Murder on K Street

by Margaret Truman

  “I know what you meant, Detective Widletz.”

  Rotondi and Emma cleared dishes following lunch.

  “What’s on your agenda?” he asked while placing glasses in the dishwasher.

  “A couple of jobs coming up. I’m catering a C-SPAN event tonight, and there’s a going-away party tomorrow night for someone at the Marshalk Group.” She checked the clock on the wall. “I’d better get over to the kitchen and make sure everything’s going okay for tonight. One of my new chefs has a heavy hand with the salt. You?”

  “I thought I might swing by Marlene’s condo this afternoon.”

  “Just to say hello?”

  “No.”

  “To satisfy yourself that she didn’t kill her sister? Or that she did?”

  “Let’s just say there are some questions I’d like answered.”

  “No matter where the answers take you?”

  “You might say that.” He kissed her. “Tell your chef to go easy on the salt, Emma. You don’t want to be responsible for some bigwig having a coronary from your latest concoction.” He laughed. “Death by Sodium. Not a bad title for a murder mystery.”

  THIRTEEN

  The vagrant, whom the cops knew as Gerry but who asked that he be called Gerard, looked considerably better upon being escorted into the interrogation room than when he’d been picked up. He was freshly showered and fed. His jailhouse jumpsuit was without stains or tears. His slip-on slippers with rubber soles were fresh out of the box. And he was now sober. Gerard gave his age as thirty-three. He claimed to have been an inventor whose inventions were stolen from him by corporate thieves. He was short and sinewy; the muscles on his pale biceps were surprisingly defined. His last name, he claimed, was Lemón, with the accent on the last syllable. “Lemon’s a fruit,” he told the booking officer. “I’m no fruit.”

  He was seated at the table by a uniformed cop, who waited until the detectives arrived.

  “Want me to stay?” the uniform asked.

  “It’s not necessary,” Chang replied.

  Chang sat opposite Gerard. Widletz leaned against an air-conditioning unit that hadn’t worked in months.

  “So, Mr. Lemón,” Chang said, “tell us about yourself.”

  Lemón was pleased to be asked such an open question and launched into a lengthy, disjointed biography. Chang and Widletz didn’t interrupt. When Gerard paused for a breath, Widletz asked, “When did you first meet Mrs. Simmons?”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Simmons. She has a home near that bridge you were sleeping beneath every night.”

  “Mrs. Simmons? Mrs. Simmons?” He shook his head. “I don’t know anybody like that.”

  “What have you been doing with yourself the past few days, Mr. Lemón?” Chang asked.

  Gerard shrugged. “Just hangin’ out, looking for a job.”

  “We’re told you stand on the corner with a sign asking for money. True?”

  “Yeah, sometimes I do that. But I don’t just ask for money. I say I want a job, any kind of job. I’m no bum. I can work if somebody lets me.”

  “Let me show you something, Mr. Lemón,” Widletz said. She opened a file folder in front of him on the table. It contained color photographs of the front of the Simmons home taken by a police photographer. “Recognize this house?” she asked.

  He leaned forward, brow furrowed, and picked up each picture. He dropped the last one on the pile and said, “Can’t say that I do.”

  “But you’ve been there,” Widletz said.

  “No I haven’t.”

  “Oh, come on, Mr. Lemón, you’ve been seen walking around this neighborhood by many people.”

  “Nothing wrong with taking a walk.”

  “That depends on what you do during your walk,” Chang said. “It has been very hot lately. Didn’t a woman from this house come out and offer you a cold drink?”

  “I don’t think so. I mean, maybe somebody did, but I don’t remember.”

  “I don’t think that’s the sort of thing someone would forget,” Chang said.

  “I can’t remember anything in all that heat. It makes you crazy.”

  “Were you crazy, sir?” Chang said.

  “Me?” He laughed, displaying neglected teeth. “Some people say I am, but I’m not. I’m as sane as you or anybody else.”

