ten, fifteen degrees.”

  The key lime pie was a hit, along with cups of cappuccino Mac brewed in the kitchen. He offered after-d
inner drinks in the living room, but Rotondi and Emma declined. “I’ve got a seven o’clock breakfast at Homeland Security to cater,” she said. After they’d left, Mac, Annabel, Jonell, and Marla strolled onto the terrace.

  “Turned out to be a lovely evening,” Annabel commented, taking a deep breath of the cooler air.

  “Everything’s lovely about this evening,” Marla said.

  “Phil left out the part about his wife,” Annabel said. “She was killed when that released criminal started shooting.”

  “How sad. Poor man.”

  “I think he preferred not to put a damper on the evening,” said Annabel.

  The women stayed outside for a few more minutes before Annabel cleared some dishes; Marla followed her inside, leaving Mac alone with Marbury. “I imagine the police had plenty of questions for you, Jonell, about having been at the house the day Jeannette Simmons was killed,” Mac said.

  “I haven’t spoken with them, Mac.”

  “They’ll get around to questioning you.”

  Marbury hesitated before saying, “I haven’t told them I was there.”

  Mac looked at him quizzically. “I assume you intend to,” he said.

  “I, ah—I’m not sure I should bother, Mac. I have nothing to offer. I rang the bell. She came to the door. I handed her the envelope and left.”

  “Still, you have an obligation to tell them you were there. If the police come up with it on their own, they’ll focus in on you as a suspect.”

  “I’m sure that’s good advice, Mac. Thanks. I’ll take care of it.”

  Later that night as Mac and Annabel got ready for bed, Mac told her about his conversation with Marbury about his not having gone to the police.

  “I hope he listens to you,” she said.

  “I do, too, Annie. I had the feeling that it wasn’t because he considered himself irrelevant. It’s almost as though he had a more concrete reason for his decision.”

  “Well,” she said, “if he’s smart, which we know he is, he’ll do what you suggested. The evening was a success, wasn’t it?”

  “It always is with you at the helm.”

  A kiss good night, then lights out.

  TWELVE

  The next morning, Jonell Marbury sat in Rick Marshalk’s office with Marshalk and the firm’s president, Neil Simmons.

  “What time is the press conference?” Marshalk asked Simmons.

  “Noon.”

  “It’s a good move,” Marshalk said. “You say your sister will be with you?”

  “According to Dad, and I was happy to hear it. They haven’t always gotten along.”

  “Sometimes tragedy brings families together,” Marbury offered.

  “Glad everything went well with Betzcon,” Neil said.

  Marshalk snapped his fingers. “Piece o’ cake. Couldn’t have gone better. They’ve got deep pockets and are willing to fund whatever we suggest. They’re putting up half of the reward money through CMJ. I talked to them this morning. They’ve committed to underwriting that rock concert in New York next month.” His laugh was snide. “Can you believe those clowns in Congress? They pass all those new ethics rules so we can’t buy a congressman a hamburger, but they open it up for us to pay thousands for their fund-raisers. The concert will cost Betzcon sixty grand, and we net half. That’s a bargain for Betzcon considering the political clout they’re getting.”

  Neil stood and removed his suit jacket from where he’d hung it on the back of his chair. “I have some things to do before the conference,” he announced.

  “How’d the interview with the cops go yesterday?” Marshalk asked.

  “Okay. They kept asking about Mom and Dad’s relationship, whether they had problems. I mean, Jesus, doesn’t every couple have problems? That’s what I told them, that my parents fought once in a while like every other married couple.” He shook his head. “Dad was all over me on the phone last night for telling the cops that. They’ve got this Chinese detective doing the questioning. I feel like I’m back in a nineteen-forties black-and-white movie.”

  Marshalk laughed; Marbury was silent.

  “I’ll check in later,” Simmons said.

  Marshalk turned to Marbury after Simmons was gone. “You said you had something to talk to me about. Shoot.”

  “The murder,” Marbury said. “I know you and Jack say I shouldn’t bother mentioning to the police that I was there at the senator’s house the afternoon of the murder, but I’m uncomfortable with that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I might have been the last person to see her alive.”

  “Oh, come on, Jonell, you come off like some knee-jerk dogooder.” He leaned his elbows on the desk. “You have nothing to offer the cops. So you were there delivering something for us. Big deal. You heard what Jack said. He should know. Christ, he was with MPD for twenty years before coming over here. He told you that if you volunteer that you were there, all it will do is open up a can of worms where you’re concerned, and cause problems for the firm. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to do that.”

