Murder on K Street

by Margaret Truman

  A dozen holdovers from the party sat in the VIP section and drank Black Cherry Martinis, which one of the Fly Attendants assured was a house specialty. Marbury was next to Camelia Watson, who should have declined the last drink offered. She was tipsy, enough for others to notice. Spirits were high, but the evening’s alcohol intake had taken its toll on everyone. Fatigue trumped the determination to party well into the night, and the gathering broke up at eleven.

  “You okay?” Marbury asked Camelia as they exited the club.

  “Oh, sure, I’m fine,” she said, tripping on a raised portion of the sidewalk and falling into his arms.

  “How did you get to the party?” he asked.

  “I took a cab with Sid and Marshall.”

  “I’ll drive you home.”

  “No, that’s okay, Jonell. Get me a cab and—”

  “Absolutely not,” he said, putting his arm around her and heading to where he’d parked his silver Lexus a few blocks away.

  “I never should have had another drink,” she said.

  “Happens to the best of us,” he assured, enjoying the feel of her hip against his.

  He opened the passenger’s door, and she slid onto the seat. He came around and got behind the wheel. “Seat belts,” he ordered. She fumbled to find hers and he reached across to help, his elbow nuzzling into her bosom. He drew the belt across her lap, inserted the tongue into the sleeve, clicked it closed, and turned the ignition key. High humidity had fogged the windows. He turned on the defroster, and lowered and raised both front windows to wipe them clean. There was little traffic that time of night, and he reached the apartment building in which she lived in less than ten minutes. He pulled up a few spaces from the entrance, turned off the engine, and looked over at her. She hadn’t said anything during the drive; she looked sad.

  “How you doing?” he asked.

  “Okay.” She shifted in the seat to face him. “I’m so sorry, Jonell.”

  “About what?”

  “About Marla.”

  He forced a laugh. “Not to worry,” he said. “She’ll get over it.”

  “I never wanted to cause you any trouble.”

  He placed his hand on hers. “It’s okay, Camelia, it’s okay. You didn’t do anything.”

  “Except encourage you.”

  “You did?”

  “Of course I did. I think you’re—I think you’re a very attractive guy in more ways than one. To be honest, I’m the one who’s jealous—of Marla.”

  “That’s all very flattering, Camelia, and I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit being attracted to you. But it’s not to be.”

  “I know that, Jonell. I hate coming off the fool.”

  “You’re anything but. Did you enjoy your party?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “It was nice and all, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Marshalk.” Her affect had been flat. Now she was more animated. “He tried to buy me off.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Marshalk came into my office today and handed me an envelope. Know what was in it?”

  “I can’t wait to hear.”

  “A check for fifty thousand dollars.”

  “That’s a nice going-away present,” Marbury said.

  “I didn’t take it.”

  “How come?”

  “It’s dirty money, Jonell. First he threatens me over dinner, now he hands me fifty thousand dollars with the hope I’ll keep my mouth shut about what I know.”

  “Maybe you’re being too hard on him, Camelia. You’re not the first employee to leave with a hefty check.”

  “Oh, come on, Jonell, one thing you’re not is naïve. Have you given any thought to what we talked about the other day?”

  “About my leaving? Sure. I discussed it with Marla. She wasn’t happy from the get-go when I decided to sign on with Marshalk. She wants me to resign, too. I spoke with Neil this afternoon about leaving.”

  “You did? What did he say?”

  “He didn’t try to discourage me. In fact, I had the impression that he might be thinking of leaving, too. He didn’t say so, but there was that vibe.”

  “And you?”

  “Me? I still have to give it some thought. I’m not sure what to do. I think what bothered me most was Rick not wanting me to go to the police and tell them I was at Senator Simmons’s house the afternoon his wife was killed.”

  Her eyes widened and she grabbed his hand. “What were you doing there?” she asked, her voice mirroring surprise at what he’d said.

  “Rick asked me to drop off an envelope. He told me to take it there on my way home. I left early that day and dropped it off around four.”

  “What was in it?”

  “I don’t know. It had the senator’s name written on it. I handed it to Mrs. Simmons.”

  “And Marshalk didn’t want you to tell the police that you were there?”

  “Right.”

  “Why?”

  “He said it would only cause trouble for me, and maybe for the firm. I shouldn’t have listened to him. It’s been keeping me awake ever since the murder. I’m going to the police tomorrow. I might have been the last person to see her alive.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “It was stupid of me to listen to Rick about something like this.”

  The windows had fogged up again.

  “I’d better get in,” Camelia said. “Thanks for the lift.”

  “My pleasure. You feeling better?”

  “More sober?” She laughed. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

  She brought her face close to him and they kissed.

  He walked her into the lobby of her building where a uniformed doorman sat behind a desk.

  “Remember what you said you’d do tomorrow,” Camelia reminded Jonell.

  “I won’t forget,” he said. “Count on it.”

  The doorman left his post and disappeared through a door behind the desk.

  “Careful home,” Camelia said.

  “I will.”

  “Best to Marla.”