  Chang looked down at the notes he’d made during the questioning of Lou Schultz, the handyman. “Do you do carpentry?” he asked Lemón.

  “I can do carpentry. I’ve done some work like that.”

  “Do you own a hammer?”

  For the first time since the interrogation had started, Lemón appeared to be flustered. He’d met the detectives’ eyes while answering their questions. Now he evaded their stares.

  “Do you own a hammer, Mr. Lemón?” Chang repeated.

  “I had one. Tossed it away.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Somewhere.”

  “When did you throw it away?”

  He shrugged.

  “Why did you throw it away?”

  His laugh was forced. “Had no use for it. Don’t do carpenter work no more.”

  “Do you think if we went with you, took a pleasant ride, that you could show us where you threw away the hammer?”

  “No.”

  “Was it your hammer, Mr. Lemón, or did you take it from someone, someplace, maybe a man who was working on this house?” He slid one of the photos closer to Lemón.

  “No, no, I didn’t steal nothing from nobody. I swear it.”

  Widletz, who now stood behind him, placed her hand on his shoulder. “Do you have a family, Gerard?” she asked softly.

  “I did have, a wife and kids. They sided with the ones who stole my ideas, so I told ’em all to go to hell.”

  “I really wish you’d try harder to remember where you tossed your hammer,” Widletz said.

  Morris Crimley, who’d been observing the questioning through a one-way glass, stepped into the room and motioned for Chang to come out into the hall with him.

  “We just got this back from the lab, Charlie.” He handed him a sheet of paper.

  “It matches,” Chang said.

  “Looks like it. Thought you might like to see what he has to say about it. He ask for a lawyer yet?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not surprised. Probably the best sleep and meals he’s had for a while.”

  Chang returned to the room and showed Widletz the paper. Her eyebrows went up as she came around the table and took a chair next to her partner. “Gerard,” she said, “we have proof that you were at the house in the pictures.”

  “Proof?”

  “Yes. Stone dust found on the bottom of your shoes matches the dust that the workman made when he was fixing the stone wall in front of the house. And it was found inside the house near the body.”

  “The body?”

  “The woman who owned this house was murdered. Did she show you some kindness and offer you an iced tea or lemonade, invite you inside where it was cool?”

  He wrapped his arms about himself and pressed his lips together. “I don’t want to talk anymore,” he mumbled.

  “We’ll be back,” Chang said, and motioned for Widletz to follow him outside, where Crimley waited.

  “What do you think?” asked their boss.

  “I think we have enough to hold him,” Chang said.

  “I agree,” said Widletz.

  “I’ll call Matt Bergl at the U.S. attorney’s office and tell him what we have,” Crimley said. “I think he’ll go along.”

  The uniformed officer who’d escorted Gerard Lemón in for questioning was told by Crimley to return him to his cell. “And cuff him this time.”

  FOURTEEN

  Rotondi pulled up in front of Marlene Boynton’s condominium complex, parked on the opposite side of the road, and looked around, surprised that no media types seemed to be in the vicinity. They’d either decided that she wasn’t of editorial interest, or learned th
at she wasn’t there.

  He got out of the car and walked into the cluster of attached, gray-shingled, three-story town houses. A dog barked from a window; a Hispanic man tending shrubbery that lined the walkway didn’t look up as Rotondi hobbled past and found Marlene’s unit at the rear, where a man-made creek gurgled behind another row of condos.

  He pressed the button and heard the bell sound inside. A tall, narrow strip of glass ran down the side of the door. Rotondi peered through it and saw nothing. It occurred to him that Lyle and Neil might have whisked her out of town to some secluded hotel or spa where the media couldn’t get to her. He was about to turn and leave when he saw shadowy movement inside. He rang again. After a long time, she came to the door and peered at him through the glass.

  “It’s Phil Rotondi,” he said loudly.

  She hesitated, as though his words had to cross a gap, like the time between lightning flashes and thunder. He heard interior locks being undone. The door opened a crack.

