Murder on K Street

by Margaret Truman

  “No. Chang started to go through some of the stuff in the senator’s library—there were envelopes piled everywhere—but the senator’s people complained that some of it might be top secret and jeopardize national security. The usual bull. It didn’t matter. What’s in those envelopes is irrelevant to the investigation. Marbury admits delivering something for the senator, and Marshalk confirms that he sent him on the errand.”

  Rotondi came forward in his chair, moved his injured leg with his hand, and looked through the evidentiary photos on the desk. He picked up the picture of the water glass taken from the Simmons kitchen, on which a fingerprint was identified as belonging to Jonell Marbury. “Nice glass,” he said. “Notice those little indentations around the middle? Hard to see in this picture, but they’re there.”

  “So?”

  “Emma’s kitchen cabinet is filled with them. She had those particular glasses custom-made for her catering service. The indentations provide a surer grip, fewer glasses slipping from people’s hands and breaking.”

  “Interesting,” said Crimley, “only I don’t know why.” As he said it, he remembered Chang’s comment that the glass with the fingerprint didn’t match any of the other glasses in the Simmons kitchen.

  “Wouldn’t be hard for someone to take one of Emma’s glasses at a catered event, have Jonell use it and leave his prints, and place that glass in Jeannette’s kitchen.”

  “You’re not the first person to raise the possibility of a frame, Phil. Some of my detectives are doing the same thing. The question is, who?”

  “Somebody at Marshalk. Emma caters all their parties.”

  “They’re her only clients?”

  “Of course not. She caters a lot of events on the Hill, agencies, fund-raisers.”

  “And Marbury worked on the Hill before coming to Marshalk. I imagine he made a few enemies over there.”

  Rotondi stretched his arms out in front of him, and sighed. “You accused me the last time I was here of being all take, no give. I don’t like that reputation.”

  “I’m listening, Phil.”

  “What would you say if there was a sheaf of papers and pictures that are not only damaging to Senator Simmons, but also damning to the Marshalk Group?”

  “Is there such a thing, and why would it matter?”

  “If there was such a thing—and I’m not saying there is—and somebody wanted to make sure that the information never became public, anyone in possession of it would be at risk.”

  “All right,” Crimley said. “Who was in possession of it?”

  “I didn’t say that such material existed, Morrie. Strictly hypothetical.”

  “Right. And there’s no such thing as global warming. Come on, Phil, level with me. Do you know that the sort of material you mention—hypothetically, of course—was in the possession of someone connected with the Simmons murder, and maybe the Watson death?”

  “I’m working on nailing it down,” Rotondi replied. “When I do, you’ll be the first to know. Thanks for the time, Morrie.”

  Crimley walked him to the lobby. “Man,” he said, “you are really in pain, aren’t you?”

  “Some days are worse than others. This is not one of the better ones.”

  “Mind a word of advice, Phil?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Withholding evidence is a serious crime.”

  “That it is.”

  “It’s nothing you don’t already know, but sometimes we lose sight of things—exceed our ego boundaries, as the shrinks like to say.”

  Rotondi nodded.

  “If you have the sort of material you mentioned, don’t sit on it, Phil. Your friendship with the senator ain’t worth it. I’d hate to be the one who has to haul you in.”

  Rotondi smiled. “I promise I’ll spare you that pleasure, Morrie.”

  Neil Simmons’s encounter with his aunt Marlene had unnerved him. He sat in his car in front of the house and tried to bring his breathing under control. He felt like a bug in a swimming pool about to be sucked into the skimmer. He kept looking back at the house, hoping she wouldn’t come through the door. He’d seen Marlene act out strange fantasies before, but nothing like this. She’d obviously gone off the deep end. She was totally mad. The last time she’d been hospitalized, she’d slipped into a deep depression; it took powerful medications to bring her out of it. This time, depression would have been welcome.