  Marbury watched Camelia disappear into an elevator. He turned to say good night to the doorman, but he hadn’t returned to the lobby. Marbury went to his car and drove to the row house he and Marla had shared for the past year.

  Camelia let herself into her apartment. She’d left a single table lamp burning, which spilled soft yellow light across the floor. She kicked off her shoes, tossed her handbag on a chair, and padded over to the sliding glass doors that led to a small balcony. She pulled the drapes open and looked out over the city of Washington, D.C., her home for the past eleven years. She was swamped with conflicting feelings. Since moving to Washington, her social life had been full, her romantic life less so. Should she have made more of an attempt to forge a relationship with Jonell despite Marla’s presence? That possibility had crossed her mind many times, and there were moments when she rationalized it to herself. Jonell and Marla weren’t married, which made him fair game. At least that’s what girlfriends counseled when Camelia confided in them about her feelings for Jonell. “All’s fair in love and war,” they said, or something along those lines. Their encouragement made sense when they expressed it, but it didn’t last. Camelia would walk away from those moments filled with determination to make a serious play for Jonell, but that sense of purpose waned quickly, like a fading musical note. The truth was, Camelia had her own standards to live up to, and they didn’t include stealing another woman’s man.

  She slid open the doors and stepped out onto the balcony. A breeze was only hinted at as she placed her hands on the railing and drew a deep breath. A wave of calm settled over her. It was over—silly flirtations with a man she couldn’t have, and working for Rick Marshalk. A smile crossed her face as she looked up at a crescent moon that came and went behind low, gray, fast-moving clouds. Tomorrow would represent a new phase in her life.

  She never heard the man who’d been hiding just inside her o
pen bedroom door as he silently crossed the living room, came up behind her on the balcony, gripped her neck with his left hand, and brought his right hand up between her legs. She went over the railing headfirst and never made a sound as she fell eight stories to her death.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “Oh, my God! Phil, come quick!”

  Rotondi looked for his cane, remembered he’d left it in the bedroom, and hobbled to where Emma was standing in front of the television. Half his face was clean-shaven; foam obscured the other half. A towel covered his torso.

  “…Ms. Watson, who was found on the ground beneath the balcony of her eighth-floor apartment, had just returned from a party celebrating her leaving a Washington lobbying firm, the Marshalk Group. Police are treating it as a possible suicide. Stay tuned for further information as we receive it.”

  “She’s the one they threw the party for last night, Phil.”

  “Did you talk to her?” he asked, grabbing the towel as it started to slip, and reknotting it.

  “No. She might have said hello or something when she was served, but I don’t recall it.”

  “Did you have a chance to observe her? Did she look suicidal to you?”

  “How would I know whether someone I don’t even know looked suicidal?”

  “Strike that,” he said.

  “The only thing I did notice was her reaction when Rick Marshalk greeted her with a bear hug. She didn’t look pleased.”

  “I’ll be back.” He returned to the bathroom to finish shaving and put on a robe.

  “You said her name came up in that conversation you overheard between Jonell and his fiancée,” he said upon returning.

  “Right. She accused him of getting too cozy with this Watson woman and left the party.”

  “Who did Ms. Watson leave with?”

  “I have no idea. No, strike that, as you lawyers say. I saw Jonell go out the door with her. I think she was drunk.”

  “Which could account for falling off her balcony.”

  “It could. Then again—”

  His raised eyebrows asked the next question.

  “I don’t know what to think. Someone told me at the party that she used to work for the Justice Department, and was leaving Marshalk to go back there. What time do you leave for Chicago?”

  “Eleven.”

  “I have to go unpack the van and get ready for tonight.”

  “Who are you feeding now?”

  “A bunch of foreign dignitaries visiting the Department of Agriculture. Strictly organic, no trans fat, lots of soy. Inspiring, huh?”

  “Makes me look forward to a Chicago porterhouse. I’ll be back tomorrow. You’ll have to cuddle up with Homer tonight.”

  “He snores worse than you. Love you. Got to run.”

  Jonell Marbury and Marla Coleman woke up that morning twisted around each other in bed. They’d stayed up late hashing out the source of that evening’s contretemps, and as usual patched things up, leading to a physical affirmation that all was well again.

  Marla headed for the shower. Dressed in his robe and pajamas, Jonell grabbed the newspaper from where it had been tossed on the tiny patch of front lawn and was on his way back into the house when two nondescript sedans pulled up in front. Marbury gave a cursory glance at the three men in suits, one green—green?—and one woman who exited the cars and was about to open the front door when one of them said loudly, “Mr. Marbury?”

  Marbury turned and narrowed his eyes. The contingent, two abreast, came up the short walkway. One held out what looked like an official badge.

  “Yes?” Marbury said.

  “My name is Detective Chang, Metro Police, Mr. Marbury.”

  “Yes?” Marbury said again.

  “We would like to ask you some questions,” Chang said.

  “About what?”

  “We can discuss that once we are at headquarters.”

  “Headquarters?”

