Murder on K Street Read online

  He realized as he looked out his window over Washington, D.C., that he’d become unraveled. He seemed incapable of making even the most minor of decisions. His father was fond of saying, “Any decision is better than no decision. At least you have a fifty-fifty chance of being right.” Good advice, except that when you were paralyzed, any chance of being wrong was anathema.

  He was immersed in his fog when a knock snapped him to attention. Rick Marshalk opened the door and said, “Got a minute?”

  “Sure, Rick. Come on in.”

  Marshalk, dressed in white shirt, wide floral tie, and suspenders, took a chair across the desk. “Man,” he said, “when will it stop?”

  “What? Oh, the rain?”

  “No, not the rain. What’s been happening around here. First your mother, now Camelia.”

  “It’s terrible news,” Simmons said.

  “You’ve got that right. But wait’ll you hear this next bit of terrible news, Neil.”

  Simmons stared blankly.

  Marshalk came forward in the chair. “Catch this. The police think Jonell might have killed your mom.”

  Simmons gasped and swallowed wrong, causing a coughing spasm. He got it under control and said, “That can’t be.”

  “Hey, you’re preaching to the choir, Neil, and I’ll do everything in my power to help Jonell get through this.”

  “Why do they think that?” Neil asked.

  “The rumor is that they found some forensic evidence at your mom’s house that belongs to Jonell—a fingerprint, I think, maybe more.” He slid even closer to the desk. “And I’m afraid there’s speculation that Jonell might have had something to do with Camelia’s fall.”

  Simmons kept shaking his head back and forth, as though motion would dispel what he’d just heard.

  “I know, I know,” Marshalk said, standing. “Just thought you’d want to know. He drove her home last night, and we all know he and Camelia were getting it on.”

  “I don’t think that’s true, Rick.”

  “Well, no matter. I just thought you’d want to know. Just remember one thing, Neil. Jonell is innocent until proven guilty. That’s one of the most important safeguards we have in this great country of ours. How are plans coming for the memorial service?”

  “I’m, ah—I’m working at it. I’ll be gone most of the day handling last-minute details.”

  “Take all the time you need. Family rules, Neil. Family trumps. Ciao.”

  Neil watched the door close and slumped in his chair. Jonell a murderer? Jonell his mother’s killer? Jonell responsible for Camelia’s fall from her balcony?

  “It can’t be,” he said aloud. “It can’t be.”

  He turned on a small TV in his office and watched the news. A report on his mother’s murder mentioned only that an anonymous source in the police department said there had been significant progress in the case. No mention of Jonell. Where did Marshalk hear it?

  He clicked off the TV and went to Jonell’s office, where his secretary sat glumly.

  “I just heard,” Neil said.

  She burst into tears. “It can’t be true,” she said through them.

  “Have you spoken with Jonell this morning?”

  “I called. I got his machine at home. Oh, God, say it isn’t so.”

  “How did you hear about it?” he asked.

  “Rick.”

  He continued down the hall to Marshalk’s corner office.

  “Yes, Neil?”

  “There’s nothing on the news about Jonell, Rick. Where did you hear it?”

  Marshalk grinned crookedly. “I have my sources, Neil. You know that. Let’s just say that a little bird flew down on my shoulder and whispered in my ear.”

  “A little bird my—”

  “Just kidding, pal, just kidding. I heard a rumor, that’s all. I know it’s a hell of a blow to you, with you and Jonell working together and all. Let’s just hope there’s nothing to it.”

  “Okay, Rick. Thanks.”

  Back in his office, he tried Polly again at the hotel. No luck.

  He took the to-do list he’d created for the memorial service and drove to St. John’s, where he went over some of the details with a layperson responsible for the logistics of special services, particularly high-profile ones.

  As he stood outside the church, he was almost overwhelmed by the need to go home and go to bed. But that was out of the question. He’d promised to pick up papers for his father and meet in his office at noon.

  He took a long, circuitous route to the house in which he’d grown up. He was in no rush to get there. Walking into the foyer where his mother’s lifeless body had been found posed a challenge. The simple act of opening the front door was a daunting physical and mental exertion.

  He eventually reached the house, pulled up the circular driveway, and parked directly in front. A series of deep breaths gave him the fortitude he needed as he got out of the car, climbed the front steps, and inserted his key into the lock. The door swung open. He was relieved that the alarm wasn’t on. He’d gone blank on the code to deactivate it.

  He stepped inside and blinked to acclimate to the change in light from outside. It was, he thought, deathly still in the house, and cold. The AC was cranked up full-force. He walked quietly into the library, taking careful steps so as not to disturb anyone—the spirit of his mother, the dominating aura of his father? He saw the tan briefcase, but instead of picking it up and leaving, he sat in his father’s chair and looked about the darkened room.

  It occurred to him that he had few memories of growing up there, as though a portion of his life had been skipped over, fast-forwarded. There were happy times with Polly, two kids giggling together at their parents’ perceived foibles, and pleasant recollections of summer croquet matches in the rear yard. But surely there’s more to remember about childhood than that.