  “I had a conversation last night with Mackensie Smith.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He used to be a top defense lawyer here in D.C. He teaches law at GW now. He suggests that I go to the police immediately.”

  “You told him that you were at the Simmons house?”

  “Yes.”

  Marshalk sat back and sighed.

  “I just want to do what’s right,” Marbury said.

  “Sure. So do I.” Marshalk leaned forward again. “Look, Jonell, give it a day or two before you make a decision. Fair enough?”

  “I talked to Marla about it last night. She thinks I should go to the police today.”

  “Marla’s not an attorney, or a cop.” Marshalk came around the desk and slapped Marbury on the back. “All we all want, Jonell, is for the police to find who murdered Jeannette Simmons and bring that person to justice. Agreed?”

  “Of course. Thanks for listening, Rick.”

  “Hey, buddy, that’s what I’m here for.” He walked him to the door. “Call that rock promoter in New York and make sure everything’s on schedule. Free for lunch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. Morton’s. My treat.”

  In his office, Jonell read that morning’s paper. The Simmons murder was still page-one news, as expected. Most of the lead article was a rehash of what had been written in previous editions, with a healthy dollop of rumor and innuendo thrown in for spice. He was pondering the conversation he’d just had with Marshalk when a woman knocked on the door and opened it.

  “Hey, Camelia,” Marbury said. “How goes it?”

  “It goes okay,” she said, plopping in a chair. “You?”

  “So-so. I was just reading the latest about the murder.”

  “Poor Neil. He seems lost.”

  “To be expected. He and his mom were close. So, all ready for your farewell bash?”

  “I think so.”

  Camelia Watson had resigned from the Marshalk Group after two years. Before becoming a lobbyist, she’d worked at the Justice Department in its governmental oversight department. While there, she had developed close relationships with myriad top officials in Congress and in a variety of federal agencies. Her relationship with them was what had attracted Rick Marshalk, and he’d aggressively pursued her to come to work for him, dangling a series of large salaries and bonuses until she’d succumbed. While she enjoyed the money and lifestyle it afforded her, she’d never found her comfort zone lobbying former friends in Congress and at various agencies, and finally decided to return to her old job at Justice—if they’d have her. They didn’t hesitate: “Welcome back, Camelia.” She was that good.

  Marshalk had been unhappy when Camelia turned in her resignation, and tried to entice her to stay. She resisted. The more he persevered, the more she grew resentful of his attitude that he could buy anything, including her. While she’d kept her mood upbeat throughout the process of leaving,
her disenchantment with Marshalk and the firm had become increasingly pervasive, and she often confided her negative feelings to Jonell. He served as her sounding board and confidant, their bonding enhanced by their African American roots.

  His relationship with Camelia had caused occasional bouts of jealousy with Marla, who saw Camelia as a romantic threat. Both women were extremely attractive, but in different ways. Marla was fashion-conscious, her tastes running to designer clothing and spa treatments, which Jonell sometimes kidded her about—“Pretty highfalutin for somebody working at a leading agency for social change and justice like the Urban League,” he would say, but not too often. To which she would reply, “Working nonprofit doesn’t mean taking a vow of poverty.” Interest from a modest trust created for her by her father, a deceased Atlanta physician, provided her “play money” with which to indulge some of her whims.

  Camelia Watson, on the other hand, lived a simpler lifestyle despite the lofty salary Marshalk had been paying her. She was no less attractive than Marla, just packaged differently. Her understated sexiness appealed to Jonell, including—especially—the oversize, round, red-framed eyeglasses she wore. He’d told her he thought the glasses were sexy, and she’d made it known, subtly, of course, that she wouldn’t have minded a romantic relationship with him. But it never went beyond that sort of office flirtation. Jonell might have lusted for her, but only, as a former president of the United States once famously said, in his heart.

  Her face turned serious.

  “Something wrong?” Jonell asked.

  “It’s Marshalk. He insisted on taking me to dinner last night and—”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing wrong with going to dinner with your boss. It’s what he said that bothers me.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “He—he basically threatened me, Jonell.”

  “Threatened you? With what?”

  “About what I’ve learned about Marshalk Group since I’ve been here. He’s afraid that by going back to work at Justice, I might use my inside knowledge of how things work here to bring some sort of legal action against him and the firm.”