  “It’s Phil,” Rotondi repeated, giving her his best smile.

  “Philip?”

  “Yeah. It’s me, Marlene.”

  The confusion on her face faded into recognition. “Hello, Philip. Why are you here?”

  “Just visiting. I was in Washington and—”

  “Do you want to come in?”

  “I was sort of hoping for that.”

  She opened the door farther and stepped back to allow him to enter. The house was cold; the AC was cranked up to its maximum setting. Marlene wore jeans and two sweaters, a cranberry-colored one beneath a tan cardigan. She looked good, looked together. Her auburn hair had the gloss of recent shampooing, and her makeup had been judiciously applied. That she was Jeannette Simmons’s sister was unmistakable. Though aging had predictably changed the facial landscape, the sisters’ natural beauty shone through.

  “Come in, Phil. Sit down. Would you like a cold drink, maybe some tea or coffee? I have coffee left over from this morning.”

  “Coffee would be nice, black, no sugar.”

  He followed her into the spacious, spotless kitchen. The multitoned granite countertop was uncluttered, everything in its place, a single cup in a dish drainer. He sat on one of two stools at a movable island in the center of the room while she poured coffee from an insulated carafe into a pretty ceramic mug with flowers on it. She placed it in front of him and took the other stool.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Nothing for you?”

  “I’ve had enough coffee for the day.”

  He broke the ensuing silence. “Have you talked to Lyle or Neil since what happened? Polly? She’s in town.”

  “Polly called. She said she’s staying at the Hotel George. Pretty ritzy.”

  “Yes, it is. You haven’t spoken with Lyle?”

  “Oh, yes, of course I have. He called and told me to stay inside and not to answer the phone.”

  “Has the press been bothering you?”

  “A few called. I hung up on them.”

  “No one knocking on your door?”

  “I’ve heard a few people outside, but I didn’t answer. I just let them bruise their knuckles.”

  Rotondi laughed. “Good for you, Marlene.”

  The flesh around her eyes turned dark, and she pressed the knuckle of her hand against her lips. “It’s true, isn’t it, Phil? Jeannette is dead.”

  “Yes,” he said, aware that she was simply stating what she already knew. He changed the subject. “I’m glad Polly called. She’s always been fond of you.”

  “She’s a good girl.” She laughed. “Not a girl anymore, is she? She’s a young woman.”

  “And a very smart and attractive one. Tell me more about Lyle’s call to you.”

  “Oh, him? I don’t know how he sleeps at night.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She looked at Rotondi as though he were demented. “Really, Phil, I expect better of you.”

  “I know that you and Lyle haven’t been the best of friends over the years, and that you’ve had your problems with Jeannette, too.”

  “Poor Jeannette,” she said, slipping into a theatrical voice. “What a mistake she made marrying Mr. Lyle Simmons, the distinguished United States senator.” She emphasized the latter part of the statement to indicate her disdain. “What a fraud he is.”

  A generous fraud, Rotondi thought, paying for your condo, your car, and almost everything else.

  “You don’t think poorly of me for saying that, do you, Philip?”

  “Of course not, although I’d like to know why you said it.”

  “That’s right. You wouldn’t have the same view of him, would you, being his college buddy.”

  “Are you speaking of him politically?” Rotondi asked, taking a sip of his coffee which was turning cold.

  She waved away the notion. “I don’t care about his politics, Philip. Do you?”

  “Depends upon how his votes impact me.”

  “He wants to be president.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  She looked past him to a place only she could see. “I wonder whether people would vote for a murderer.”

  “Marlene?”

  “A man who murdered his wife.”

  “Whoa, Marlene. Hold on. Why would you say something like that?”

  “He killed Jeannette.”

  “You know this for a fact?”

  Her voice became dreamy. “Oh, no, he’s too clever for that. But he killed her. He’s been doing it for years.”

  “Mentally?”

  “Uh-huh.” She nodded vigorously for emphasis.