  “Please, sir,” Chang said, “just come with us.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Marbury protested. It was at this moment that reality struck. They were there to ask him about having been at Jeannette Simmons’s home the day she was murdered. They’d beaten him to it. He’d intended to go to the police…

  “May we come inside?” the sole woman in the group asked.

  “Yes, of course. No! My fiancée is in there and—”

  “Then you can come with us the way you are,” she said.

  “What is this about?” Marbury asked.

  Marla, who’d emerged from the shower, came to the front window and saw the scene transpiring outside. She opened the door. “What’s happening?” she asked.

  “These are detectives,” Marbury explained. “They want to speak with me.”

  “Why?”

  Marbury faced the green suit. “I’d like to get showered and dressed,” he said.

  “You can get dressed, sir,” Chang responded. “No shower.”

  “All right,” Marbury said and led them into the house. Chang followed him to the bedroom. So did Marla.

  “What’s going on?” she demanded. “Are we in some sort of trouble?”

  “Please leave the room, ma’am,” Chang told her.

  She looked to Jonell, who nodded that she should heed his advice. She left, confusion etched on her face.

  “Is it really necessary that you watch me get dressed?” Marbury asked Chang when they were alone in the room.

  “Yes, sir, it is. Please hurry.”

  The thought of not starting the day with a shower was anathema to Marbury, and he asked again if he could.

  “No, sir. Please dress quickly.”

  He put on chinos, an open-neck white shirt, socks, and loafers, and placed items from a nightstand into his pockets. Chang opened the bedroom door and escorted him into the living room, where Marla waited with the other detectives.

  “It’s okay,” Marbury said to Marla, kissing her on the cheek. “It’s all a mistake, that’s all. I’ll be home soon.”

  She watched him get into one of the cars with the Asian American detective and his female partner, her fist jammed against her mouth to keep a cry from erupting. The minute they pulled away from the curb, she started pacing the room, myriad scenarios and actions racing through her head. As though someone had suddenly injected a dose of wisdom, she picked up the phone.

  Marbury tried questioning the detectives during the ride to police headquarters but received nothing in response. He considered blurting out that he’d been at Mrs. Simmons’s home the day she was killed, and that he’d planned to tell them that morning. But something told him to wait until they were in a more formal setting. The backseat of an unmarked car didn’t seem appropriate, or useful.

  He was taken to an interrogation room and told to sit at a table in one of three straight-backed, hard wooden chairs. A few minutes later, the detectives entered the room. Chang and Crimley took the remaining two chairs; Widletz leaned against the wall.

  “I’m Detective Crimley,” the chief said to Marbury. “You’ve met detectives Chang and Widletz.”

  Marbury didn’t bother correcting Crimley that he hadn’t been introduced to the woman. It seemed irrelevant.

  “Why am I here?” Marbury asked.

  “We have some questions for you, Mr. Marbury,” Crimley said.

  “I know what this is about,” Marbury said.

  “Do you?” Crimley said.

  “Yes. It’s about the murder of the senator’s wife, Mrs. Simmons.”

  Crimley’s hard stare challenged Marbury to continue.

  “I was there the day she was killed,” Marbury said. “I work for the Marshalk Group. I’m a lobbyist. My boss, Rick Marshalk, gave me an envelope to deliver to the Simmons house that afternoon. That’s what I did. I drove there and handed the envelope to Mrs. Simmons.”

  “What time was that?” Crimley asked.

  Marbury shrugged. “About four, give or take a few minutes.”

  “You went into the house?”


  “No. Mrs. Simmons answered the door. I told her who I was and gave her the envelope. It had the senator’s name written on it.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I left.”

  “You never went inside?”

  “Never. Look, I know it was foolish of me to not come forward right away. I wanted to but…”

  “But what?”

  “It didn’t seem important—at the time. I planned to come here this morning, but your detectives arrived at my house before I had the chance.”

  “What was in the envelope?” Chang asked. Round, rimless glasses magnified his small brown eyes.

  “I have no idea,” Marbury replied. “It was sealed.”

  Silence descended over the room.

  Marbury broke it with, “You can ask Rick Marshalk whether he sent me with the envelope.”

  “We have,” said Crimley.

  “So?”

  “He confirmed it. Let’s go back over why you decided to not come forward with this information.”

  “Rick suggested that I…”

  Crimley came forward. “He suggested what?”

  “That I not tell the police I was there.”

  “That’s not what he says.”

  A cold sweat broke out over Marbury. “What did he say?”

  “He says that he encouraged you to come forward.”

  “That’s not true!”

  More silence, more sweat.

  “Why would he tell you that?” Marbury asked, more of himself than the others.

  “Doesn’t make much sense, does it?” Crimley said.

  Marbury didn’t have an answer.

  “Doesn’t make sense for him to tell you not to tell us you were there.”

  “I don’t understand,” Marbury said, weakly.

  “We would like a DNA sample from you, sir,” Chang said.

  “DNA?” Marbury said. “Why?”

  They didn’t elaborate.

  “Am I suspected of something?” Marbury asked. “All I did was deliver an envelope and—”

  “We can hold you for impeding an investigation,” Crimley said.