Murder on K Street

by Margaret Truman

  Like everyone else in the room, Rotondi found himself at times swept up in his friend’s oratory. But now and again he would remember the file of destructive information sitting in a drawer in his suite, concealed beneath shorts and socks. His conversation with Kala Whitson had put things in better perspective for him. According to her, the Justice Department was poised to come down on the Marshalk Group, and by extension his friend the Illinois senator. There was nothing he could do to head that off; nor was he sure he would if he could. Obviously, he could share what he had with Simmons and at least give him a heads-up, providing him some time to plan a counteroffensive. But there was more than a few people’s political future at stake.

  There was Jeannette’s murder.

  What part did the package of material Jeannette received from Joey Silva, “the weasel,” play in her murder? Rotondi had been grappling with that question since the day she was killed. Who would be hurt the most should that information become public? The choices were easy. Her husband, certainly. Rick Marshalk and his lobbying firm. Neil Simmons.

  The next question was: Who knew Jeannette had come into possession of the photos and documents? According to her, she hadn’t told her husband, but had intended to talk with Neil about it. Which didn’t mean that the senator didn’t know. It was conceivable that his son had brought it up with him, or that Jeannette had done the same but chose to not tell him, Rotondi, that she had. Too, mobsters behind the laundering of money through Marshalk and one of its eventual recipients, Senator Lyle Simmons, had executed Joey Silva because of his double-dealing. They certainly had reason to make sure Jeannette never had a chance to reveal the material about their connection with her husband and the Marshalk Group. Had they dispatched someone to silence her? The more Rotondi thought about it, the more plausible it became.

  He joined Simmons and his two staff members in the limo for the ride back to the Ambassador East. McBride and Markowicz were, of course, generous in their praise of the boss’s performance that night.

  “What did you think, Phil?” Simmons asked.

  Rotondi smiled. “You were great, Senator. Not good but great.”

  Simmons suggested getting together for a nightcap but Rotondi declined. They were scheduled to fly back at seven in the morning, and his leg had been particularly bothersome that night. He stripped down to his shorts and turned on the TV. After a few local stories, the anchor shifted to Washington:

  “We’ve just learned that the police investigating the murder of the wife of senior Illinois senator Lyle Simmons have come up with what an anonymous source says is a ‘major development in the case.’ Senator Simmons was here in Chicago tonight addressing a fund-raising dinner. In an unrelated story, we have learned that Simmons spent this afternoon huddled with political advisers about his expected candidacy for president. A spokesman for the senator, his press secretary Peter Markowicz, denied that the meeting was for that purpose. In other news—”

  Rotondi called Emma, who’d just returned from that evening’s job.

  “How’s it going?” she asked before he could pose a question.

  “Here? Fine. Hey, I just heard on TV that the police are announcing some sort of news about Jeannette’s murder.”

  “I heard that, too, but I don’t know any more than you do. Hold on a sec. There’s a message on my machine.”

  Her answering machine sat next to the phone, and he could hear the incoming voice: “This is Mac Smith, Emma. I know that Phil is in Chicago with the senator, but it’s important that I speak with him. If you are in touch with him, please have him call me. I’ll be up until midnight, and here all day tomorrow.” He left his number slowly, and repeated it. Among many life’s annoyances for Mackensie Smith were people who rattled off their phone numbers when leaving messages.

  “I’ll call him when we get off,” Rotondi said.

  And he did.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Mac Smith had spent that afternoon grilling Jonell Marbury. His fiancée, Marla, tried to not interject but failed enough times to prompt Smith to ask her to leave the room on one occasion. They were joined later in the day by Annabel, who’d been at her gallery in Georgetown processing recent purchases of several pre-Columbian artifacts.

  “Go over it again,” Mac said to Marbury. “I know, I know, you don’t feel there’s anything left to tell. But sometimes repetition generates information that was forgotten in previous versions.”

  Marbury sighed.

  “More coffee?” Annabel asked.

  “Please.”

  Marla, who’d returned, paced the room as a substitute for intervention into the conversation.

  “I’ll start from the beginning again,” said Marbury. He recounted his visit to the Simmons house to deliver the envelope given him by his boss, Rick Marshalk.

  “Mrs. Simmons answered the door?” Mac said.

  “Right. I’d never met her, so I introduced myself and said I had an envelope from Rick Marshalk for the senator. She thanked me, took the envelope, and closed the door.”

  “And you don’t know what was in the envelope?” Annabel asked.

  Marbury said, “I have no idea.”

  Annabel said to Mac, “Do we know whether the police took that envelope from the house?”

  It was Mac’s turn to indicate a negative response with a shake of his head. “I’ll ask,” he added.

  Marbury continued chronicling his activities on that afternoon. When he was finished, Mac shifted the topic to Camelia Watson and her plunge to death the previous night.

  “Like I said, I saw her walk into the elevator at her apartment building, and I left. That’s the last time I saw her. She was fine, maybe a little tipsy. No, let me correct that. She was tipsy when she left the Fly Lounge. But after we sat and talked for a while, she’d sobered up. At least that’s the way I remember it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you drove her home?” Marla asked.

