Murder on K Street Page 18
“She wanted my take on it. Her main concern was Neil and what might happen to him if this information ever became public. She spoke with him about it a couple of weeks before the murder.”
“What was his reaction?”
“According to her, he wanted to think about it. Last I heard, he hadn’t brought it up again. He might have chalked it up to his mother’s drinking.”
“And the senator?”
“Jeannette claimed she hadn’t told him about the stuff from Chicago, but did tell him she wanted a divorce. She was really conflicted, Mac. On the one hand, she wanted to protect her son, and she’s not out to destroy her husband. I know—knew her pretty well. She’d become very vulnerable the past few years. I think she just wanted to bury her head in the sand and hope it would all go away. If Neil resigned from Marshalk, he’d be in a lot better position when and if the walls came tumbling down around him. As for the senator, he’d just have to accept the fact that he screwed up big-time and find another profession, provided he avoided doing time in some federal pen. She wasn’t a vindictive woman, Mac. She just wanted out for herself and her family, and didn’t know the best way to get there.”
Smith grunted and looked up into the tree, squinting against the flickering sunlight. “No way to trace the package she got?” he asked.
“I’m working on it. I have a friend in Chicago who’s checking with FedEx. I’m flying out there tomorrow with the senator. I’ll catch up with my friend in person while I’m there.”
Mac’s expression was thoughtful.
“So, Counselor,” Rotondi said, “the question I have for you is, What do I do with this information? It could have direct bearing on Jeannette’s murder.”
“Not much choice, Phil. Go to the police with it.”
“And take down one of the most powerful members of the Senate and a possible future president, to say nothing of a close friend? I can’t do that, at least not yet. I’m conflicted, too, Mac. Don’t get me wrong. If Lyle Simmons’s shabby dealings had anything to do with Jeannette’s murder, I want him, and anyone else involved, to pay. I spent my professional career committed to that.”
“All right then,” Smith said, “confront the senator and his son. Convince Neil to walk away from Marshalk and be ready to cooperate with the authorities should this thing become public.”
“Good advice, except that maybe it won’t become public.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Jeannette never heard again from the guy in Chicago. Makes me wonder if he’s decided to drop it.”
“But can you afford to take that chance, Phil? It seems to me that what you have to do is get out from being in the middle. Wanting to preserve a family’s reputation, which includes a leading political figure, is admirable. But there’s a limit.”
Rotondi started to say something, but Smith cut him off with, “And there’s the law.”
Rotondi nodded, his lips pressed together, eyes narrowed. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “I’ll give it a day and see what I can come up with in Chicago.”
“Don’t wait much longer than that, Phil,” Smith said, standing. “This is the sort of situation in which the stakes get bigger every hour.”
They left the park and started up the street.
“By the way, I tried to reach Jonell Marbury,” Smith said, “but got his voice mail. I assume he’ll get back to me this afternoon.”
“Emma is catering a going-away party for Marshalk this evening.”
“Who’s leaving?”
“I don’t know. The only people I know there are Neil Simmons and Jonell Marbury, thanks to you and Annabel.” Rotondi stopped walking. “I’d better grab a cab, Mac. This leg of mine isn’t good for any distance.”
“Sure. I don’t suppose you’re willing to share the information Mrs. Simmons gave you.”
“Not yet. I’d rather keep it locked up until I get a better handle on things.”
Smith waved over a taxi, and Rotondi got in. “Thanks for lunch,” he said.
“My pleasure, Phil. Stay in touch. I mean that.”
Rotondi gave him a thumbs-up as the cab sped away.
TWENTY
Detectives Crimley, Chang, and Widletz sat in Crimley’s office going over test results of forensic materials collected at the Simmons house that had just been delivered.
“It’s an African American hair,” Crimley said. “No doubt about that.”
“The handyman, Schultz, said he saw a black man arrive at the house as he was leaving.”
“But no ID,” Widletz said. “Drove an expensive sedan, light-colored, white or gray.”
“What’s the foul-up with the prints?” Crimley growled.
“A computer problem,” Chang offered. “They’re working on it. There is something I wish to mention.”
“Go ahead, Charlie.”
“The glass in question. When I went back to the house, I looked at other glasses in the kitchen cabinets.”
“Uh-huh?”
“The glass found on the counter doesn’t match the glasses in the cabinets. There was water in the one on the countertop. Other glasses in the cabinets that might be used for water are different.”
Crimley laughed. “So what?” he said. “You should see the glasses in my house. None of them match. You end up getting glasses from different places, different sources, giveaways, freebies, a glass that comes with a bottle of booze.”
“All the other water glasses in the cabinets match,” Chang said.
“What do you make of that, Charlie?” Widletz asked.
“I haven’t come to a conclusion,” Chang said.
“All your glasses match at home?” Crimley asked Chang. “No, forget I said that. I’m sure they do.” He glanced at Widletz, who returned his smile. “When does the lab think they’ll fix the computer?”
“Later today,” Widletz provided.