  The relationship between Marlene and her sister had never been good. Marlene’s mental problems contributed to that unfortunate situation, although Neil also knew that his father’s reaction to it exacerbated the tension between the sisters. Senator Simmons had little patience with Marlene’s antics, and avoided any personal interaction whenever possible. His answer was to shell out whatever money it took to fence her off from Jeannette and the family, happy to pay for her condo and car and daily living expenses, as well as whatever out-of-pocket costs her hospital stays incurred. Jeannette, on the other hand, frequently reached out to her sister behind her husband’s back. But on occasion, even she became exasperated and verbally lashed out at Marlene. Dysfunctional was the word that came to Neil’s mind.

  When he felt he was sufficiently calmed to drive safely, he started the engine and pulled away, not sure where he would go next. He checked his watch. He was due at his father’s office at noon. It was eleven. He pulled off the road and called Polly on his cell phone. This time, she answered.

  “Polly, it’s Neil.”

  “Hi.”

  “I have to see you.”

  “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “Yes. I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Neil, what’s going on?”

  “I’ll tell you when I get there.”

  Polly had come down to the lobby to wait for him. He burst through the hotel’s entrance and approached her; she put down her magazine.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, aware of his agitated state.

  “Let’s go to your room.”

  Once there, he said, “Have you spoken to Marlene recently?”

  She thought for a moment. “I called her yesterday.”

  “Was she—what I mean is, was she okay? Sane?”

  His comment brought forth an involuntary laugh from Polly. “Yeah, she sounded sane. Why?”

  “I just came from the house. She was up in Mom and Dad’s bedroom, sitting at Mom’s dressing table putting on makeup. She had on Mom’s favorite dressing gown. Christ, she thinks she is Mom!”

  “That’s ridiculous, Neil.”

  “No, it’s not. I was there. I saw it. Do you know what she said? She said that she wanted to look nice for when Dad came home.”

  Polly scrutinized him in an attempt to decide whether what he’d said was credible, made any sense. She decided it did.

  “Did you talk to her about it?” she asked.

  “No. I went there to pick up some papers for Dad. I got out fast.”

  She’d sat on a small couch while he paced the room. Now he joined her and grabbed her hand. “Do you know what this means?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid to ask,” she said.

  “She must have killed Mom.”

  His words jolted her.

  “She’s always been jealous,” he went on, squeezing her hand harder. “Polly, she killed our mother so that in her twisted mind she could take Mom’s place.”

  The blood drained from Polly’s face. She withdrew her hand and looked toward the windows.

  “Are you listening to me?” he said. “It’s so obvious. Aunt Marlene snapped and killed Mom. Jesus!” He got up and resumed pacing.

  She faced him. “What do you think we should do?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve got to tell Dad what to expect when he goes home. Maybe we should go to the police and tell them what we know.”

  “No,” she said, her voice steady now. “That would be a mistake. What about Phil?”

  “Rotondi?”

  “He’ll know what to do. I mean, N
eil, this might all be a mistake. Maybe you misunderstood her.”

  His face reddened, and he held his fists at his side. She sounded to him like Alexandra, always questioning him. “I did not misunderstand her,” he said.

  “Okay, okay,” she said, aware of his pique. “Let’s get ahold of Phil and see what he thinks.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Do you have his number?”

  She fished his cell number from her purse, along with her phone, and made the call. “Phil, I’m with Neil at my hotel. We need to speak with you.”

  “Sure. Now?”

  “Yes. Can you come to the hotel?”

  Neil said, “Not now, Polly. I have to get those papers to Dad, and go over plans for the memorial service. Tell him to come later. Two o’clock.”

  “Can you come by here at two?” she asked.

  Rotondi agreed and they hung up.

  “I want to go to the house,” Polly said.

  “Why?”

  “To talk to Marlene before we go spreading poison about her.”

  “Polly—”

  “You don’t have to come, I’ll take a cab.”

  “No, no, it’s okay,” he said. “I’ll call Dad and tell him I’ll be late.”