  He gathered his thoughts, but she spoke again, too fast for him to express them. “Jeannette was such a fool marrying him, Philip. She was infatuated by his money and his ambition. You know that.”

  “Their marriage was like any other marriage, full of ups and downs.” At least in the beginning, he thought but didn’t voice.

  “She was always starstruck,” Marlene added. “There he was, the rich, handsome lawyer consumed with power. Lyle loves power, loves controlling people. He controlled her like she was his puppet, and she accepted it because she didn’t want to lose her lofty position, la-di-da. The senator’s wife! But even she finally saw through him. She hated him.”

  Rotondi didn’t reply. To argue with her would accomplish nothing. More important, he knew that she was right.

  “Polly knows it, too,” Marlene continued. “She stood up to him and wouldn’t let him bully her the way he did Jeannette. Good for her! Good girl!”

  “Let me ask you a question, Marlene.”

  Her tone suddenly shifted. She grabbed his hand and asked in what could only be considered a little girl’s voice, “Do you think I’m insane, Philip?”

  “I—”

  “Lyle does, and he convinced Jeannette that I was. Do you think I’m insane?”

  “Whether someone is considered insane, Marlene, often depends on how many people they annoy.”

  She pondered that. “Ooh, I like that,” she said. “Lyle put me away, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “He said it was for my own good, but I knew differently. He did it because he’s so cruel.”

  “Marlene—”

  “Jeannette was, too.”

  He cocked his head.

  “She was cruel, too. She always went along with him whenever he sent me to one of those places.”

  “I’m sure she had your best interests at heart, Marlene.” He staved off another interruption by saying quickly, “Did you see Jeannette the day she was murdered?”

  She nodded, sat back against the back of the stool and encircled herself with her arms. “I did.”

  “And?”

  “And what, Philip?”

  “How was she? What did you talk about?”

  “She was drunk.”

  “How drunk?”

  “Not stumbling around, if that’s what you mean. Jeannette wasn’t a perfect person. She drank too much, you know.”


  He knew.

  “She used to go with him to those fund-raising dinners where all they do is drink. Washington! Nothing but whiskey and payoffs. It’s disgusting. Polly wanted me to move to California.”

  “Did she? When?”

  “Oh, now and then she’d mention it. I should have gone, too, gotten as far away as possible from the distinguished senator and my cruel big sister.”

  “They’ve been good to you, Marlene,” Rotondi said, not sure why he felt the need to defend them.

  “They’ve controlled me,” she snapped. “Do you know what Jeannette said to me the other afternoon when I visited?”

  “No.”

  “She said I was jealous of her.”

  Which was true, Rotondi knew.

  “She said I was pathetic. A pathetic creature, is what she said exactly.”

  Somehow Rotondi couldn’t envision the Jeannette he knew saying anything that harsh to anyone, especially to her sister. How drunk had she been? Maybe it’d been the booze talking. He made a mental note to check with Crimley on the autopsy to see how much alcohol she had in her system, although the passage of time between her death and the autopsy would cause the level to drop.

  “What time did you visit Jeannette?” he asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “It might.”

  She waved her hands in the air to chase away the importance of the question, and answer. “The afternoon. I went in the afternoon.”

  “Was anyone else there?”

  She snorted. “Nobody ever visited Jeannette except me. After she got fed up with having to be at the distinguished senator’s side night after night, she decided to stay home. Like me.” A laugh. “What a pair the Boynton sisters are, a couple of recluses, two old bags sitting around the house studying their navels.”

  Rotondi glanced up at a clock decorated with colorful birds. “I think I’d better go, Marlene.”

  “So soon?” The little girl voice again. “Please stay. I haven’t seen you in a while, and I need comforting. My poor sister is dead. I didn’t ever hate her, Philip. It’s just sometimes I—”

  He stood and stretched his leg, grimacing as he did.

  “Poor dear,” she said. “I hope the man who shot you rots in hell.”