Murder on K Street Read online

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “He doesn’t think it is. It was creepy, really creepy. He was all smiles and happy talk during most of the meal. But then he got serious, very serious, and gave me this lecture on how he expected me to treat what I know as sacred, and that…”

  “And that what?”

  “And that he’d hate to see something terrible happen to me.”

  “He said that? I mean, those were his words?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what he said. Oh, he couched it with lots of flowery talk about what a great career I have in front of me, and how much he’s appreciated the work I’ve done here. But when he said that—when he threatened me—my blood ran cold.” She looked behind her to confirm that the door was closed. “Jonell,” she said, “the Marshalk Group breaks the law every day. That’s one of the reasons I’m leaving. This place is a legal train wreck waiting to happen.”

  Marbury forced a laugh. “Come on, Camelia,” he said, “it can’t be that bad.”

  “It’s worse, Jonell. Want some good advice?”

  “Sure.”

  “Listen to Marla. She wants you to leave. You don’t want to be on this train when it goes off the rails.”

  That same morning, Detective Charles Chang sat in an interrogation room with his partner, Amanda Widletz. Across the table from them was the handyman who’d worked on the Simmons house the day Jeannette Simmons was killed. He was a stout, barrel-chested man, almost totally bald, and had the red nose and whiskey veins in his cheeks often associated with heavy drinking. His name was Lou Schultz.

  “Am I a suspect?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” Chang said. “Absolutely not, sir.”

  “We wouldn’t be doing our job if we didn’t talk to everyone who knew the victim,” Widletz added. “By the way, thanks for coming in like this.”

  “I want to help.”

  “Of course you do,” said Widletz.

  “You were doing repairs on the Simmons house two days ago,” Chang said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Were you their regular repairman?”

  He nodded. “I was recommended to Mrs. Simmons by a neighbor about two years ago. She liked the work I did, and I’ve been there ever since, part-time, general repairs, things like that, painting, wallpapering, fixing up outside. It’s a really nice house.

  “But no major projects, no additions or things like that. I like to keep it simple.”

  “Were you there all day?” Widletz asked “Got there early in the AM. I wanted to start early ’cause of the heat.”

  “And you worked there all day?”

  “Pretty much. I took an hour, maybe a little longer for lunch—Mrs. Simmons paid me by the project, so there’s no problem with taking off time now and then.”

  “You ate there?”

  “No. There’s a bar and restaurant about a mile away. I go there regular. Everybody knows me. Mrs. Simmons offered me a cold drink about noon and wanted me to come inside where it was cool. I didn’t want to do that. She was one nice lady. I can’t believe somebody did this to her.”

  “Aside from offering you a cold drink, Mr. Schultz, did you have other conversations with Mrs. Simmons?” Widletz asked.

  He rubbed his chin. “A couple of times. She came out once and admired the work I was doing on a stone wall.” He laughed. “She said it was a work of art. That’s what she said. A work of art. Oh, and when I took a break in the afternoon, I told her I’d be gone for about an hour. She told me to come inside to cool off, but I was uncomfortable doing that, so I went back to where I had lunch and enjoyed a beer. Boy, that heat was tough. Cleared up really good though, with that storm that came through last night. Some difference, huh?”

  “What was the last time you saw Mrs. Simmons?” Chang asked.

  “When I took my break late in the afternoon. Can’t say exactly when that was.”

  “Your best estimate, Mr. Schultz,” Widletz said.

  Another rubbing of the chin. “I’d say I left there about three thirty. Yeah, that’s about right. Three thirty.”

  “And you returned when?” Chang asked.

  “Was gone an hour, so it was probably four thirty, give or take a few minutes. Like I said, I can’t remember exactly. That’s one of the things I like about being on my own. No time clock to punch.” He hoped they hadn’t taken offense. He was sure they punched in and out.

  “Did you see Mrs. Simmons when you returned at four thirty?” Chang asked.