  He closed his eyes and dozed off for a minute. He awoke with a start. “Have to get going,” he said, standing, grabbing the briefcase he’d come to retrieve, and walking to the door. He stopped and raised his head, his face, his nose. The scent of perfume was distinct. Now another memory came to him. It was a perfume of which his mother was fond; she wore it virtually every day while he was growing up. There were times when she would hug him, and the scent was so overpowering it made him sneeze and pull away. Had the scent been there when he entered the house? He didn’t think so, although it might have been.

  He went to the foot of the stairs and looked up. Was the smell of perfume stronger now?

  He started up, taking the same sure, silent steps as when he’d arrived, stopping now and then to breathe in sweet wisps of perfume. He stopped at the landing and cocked his head, heard nothing. He continued. When he reached the carpeted second floor, he looked at the various bedroom doors that lined the long hallway. They were all closed, with the exception of his parents’ room. He approached it, closed his eyes, opened them, and took the final steps that allowed him to see into the room. At first, what he saw—what he thought he saw—was so shocking that he looked away, like someone shielding eyes from a gruesome movie scene. He forced himself to look again. Seated at his mother’s dressing table was—

  Mother? he mouthed without sound.

  The woman, whose attention was focused on the dressing table mirror, had been unaware of his presence. She was observing herself in the glass from different angles, moving her head this way, then establishing another vantage point. He stared in disbelief. The perfume was overwhelming. He coughed against it.

  The woman turned. “Neil, darling,” she said in an exaggerated southern drawl. “How wonderful to see you.”

  Marlene Boynton now turned to face him. She was heavily made up, her lips oversize with a heavy application of bloodred lipstick.

  “What are you doing here?” Neil asked weakly.

  “Why, ahm getting made up, silly. A woman has to look her best at all times, don’t you agree?”

  Neil was aware that he’d allowed his mouth to hang
open, and he closed it. He shifted from foot to foot and cleared his throat several times in anticipation of speaking, but said nothing.

  “Don’t just stand there like that, Neil. Come in and give me a hug, a great big hug.”

  “This is—I thought—this is Mom’s room and dressing table. Why are you sitting there using her makeup and…?”

  She stood and turned slightly to admire her body in a full-length mirror next to the dressing table. She wore one of Jeannette’s favorite dressing gowns over her clothing, pink silk with a small, darker pink lace collar.

  “Have you spoken with your father today?” she asked, slowly crossing the room in his direction.

  “I think you should leave, Aunt Marlene,” he said, trying to force conviction into his voice.

  “I thought I’d wait until your daddy came home. I always like to look good for him. Or…do you think I’m sexy?”

  He backed to the head of the stairs and almost stepped off the landing. He grabbed the banister and righted himself. She continued to stand in the bedroom doorway, smiling, a hand on her hip.

  He ran down the stairs, glancing back a few times. He reached the foyer and started for the door. But he realized that he’d carried his father’s briefcase upstairs with him and had dropped it to the floor outside the bedroom. He ascended the stairs as fast as possible. The briefcase was a few feet from Marlene. He reached for it as though going after something from a very dangerous place, grabbed it, took a final look at her, bounded downstairs, and stumbled out the door.

  TWENTY-SIX

  “I’m here to see Detective Crimley,” Rotondi told the desk officer.

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “Probably.”

  “Probably?”

  Rotondi gave him what passed for a grin. The officer frowned. “You are—?”

  “Phil Rotondi.”

  The uniform placed a call. “He’s in a meeting, but he wants you to wait. He’ll be free in fifteen minutes.”

  “Thanks,” Rotondi said, limping to a wooden bench and picking up a dog-eared copy of People that had been discarded there.

  Morris Crimley was conferring with the Simmons case task force, which now consisted of six detectives, including detectives Chang and Widletz.

  “The presumptive blood test on the hammer Mr. Lemón stole from in front of the Simmons house came up negative,” Crimley announced.

  “He wants a reward,” Widletz said through a chuckle.

  “A reward for what?” Crimley asked.

  “For showing us where he dumped the hammer. He thinks he’s solved the murder.”

  “I suggest that we wait until more definitive tests are done on the hammer before releasing him,” Chang proffered.

  Crimley’s shrug was noncommittal. He drummed his fingers on photographs of evidence on his desk. “Let’s talk about Marbury,” he said. “What bothers me is why he lied about being in the house. I mean, if he’d said Mrs. Simmons had invited him inside for a drink of water, or to use the bathroom, it would make sense. But—”

  “It’s possible that someone is framing him, Morrie,” said Widletz.

  “You sound like a defense attorney,” Crimley growled. “Go over again for me what they said at Marshalk.”

  Chang, who with Widletz had interviewed employees at the Marshalk Group, consulted his notes. “Mr. Marshalk claims that he encouraged Mr. Marbury to come forward to the authorities about having been at the residence the day of the murder. He further stated that Mr. Marbury and the deceased, Ms. Watson, had been engaged in a romantic relationship during her employment at the firm, and that Mr. Marbury was affectionate with Ms. Watson at the party held for her departure from the firm. In addition, Mr. Marshalk says that Mr. Marbury had, on occasion, demonstrated a temper that, as Mr. Marshalk put it, ‘threatened to get out of hand and to erupt.’ That observation was corroborated by the firm’s vice president of security, Mr. Jack Parish.”