  “Because—because I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire, Marla. I just wanted to square things between us after our spat at the party. Driving her home meant nothing. There never was anything between us.”

  “You should have been honest with me,” Marla countered.

  “This is a subject that you two can hash out later,” Smith suggested. He said to Marbury, “If what you say is true, Jonell—and I’m not questioning your veracity—it means that someone has framed you regarding the Simmons murder. This tragedy with Ms. Watson represents lousy timing and coincidence. Who would do that? Frame you?”

  “Whoever killed Mrs. Simmons,” Marbury replied, stating the obvious.

  “Who has it in for you?” Annabel asked.

  “I can’t think of anyone,” Marbury said. He asked Marla if she had any ideas.

  “Someone from Marshalk?” she said.

  “Why?” Marbury said.

  “Who else?” Marla said.

  “Someone from when you were on the congresswoman’s staff?” Mac suggested.

  Marbury scrunched up his face in thought. “You always make a few enemies in Congress,” he said, “but I can’t think of anyone who would both murder Mrs. Simmons and try to set me up like this. Sorry. I can’t come up with anyone who makes sense, Mac.”

  “It has to be someone from Marshalk,” Marla said with conviction.

  “If that’s so,” said Annabel, “it means that the murderer is from Marshalk, too.”

  They continued their discussion until late in the afternoon. Mac informed Jonell and Marla that while he’d been happy to jump into the breach and represent him that day at police headquarters, he wasn’t prepared to handle his defense should things progress to that stage. “But I’ll bring in a top defense lawyer, Jonell. I’ve worked with the best.”

  Marla cried, and Annabel put her arms around her. “Chances are what Mac said won’t be necessary,” she told her, “but it’s always prudent to anticipate the worst.”

  “I know,” Marla said, accepting a tissue from Annabel, “but I can’
t believe we’re sitting here talking about Jonell needing a defense lawyer. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  “Maybe if I’d gone to the police right away,” Marbury mused, “this wouldn’t be happening.” He glanced at Smith, who refrained from giving him an I-told-you-so look.

  Throughout the questioning, Smith kept thinking about the lunch he’d had with Phil Rotondi, and what the former Baltimore prosecutor had told him. He decided to raise it with Marbury without being specific.

  “Jonell, are you aware of any damaging material about the Marshalk Group that might be circulating?”

  “I don’t think so. Well, that’s not exactly true. There have been rumors that the Justice Department is getting ready to charge the firm with something, but I don’t know anything more specific than that. Why do you ask?”

  “Just something I’ve heard around town.”

  “There is a lot of dissatisfaction at work, however. I know that Camelia was leaving because of what she felt was a pending problem. And I had a long talk with Neil Simmons the other day. To be honest, I’ve been thinking of bailing out, too, and I had the feeling that Neil might be contemplating the same thing.”

  “I imagine that Mr. Marshalk wouldn’t be happy having his top people leave, knowing where the skeletons are hidden,” Smith said.

  “No doubt about that, Mac. Camelia told me—” He glanced at Marla, whose expression was blank. “Camelia told me that Marshalk threatened her before she left.”

  “Threatened?” Annabel said. “Physically?”

  “According to her. He said something like he wouldn’t want to see anything bad happen to her. He also tried to buy her silence.”

  “Silence about what?” Annabel followed up.

  “About what she knew. She used to work for Justice, and she was going back there. He handed her an envelope with a check for fifty thousand dollars in it, a going-away bonus.”

  Mac whistled. “That’s a hefty severance.”

  “She wouldn’t take it, gave it back to him.”

  “I don’t imagine he was pleased with that,” Mac said. “You told me that Marshalk tried to convince you to not go to the police about having been at the Simmons house that day.”

  “Right.”

  “But according to the police, he says just the opposite, that he told you to come forward.”

  “That’s a lie, Mac, an out-and-out lie.”

  “I believe you. Look, Jonell, right now all the police have is your fingerprint on a glass, and the possibility of one of your hairs in the house. I have no doubt that you’re being set up. What we have to do is come up with the person or people who are behind it. Absent that, the police are likely to decide that those two pieces of forensics are enough to charge you.”

  “You can’t let that happen, Mac,” Marla said.

  “I’ll do all I can to prevent it, Marla. Why don’t you two go on home and salvage what you can of the day.”

  “I didn’t go into work today,” Marla said.

  “Neither did I,” said Marbury. “I should have called, only I had other things on my mind.”

  Smith half laughed. “I’d say that’s an understatement, Jonell.”

  After they’d left, Annabel said to Mac, “I feel terrible for them.”

  “Everybody’s worst fear, to be accused of a serious crime you had nothing to do with.”

  “Have you talked with Phil again?”

  “No. He’s in Chicago. He said he had a source there who might be able to fill him in on who sent that package to Mrs. Simmons.” He checked his watch. “I don’t know where he’s staying. I’ll call Emma.”