  “I didn’t say it was four thirty exactly,” Schultz replied.

  “Approximately four thirty,” Chang corrected.

  “Right. Approximately. No, I didn’t see her again. I really didn’t stay around long, just cleaned up, grabbed my tools, and went home. I was pretty upset, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Why?”

  “I couldn’t find my favorite hammer. Somebody must have stole it. You wouldn’t think that sort of thing would happen in a fancy neighborhood like that. You can’t leave anything lying around these days. I really liked that hammer, had it for years.”

  Chang noted the missing hammer in the notes he was taking. “You went straight home after work?”

  “Right. Well, no, not exactly. I stopped off for a beer.”

  “Not exactly,” Chang said.

  “Right. I want to be as accurate as possible for you folks. I know you’ve got a lollapalooza of a murder case on your hands.”

  Widletz readjusted her posture in the hard wooden chair and said, “While you were working at the house that day, Mr. Schultz, did you see anyone else there? Were there any visitors?”

  “Oh, boy, let me think about that.” Again, a hand to the chin.

  Could anything ever grow on that chin? Widletz wondered.

  “The mailman,” Schultz said. “He came while I was there.”

  “Anyone else?” Chang asked.

  “Let me see. Oh, sure. Walter arrived with some dry cleaning.”

  “Walter?”

  “Walter McTeague. He’s the senator’s personal driver. Bodyguard, too, I think. Hey, he was one of you guys as I understand. A former cop.”

  “Did he go inside the house?”

  “Sure. He shows up there lots of times. Usually goes inside.”

  “What time did he arrive?”

  “That’s a tough one. Let me see. I think it was just before I left for my break at three thirty. About three thirty.”

  “How long did he stay?” Chang asked.

  Schultz shrugged. “I don’t know. He was gone when I got back.”

  “Who else?” asked Chang.

  “Hmmm. Mrs. Simmons came out after I got back from lunch and asked whether I’d seen her sister. I guess she was supposed to visit.”

  Chang glanced down at his notes. “Marlene Boynton?”

  “That’s her.”

  “You didn’t see her?”

  “Nope. She stops by the house often. She doesn’t live far away. She’s…”

  “She’s what?” Widletz asked.

  “Well, no offense to her, but she’s a little—” He rotated his index finger against his temple. “I don’t listen in, mind you, but I’ve heard them get into some pretty bad arguments. So loud it comes right through the closed doors and windows.” He raised his hand. “Wait. I don’t want to be wrong here. It’s always the sister who does the screaming, not Mrs. Simmons. She’s too much of a lady to do that.”

  “But she didn’t show up that day?” Chang said.

  “Not as far as I know. Of course, I was gone for a while. Okay if I go now?”

  “In a few minutes,” Chang said. “No one else visited the house that you can remember?”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute. There was somebody else, arrived just as I was leaving for the day.”

  They waited for him to elaborate.

  “Never saw him before. He pulled up in a fancy car, a Mercedes—or maybe it was a BMW—I can’t tell one of those expensive cars from another. Might have bee
n a Lexus. I know it wasn’t an SUV. Anyway, I was pulling away in my panel truck when he arrived, pulled right up in the driveway to the front door and got out.”

  “You saw the driver?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And?”

  “He was a tall black fella. Real dark. Had on a suit.”

  “And you’d never seen him before.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Think you’d recognize him if you saw him again.”

  “Probably not. I only got a glimpse of him.”

  “Did he go inside?” Chang asked.

  “Sure. I mean, I didn’t see him go inside because I was on my way, but I assume he did. Why would he be there if he wasn’t going to go inside?”

  “What color was the car?”

  “Light-colored. White, I think. Maybe gray. But light. Are we finished? I promised my wife I’d get home early today.”

  Or his buddies at the bar are waiting, Widletz thought.

  “Sure,” she said. “You’re free to go, but we may want to talk to you again. No trips planned?”