“Maybe we’ll get lucky. In the meantime, check out BMW and Lexus dealerships in the District. See if they can document the sale of a light-colored vehicle to a tall, dark African American man, well dressed according to Mr. Schultz.”
“Might as well try Audi dealers, too,” Widletz said, her tone indicating she considered the order a waste of time.
“Sure,” said Crimley. “Audi, too.”
A uniformed officer stuck his head in. “That bum, Lemon, wants to talk to you, Morris.”
“It’s Lemón,” Crimley said. “Like he says, he’s no fruit. What’s he want to talk about?”
“Maybe he wants to confess.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Crimley said. “Have him brought up to one of the interrogation rooms. Let me know when he’s there.” He said to Chang and Widletz, “Start checking out the dealerships. I’ll let you know if anything comes of my chat with Mr. Lemón.”
Lemón was in the interrogation room with a uniformed officer when Crimley arrived.
“I understand you want to talk to me,” Crimley said.
“Yes, sir, that’s right. I certainly do.”
“You’re entitled to have an attorney present.”
“I don’t need no lawyer.”
“Suit yourself. What’s on your mind?”
“I lied to you last time.”
Crimley glanced up at the officer. “Get a tape recorder in here.” He turned to Lemón. “I just want to get everything on the record, Mr. Lemón. Sure you don’t want an attorney present?”
“Nah.”
A few minutes later, a tape recorder was rolling. Crimley sat across from the vagrant. “Okay, the floor is yours,” Crimley said. “What did you lie about—how the woman, Mrs. Simmons, died?”
Lemón vigorously shook his head. “I don’t know nothing about that.”
Crimley’s enthusiasm waned. “So?” he said.
“You know what I said about losing my hammer?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I lied about that. I never owned no hammer.”
“Why did you say that you did?”
“’Cause I stole it. It wasn’t mine.”
“You stole it?”
He hung his head. “Yup.”
“You took it from the workman at the house where the woman was killed. Right?”
A solemn nod.
“What did you do with it?”
He looked up. “Like I said, I tossed it away, down by where I was sleeping. In that stream, only I made sure I got far away so nobody could find it and get me in trouble for stealing it.”
“And you didn’t use it?”
A slow shaking of the head.
“Sure the lady at that house where you took it from didn’t come out and catch you in the act?”
“No, she did not.”
Crimley sensed that he was telling the truth. The stone dust on his shoes was picked up when he approached the front of the house to swipe the hammer.
“Why did you bother stealing it, Mr. Lemón, if you didn’t intend to use it?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I do dumb things.”
You’ll get no argument from me, Crimley thought.
“Do I have to go now?” Lemón asked.
“You don’t want to go?”
“I don’t mind being here, only there’s things I’ve got to do, meetings to go to.”
“Yeah, I’m sure there are. You willing to take us to where you ditched the hammer?”
“I’ll do that.”
Crimley left the room and told other detectives who’d observed the exchange through the one-way glass, “We’ll keep him for a while. He’s not making a stink about being held, so let’s hang on to him. I don’t think he killed her, but maybe the hammer will say otherwise.”
Neil Simmons spent part of the day planning his mother’s memorial service, then he and his sister, Polly, got together that afternoon and met for an hour with people from St. John’s. Earlier, he’d consulted with the police about crowd control at the service, and had finalized a press release announcing the plans. Those necessary chores completed, he and Polly stopped at the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown for coffee in the expansive lobby, where an elegantly dressed woman sat behind a gleaming black grand piano and wove familiar melodies. It was the sort of serene scene Neil had been longing for all day.
He was dressed in suit and tie, Polly in jeans and a white T-shirt with STOP THE INSANITY emblazoned across its front. Neil had wished she’d dressed more conservatively, but knew it would be futile to suggest it, and would probably invite a rant on “empty suits” and a lecture on why people act like sheep and all dress the same.
“I think we accomplished everything we had to today,” Neil said pleasantly as his coffee, and her Diet Coke, were served.
“It would be nice if Daddy gave a damn and got involved,” she said. He started to respond, but she said, “What a sham having her service at Saint John’s. She never went near that church. The only reason Daddy wants it there is because of his image. What bull!”
“Oh, come on, Polly, let’s not get into that. You know how busy he is.”
“Busy doing the people’s business. I’ve come to the conclusion that the best thing Congress can do for the country is to stay home.”
Neil laughed.
“I’m serious,” she said. “All Congress does is take money from lobbyists and pass laws the lobbyists want passed. What kind of democracy is that?”
Neil started to respond but she cut him off. “I know, you’re a lobbyist, Neil, but just because you’re my brother doesn’t make it right. You ever think of leaving?”
“Sure.”
“No, I mean really think of leaving.”
“It’s not that easy, Polly. I have responsibilities, a family.”
“That’s no excuse. You were supporting your family just fine when you worked at the bank.”
“It was hand-to-mouth. Marshalk pays a lot better.”
She turned from him, recrossed her legs, and looked at the pianist. Neil drank his coffee and observed the formidable, sharply dressed men and women occupying other tables. They represented what he’d aspired to be, a smooth, confident player moving easily through the corridors of the nation’s most complex capital city. What he was feeling at that moment was hardly that. He was confused and deflated, unsure of who he was—who he’d ever been.