  “Damn!” she said.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I have an appointment for a manicure and pedicure in fifteen minutes.”

  “Cancel it,” he said, not adding what he was thinking—that getting your nails polished was frivolous under the circumstances.

  She made the call, and they headed for the house.

  Rotondi clicked off his cell phone. Why did Polly and Neil want to meet with him? Polly’s voice had sounded urgent. Had something developed that had a bearing on their mother’s murder? He’d have to wait until two to find out.

  He drove to the Watergate complex, found a parking spot, and called Mac Smith’s apartment. Annabel answered.

  “Mac and I planned to get together this morning,” Rotondi told her. “Hold on, Phil. He’s just getting off the other line.”

  “Hello, Phil,” Smith said.

  “I’m around the corner,” Rotondi said. “Any chance of getting together now?”

  “It’s fine with me, Phil. I’ll come down. I’d rather talk away from here.”

  “I’ll be in the lobby.”

  Smith arrived ten minutes later and suggested they walk through the public area separating the Watergate Hotel from the apartment complex. It was a fat day, as Smith was fond of terming days with sunny, cool, breezy weather. They sat near a large fountain that created a pleasant background rush of water.

  “What’s up?” Smith asked.

  “I went by MPD today and talked with Morris Crimley.”

  “Anything new on their end?”

  “No. He says they didn’t remove any envelopes from Lyle’s library. He’s not the neatest of people. He’s got magazines and envelopes and God knows what else piled up everywhere in that room. I want to see what was in the envelope that Jonell delivered that afternoon.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Just curiosity. I raised the question with Crimley about the glass with Jonell’s print on it. Although it’s hard to make out in the photo, that glass looks like the ones Emma uses in her catering business. Catch this, Mac. Morris told me that some of his own detectives are raising the possibility that Jonell was framed. That’s exactly what must have happened, and it has to have been Marshalk who’s behind it. He sends Jonell on an errand that places him at the scene of the murder. They have a glass from one of their parties that Emma catered and arrange for Jonell to pick it up somewhere along the line and leave his prints. They plant a hair from him. And Marshalk counsels Jonell not to go to the police about having been there. That puts Jonell in a further bad light with the cops.”

  Smith listened impassively, an occasional grunt his only verbal response. When Rotondi was finished, Smith said, “The question is why?” He looked at the manila envelope Rotondi carried with him. “Is that the material you’ve told me about?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think it might provide a motive for Mrs. Simmons’s murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “Time for me to look at it, Phil?”

  “Yes.”

  Rotondi handed the envelope to Smith, who slowly opened it and looked at one piece at a time, carefully removing each paper or photo, examining it, and replacing it before extracting another. The process took ten minutes. He secured the clasp when he was through and handed the envelope back to Rotondi.

  “What are you going to do, Phil?” Smith asked.

  “Show it to Lyle at some point.”

  “Well,” Smith said, “you know what he’ll say. He’ll tell you to burn it.”

  “I know.” Rotondi leaned back and looked up into the pristine blue sky and puffy white clouds that drifted by. “The senator’s daughter, Polly, called me a little while ago. She sounded upset. I’m meeting with her and her brother at two.”

  “Maybe you should run that stuff by them before going to the senator,” Smith said.

  Rotondi pondered the suggestion. “Maybe. Jeannette said she was going to talk to Neil about it.”

  “Did she?”

  “I don’t know. Neil has never mentioned it, and I haven’t brought it up. It’s time I did.”

  “Your call,” Smith said. “I’ll be home all afternoon if you need me. I’m meeting with Jonell and the attorney I’ve brought in to officially represent him.”

  “Do me a favor,” Rotondi said. “Ask Jonell what the envelope looked like, the writing on it. It’ll help me identify it when I go there.”

  Smith’s final words came as they parted ways in front of Smith’s apartment building. “If Mrs. Simmons was killed because she had that material in her possession, Phil, anyone else having it could be in jeopardy, too.”