  “Nope. We’ve got a cabin in North Carolina. That’s about the only place we go.”

  “Where do you keep your tools, Mr. Schultz?” Chang asked.

  “In my truck.”

  “You have it with you, sir?”

  “Sure. I drove it over here.”

  “Would you mind showing me your tools, sir?”

  “What for?”

  Chang stared at him.

  “Sure. Happy to show you whatever I’ve got. Nice meeting you, ma’am. Hope you find whoever killed Mrs. Simmons. She was some nice person, a real lady.”

  When Chang returned twenty minutes later, his partner asked if he’d found anything.

  “He has many tools that might have been used to kill Mrs. Simmons. I want a warrant for evidence technicians to test them for blood.”

  “Do you really think that’s necessary,” Widletz said.

  “Yes, I do, Detective Widletz.”

  “Hey, Charlie, do you think you could call me Amanda? We’ve been working together a long time.”

  “I prefer not to,” he said.

  “Suit yourself,” she muttered, adding under her breath, “You officious little twerp!”

  Emma Churchill returned to her Foggy Bottom house, where she and Rotondi lunched on choice leftovers she’d brought home from that morning’s catered breakfast. They turned on a small TV in the kitchen and watched the news. A press conference by Senator Simmons and his family was scheduled to begin at noon. Ten minutes before that, the newscaster said, “Our Jane Willis is standing by at the Dirksen Senate Office Building with some breaking news. Jane.”

  The familiar face of a local reporter filled the screen. “While we’re waiting for a statement from the senator and his family, I’ve been told by reliable sources within the MPD that the marriage between Senator Simmons and his deceased wife was a troubled one. According to these sources, there had been marital problems for a number of years, and separation and divorce had been discussed.”

  The anchor said, “Jane, are the police considering this significant as far as the investigation of the murder is concerned?”

  “I haven’t specifically been told that,” replied Willis, who stood in front of the bank of microphones that would be used by Simmons and the family, “but we have to assume that it will figure into their probe. Back to you until the senator makes his appearance.”

  “Breaking news indeed,” Rotondi grumbled. “Breaking rumor would be more like it.”

  “You’ve indicated in the past that their marriage was rocky, Phil,” Emma said.

  “They had their ups and downs.”

  “You should know.”

  He did know a lot about the marriage between Lyle and Jeannette Simmons, far more than he’d ever confided to her, or anyone else for that matter.

  The scene on the screen shifted from the anchor desk to the press conference. Lyle Simmons stood in front of the bouquet of microphones, flanked by Neil and Polly. Dozens of reporters surrounded them. The senator looked good, Rotondi thought, tall, tanned, sadness written on his handsome face, his gray hair promising wisdom in all things. Polly looked as though she’d suddenly found herself in an alien land and was desperate to escape. She hadn’t bothered to dress for the cameras; she wore what she’d had on when she’d arrived in D.C. It was Neil, however, who especially captured Rotondi’s attention. He was certainly a good-looking young man, no surprise considering his parentage. He wore clothes well. But there was a softness about him, Rotondi had always felt, not physically but in spirit and character, a man who harbored few convictions about himself or the world.

  The senator spoke: “Thank you for coming here today. My son, Neil, my daughter, Polly, and I suffered a terrible tragedy a few days ago. The brutal murder of my wife, and of their mother, has shattered our lives, as you can imagine. There has been speculation as recently as a few minutes ago about the state of my marriage to Jeannette. I was shocked to hear the sort of vicious rumor reported just prior to this news conference. Nothing could be farther from the truth. We enjoyed many happy years together. That happiness has been taken away at the hand of a murderer, and as a family we are working closely with law enforcement to bring that killer to justice. Polly has flown in from California—” He put his arm around her, causing her to visibly flinch. “—and we ask all of you in the media to do what you can to help find Jeannette’s killer. I would also like to express our sincere appreciation to all those people who’ve sent us e-mails of sympathy, and prayers. The American people are the most generous in spirit in the world, and their support during this ordeal has sustained us. Again, thank you for coming—”

  “Are you going to run for president?” a reporter yelled.