  Lyle Simmons was somber on the flight back to D.C. the following morning. McBride and Markowicz read their boss’s mood and kept their distance, and Rotondi picked up on the atmosphere. Walter McTeague was waiting at the general aviation area of Reagan National when they landed and drove them into the city, dropping Rotondi off at Emma’s house before proceeding to the Dirksen Senate Office Building. Rotondi thought Emma might still be sleeping, but she was up, showered, and dressed when he came through the door. Homer leaped off the couch and slapped his paws on his master, who returned the enthusiastic greeting.

  Emma’s greeting was as wholehearted as Homer’s but her paws were smaller, and softer. “Good trip?” she asked.

  “Yeah, it was fine. Good catering job?”

  “Basically tasteless food but I tried to spice it up a little. Everything went smoothly. You talked to Mac Smith?”

  “I called him right after we talked. He wants to get together with me today.”

  “About the murder?”

  “You might say that. That new development the press is talking about hits close to home. They’re suspecting Jonell Marbury of the murder.”

  “What?”

  “And they think the young lady’s fall from her balcony might not have been an accident. Jonell is involved in that, too.”

  “Welcome home,” she said. “Got any more bombshells to share with me?”

  “No.”

  “God, Phil, I’m speechless. Where did you hear this?”

  “Mac Smith. That’s why he wanted to get ahold of me last night. When the police took Jonell in for questioning, his fiancée, Marla, called Mac. They went together to police headquarters and arranged for Jonell to walk, at least for the moment. But according to Mac, the cops are convinced they have a case against Jonell. They found his fingerprint on a glass in Jeannette Simmons’s kitchen, and a hair in one of the bathrooms that came from an African American. Jonell claims he never set foot inside the house, which as far as the police are concerned brands him a liar.”

  “Do you think—?”

  “That he is the murderer? Beats me. He didn’t come off like one when we met. Mac’s convinced he’s being framed by someone. My question is…”

  Emma waited for him to continue.

  “Look, Emma, there’s another dimension to this that I haven’t shared with you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sit down and I’ll run through it with you. It’s sensitive stuff, Emma, really sensitive.”

  Neil Simmons was about to leave the house when his father called.

  “Hi, Dad. You’re back?” His voice was flat.

  “Yes, I’m back. I’d like an update on the memorial service.”

  “Everything’s in order, I think.”

  “You think? I expect better than that, Neil.”

  Neil held in check what he was about to say. Instead, but more firmly, he said, “Everything is set, Dad. If you’d like, I’ll come by today and show you the plans.”

  “Come at noon. I’ll have some time then.”

  “All right. Noon.”

  “Run by the house before you come and pick up some briefing papers I need this afternoon. They’re in my tan briefcase next to my desk in the library.”

  “All right.”

  “Who was that?” Alexandra asked as she came down the stairs.

  “My father.”

  “What did he want?”

  “I’m meeting with him at noon about the memorial service.”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea what to wear. I suppose it will have to be black.”

  “I really don’t know what color you should wear, Alex. I have to go. I might not be home for dinner tonight.”

  Rotondi finished his “briefing” of Emma.

  “And you’ve had the papers and photos all this time?”

  “Since that weekend with Jeannette.”

  Emma smiled. “I won’t ask what happened that weekend, Phil.”

  “Between Jeannette and me? Nothing happened, aside from hearing her story, and being handed the envelope with enough ammunition to blow Lyle’s presidential hopes out of the water, to say nothing of sinking the Marshalk Group.”

  “I believe you,” she said.

  “As long as we’re in this confessional mood, I should also tell you about the relationship I did have with Jeannette.”

  “
Relationship? Romantic?”

  “Yeah. Back in college. Want to hear?”

  “Only if you want me to.”

  After he’d recounted for her the story of how he’d been dating Jeannette in college, and the way Lyle stole her away, Emma’s expression morphed from intense interest to anger. When he was through, she glared at him.

  “You’re mad,” he said.

  “You bet I am.”

  “It was a long time ago, Emma.”

  “I don’t care how long ago it was, damn it. How could you have remained friends with this bastard all these years? That’s what I’m mad about.”

  Rotondi shrugged. “That’s me, Emma. I don’t hold grudges.”

  “The hell you don’t. And if anybody ever deserved to have a grudge held against him, it’s your friend Simmons.”

  “I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to taint your opinion of him.”

  “Taint my opinion? I can’t find the words to tell you how tainted I am.”

  “Well,” Rotondi said, “I’m glad you know everything, my history with Lyle and Jeannette, the package Jeannette received, all of it.”

  “And you believe that the material you have is connected in some way with her murder?”

  “I don’t know for certain, Emma, but I think it is. I have to run.”

  He got up from his chair, grabbed his cane from where it leaned against the chair’s arm, and started for the stairs leading up to the bedrooms.

  “Phil.”

  He turned. “What, babe?”

  “I love you. I’ve never loved you more.”

  Neil Simmons stopped by his office before going to his father’s house to pick up the papers he’d been asked to collect. Camelia Watson’s death had cast the expected pall over the workplace. He muttered responses to comments about it, closed the door to his office, and sat heavily behind his desk. He’d made a list of things to be accomplished concerning his mother’s memorial service. He saw that there were still a number of loose ends to be resolved. He called Polly at the Hotel George but received only the hotel’s message service. He didn’t bother leaving one.