  Rotondi got the message.

  Neil and Polly pulled up to the house in which they’d grown up. Neil turned off the ignition and stared at the front door.

  “Coming?” Polly asked as she opened the door on her side.

  “Yeah, sure,” Neil said, not sounding convincing.

  He used his key to gain entrance. They stood silently in the foyer and strained to hear any sounds coming from upstairs.

  “Smell that?” Neil asked.

  Polly raised her head and sniffed. “Perfume,” she said. “Mom’s favorite.”

  “See? I told you.”

  Polly took deliberate strides up the stairs. She paused at the landing and looked back at her brother, who stood as though paralyzed. Polly waved, and he began a slow ascent. She waited on the second floor until he’d joined her. They went to the open door to the master bedroom. There was no one there. Polly went to the dressing table and looked down at the array of cosmetics. She turned to Neil. “I don’t see any sign that she was here,” she said.

  Emboldened, he entered the room and stood at her side. “She was here, Polly. You can smell the perfume, can’t you?”

  “Yes, I smell it. Let’s go to her place.”

  “I’d rather not,” he said. “I say we go right to the police and let them know that she probably killed Mom.”

  Polly fixed him with a quizzical stare. “You sound as though you want her to be the one, Neil.”

  “Oh, no, that’s not true. It just makes sense, that’s all. We all know how sick she is, Polly. At least the police should be made aware of what I saw.”

  “We’ll see what Phil thinks,” she said with finality. “We don’t do anything until we talk to him.”

  “Phil’s not God,” he said.

  Polly ignored him and went down the stairs and out the door, with Neil close behind. “If you won’t take me to Marlene’s place, I’ll go myself,” she said.

  “All right,” he said.

  They said little on the drive. Polly rang Marlene’s doorbell. Marlene answered. She was dressed in a designer set of pink sweatpants and sweatshirt with s
mall green-and-yellow birds embroidered on the shirt.

  “Hello, Polly,” she said pleasantly. “What a nice surprise.” She looked past her niece to where Neil stood. “And Neil, too. This must be my lucky day. Come in, come in. I have iced tea and lemonade and—”

  “Aunt Marlene,” Neil said, “why were you at Mom’s house today?”

  Marlene’s eyes widened in surprise. “I don’t understand,” she said. “I haven’t been at Jeannette’s house since—” She pressed her hand against her lips and said, “Since that dreadful day.”

  Neil stepped forward. “Marlene,” he said, “I was there. I saw you in Mom’s bedroom and—”

  “I have never heard such an outlandish thing,” Marlene said, a smile returning to her heavily made-up face. “All this heat must be having a bad effect on you. Now, you two come in and enjoy the cool and a nice cold drink.”

  “We can’t,” Neil said. “We have to go. I have an appointment.”

  “Well, now, this is certainly strange,” Marlene said, “stoppin’ by this way and not bein’ gracious enough to accept my hospitality.” She’d slipped into her southern belle mode.

  “Neil is right, Aunt Marlene,” Polly said. “We just wanted to say hello and make sure you’re all right.”

  “Ah’ve never been better, you two sillies. Come back when you have some time to spend with your aunt Marlene. Ah insist.”

  Neil drove Polly to the Hotel George. “I have to go see Dad,” he said. “He’ll be angry that I’m late. I wasn’t imagining that Marlene was there, Polly.”

  “I believe you, Neil,” Polly said. “But that doesn’t mean she killed anyone.”

  “I’ll be back by two,” he said, and drove off.

  Rotondi finished lunch at the Blue Duck Tavern in the recently renovated Park Hyatt hotel and dialed Mac Smith’s number.

  “Mac, Phil Rotondi here. Have you had a chance to ask Jonell about the envelope he delivered?”

  “No, but he’s here, just arrived.” He put Jonell on the line.

  “Hello, Jonell. I need something from you.”

  “Anything,” Jonell said. “Mac tells me you’re working with him on my behalf.”