  “There will be no questions,” Simmons said. “And frankly, I find that particular question to be inappropriate considering the reason we are here today.”

  That didn’t stop the press corps from shouting other off-message queries as the three of them walked away from the microphones and disappeared from the room.

  “Nicely done,” Rotondi commented to Emma.

  “He’s smooth, that’s for sure. What about the sister? No one’s mentioned her, and she wasn’t at the press conference.”

  “Marlene? I imagine they’re keeping her under wraps. She’s always been intensely jealous of Jeannette. Marlene is two, three years younger than her sister. She tried to make it as an actress in New York but didn’t get very far. I’ve always felt that she sees Jeannette—saw her married to a powerful U.S. senator and felt she was the one who should be in that role.”

  “She never married?”

  “No. She’s spent time in a few mental institutions when she’s gone off the deep end. She’s a strange lady, Emma. She goes through life as though she’s constantly auditioning for a role. One day she’s Blanche DuBois, the next she’s Mary, Queen of Scots. She never seems to connect with reality.” He smiled. “I suppose there are other actors and actresses who have that problem.”

  “Maybe some.”

  “Uh-huh. Anyway, Marlene has been supported by Lyle and Jeannette for much of her adult life. They pay for the condo she lives in, buy her cars, and pay most of the bills. She hasn’t worked in years.”

  “What an unhappy life.”

  “That it is.”

  “Do you think that she might have let her anger at her sister boil over and…?”

  “Anything’s possible. She’s volatile. I’ve been with her on a number of occasions when she’s erupted. One minute she’s as pleasant as can be. Then, without warning, she blows. She seems unable to control her emotions, especially her anger.”

  “Have you ever seen her attack her sister?”

  “Once. Kathleen and I were away for a weekend with Lyle and Jeannette. Marlene came along. She’d just gotten out of a stay at some mental health facility, and Jeannette wanted to treat her to a pleasant, relaxing weekend. I don’t re
call what triggered it, but all of a sudden she started ranting about how their mother favored Jeannette. When Jeannette tried to calm her, Marlene lunged at her and pushed her over a chair. Lyle and I physically restrained her. After a couple of minutes, she was calm again and talking as though nothing had ever happened.” He looked out the window. “Funny,” he said.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Marlene and I always got along. She’s clearly unbalanced, but I never thought she could be homicidal.”

  “You weren’t a threat to her.”

  “I suppose. At any rate, I’m sure the police are taking a close look at her.”

  “Phil, let me ask you something else.”

  He cocked his head.

  “Do you think it’s possible that the senator killed his wife?” Before he could answer, she added, “Or had someone kill her?”

  “God, I hope not, Emma. I really don’t know.”

  Detectives Chang and Widletz had been in the crowd at the press conference. They left quickly, got in the vehicle they’d checked out of the motor pool that morning, and drove away. Widletz would have preferred to drive, but knew that Chang didn’t feel a woman’s place was behind the wheel—didn’t feel, it seemed, that a woman’s place was anywhere except in front of a stove or folding laundry. He drove the way he lived his personal and professional life, slowly, deliberately, by the book. He’d never met a yellow traffic light that he didn’t observe. There was no racing to a crime scene with Charlie Chang behind the wheel.

  “Where are we going—Detective Chang?” she asked.

  “Back to headquarters. Detective Crimley is bringing up the vagrant we’ve been holding. We can’t keep him much longer without charging him. And the senator is coming in at five.”

  “I hope they cleaned him up, and somebody gave him deodorant. Man, he smelled to high heaven when we brought him in.”

  Chang said nothing as a light ten feet ahead turned yellow, and he hit the brakes hard.

  “I meant the bum, Detective Chang, not the senator.”