The conversation he’d had with his mother two weeks before she died had stayed with him day and night, making sleep virtually impossible. He’d tried to lose himself at work, but there wasn’t enough for him to do there to occupy his mind. Marshalk and his lieutenants had been busy wooing new clients and setting up fund-raising events for members of Congress with whom they had close ties. Simmons knew about the upcoming trip to Chicago on a private jet arranged by Marshalk, and had suggested to his father that he accompany him. “There’s no need for you to come, Neil,” the senator had said. “You stay here in D.C. and make damn sure the memorial service comes off the way I want it to.”
He waited until Polly had turned to pick up her soda to say, “Polly, I am going to be leaving Marshalk.”
“Really? When did you make that decision?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. Happy?”
“No. Why should I be? Proud? I suppose so. Have you told Daddy?”
“No, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it until I’ve had a chance to.”
She pressed her finger to her lips and said with exaggerated gravity, “My lips are sealed.” Her eyes opened wide. “He will not be happy,” she said.
“It’s important that I be happy.”
“You bet. What does the missus say?”
“I haven’t told Alex.”
“Boy, I’d love to be there when you do. There go her plans to redo the kitchen again.”
“Lay off Alex, okay?”
“Whatever you say, big brother.” She took in her surroundings, leaned close to him, and asked, “Do you think Daddy had Mom killed?”
“Jesus, Polly, how can you even think such a thing?”
“They were getting a divorce, you know.”
“They were?”
“You didn’t know?”
“I—I heard something.”
“And you know what that would do to Daddy’s political future.”
“I don’t want to hear this, Polly, this nonsense about Dad killing Mom.”
“You may not want to hear it, Neil, but you can’t just dismiss it out of hand.”
He felt a rush of heat to his face and wondered if he had reddened. “Please, Polly,” he said, “this isn’t the time. Our mother has just been murdered. We have to stick together as a family and honor her by our actions.”
“For Daddy’s sake?”
“No, damn it, for her sake.” He realized his voice had risen, and he looked around to see whether anyone had reacted. No one appeared to have. She reached for her glass, but he grabbed her hand en route. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, “who killed Mom. That’s for the police to determine. It’s our responsibility to stand tall and—”
“Stand tall?” she mimicked. “When have you ever stood tall, Neil?”
He released her hand and sat back.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said that. I know it hasn’t been easy being involved with Daddy. He’s overbearing, my way or the highway. That’s why I got as far away as I could, as soon as I could.” She paused as she saw his eyes become moist. “I love you, Neil. I just wish…”
“I’d like to leave,” he said, motioning for a check.
He drove her to the Hotel George and pulled up in front.
“You’re really leaving Marshalk?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m going to give Phil Marshalk my notice. I have to be at a going-away party tonight. Maybe I can corner him there and break the news. Dad is leaving tomorrow for Chicago. Phil is going with him. As soon as I tell Marshalk I’m leaving, I’ll get hold of Dad and tell him, too.”
“Everything will turn out okay,” she said, and kissed his cheek.
Simmons watched her skip into the hotel. Then he drove to Marshalk’s headquarters. Jonell Marbury intercepted him on his way to his office. “Got a minute, Neil?” Marbury asked.
“Sure.”
Marbury closed the door behind them.
“What’s going on?” Marbury asked.
“About what?”
“About this place, Neil. Marshalk and Parish have turned it into an armed camp. You’d think we were some Defense Department think tank with top-secret information about where the next war will be.”
Simmons shrugged and waved his hand. “I don’t know, Jonell. I’m just the president.”
“You’ve heard the rumors.”
“Which ones?”
“About Justice investigating us.”
Simmons nodded.
“You must know something about it, Neil.” Marbury got up from his chair, leaned on Simmons’s desk, and said, “I’ve even heard it might involve money laundering for the mob.”
“Just a rumor, Jonell.”
Marbury sat again. “I’m getting really worried, Neil. I had a conversation with Camelia the other day. She’s bailing because she’s concerned about what’s coming down. I’m thinking of doing the same thing.”
Simmons was poised to reveal that he, too, intended to leave the firm, but thought better of it. Although he trusted Marbury, he also knew that even the most closed-mouthed people in Washington ended up spilling things said in confidence, perhaps not deliberately, but inadvertently.
“Maybe you should” was the way Simmons put it.
“You mean that?”
“Look, Jonell, I’m as aware as you are of things here getting out of hand. I hear the scuttlebutt as clearly as you do. Do you have something else lined up?”
“No, but I’m not worried about that. I had a long talk with Marla about it. She’s all for me leaving.”
“Well,” Simmons said, “Marshalk will obviously miss you if you decide to resign. You have to do what’s right for you.” Simmons rubbed his eyes and added, “We all do.”
Marbury looked at Simmons quizzically but didn’t say what he was thinking: that Simmons’s final comment was intriguing, and troubling. He changed the subject: “Things shaping up for your mom’s memorial service?”