  Crimley chewed his cheek. “Marshalk is no friend of Marbury,” he said.

  “I disagree,” said Chang. “He said repeatedly that he would do anything to help Mr. Marbury, but wanted only to be truthful with us. His firm put up a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the apprehension and conviction of Mrs. Simmons’s murderer.”

  “So I read in the papers,” Crimley said. “Good PR, huh?”

  “Have you gotten any more info on the possible Chicago connection?” one of the other detectives asked.

  “No. I’ll try Bergl again later today. He’s still stonewalling on this.” Crimley yawned. “Let’s get back on it. We’ll hold Lemón another day or two. I want you to talk to the handyman again, Schultz, and Senator Simmons’s driver, McTeague. See if they remember anything else about that day and night.”

  They filed from the room, and Crimley called to the front desk to have Rotondi brought to his office.

  “So, how was the Windy City?” Crimley asked after Rotondi had settled in a chair.

  Rotondi sat up a little straighter and frowned. “How did you know I was in Chicago?” He didn’t need an answer. Obviously, Crimley had decided to keep tabs on his whereabouts.

  “I don’t know where I heard it.”

  “It was lovely,” Rotondi said. “Beautiful city, nicely lighted at night. The breeze off Lake Michigan is always bracing, and the drinks at the Pump Room are still top-notch.”

  Crimley couldn’t help but laugh. “You talk like you went there as a tourist.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You and the senator taking in the sights?”

  “You might say that. Thanks for letting me barge in on you like this, Morrie.”

  “I have ulterior motives.”

  “Why am I not surprised? I understand that you’re focusing on Jonell Marbury in the Simmons murder.”

  “Word gets around. What’s your source?”

  “His attorney, Mackensie Smith.”

  “Ah, yes, Mackensie Smith. One of my few favorite lawyers.”

  “No argument from me. You have Marbury’s print from inside the house?”

  “I’ll be damned,” Crimley said. “Whatever happened to attorney–client privilege?”

  “I’m on the team, Morrie.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “What about the African American hair?”

  “There is one.”

  “Belong to Jonell?”

  “You sound as though you and Marbury are friends.”

  “We’ve met. He doesn’t strike me as the murdering kind.”

  “People change. Model citizen gets screwed by somebody and snaps, and doesn’t take kindly to a pretty young thing saying no.”

  “Camelia Watson. You suspect him of having something to do with her death?”

  “We’re interested in him. He drove her home, was the last person to see her alive.”

  “Emma catered the party Ms. Watson was at the night she died.”

  “I know. We’ll be talking to your lady friend about it. Your buddy, Marbury, and Ms. Watson were having an affair.”

  “That’ll be news to his fiancée.”

  Crimley glanced down at a yellow legal pad on his desk that was covered with notes. “Ms. Marla Coleman,” he read. “His fling with the deceased has been confirmed by people at Marshalk Group.”

  “How would they know?”

  “The Marshalk gang is a pretty close-knit group. Those things are never kept secret for very long.”

  “Like squad car romances,” Rotondi said.

  “Exactly! What did you do in Chicago?”

  “Played listening post to the senator.”

  “You hook up there with any of your old friends from Baltimore?”

  Okay, Rotondi thought, you know about Kala Whitson.

  “As a matter of fact, I did. Kala Whitson is an assistant AG out there. We worked together in Baltimore before she moved to Chicago. We got together for old times.”

  Crimley’s raised eyebrows suggested that Rotondi elaborate.


  He didn’t. He was tempted to mention the materials Jeannette Simmons had received from “the Weasel,” but resisted, for two reasons. First, he didn’t want to lose control of the material. Give it to the police and chances were good that it would be leaked to the media by morning. The second reason was more pragmatic. He’d been sitting on potentially valuable evidence, incriminating or exculpatory, in a murder case. You could go to jail for that, he knew only too well. He’d put away a few such offenders himself.

  “By the way, Morrie, I rendezvoused with Kala Whitson in her apartment. Juicy stuff, huh?”

  “No comment. What do you know about a possible Chicago connection to Jeanette Simmons’s murder?”

  “Chicago connection? Like in the mob?”

  “Yeah. Speaking of juicy stuff, the senator’s extracurricular love life with a mob-connected Chicago woman has me wondering.”

  “What the senator does behind closed doors, Morrie, is none of my business.”

  “Even if it might have had something to do with his wife’s murder?”

  “Do you think it did?”

  Crimley’s large shoulders moved up and down. “Did your buddy, Ms. Whitson, have anything interesting to offer about their investigation?”

  “What investigation?”

  “Ah, come on, Phil, don’t treat me like an idiot. We know that the Chicago U.S. attorney has been looking into Senator Simmons and his connections with certain folks with crooked noses out there.”

  “Why don’t you ask them?”

  “We have. I’ve talked to Bergl here in D.C., who promises to bring us into the loop. He hasn’t. Justice is treating us like second cousins. No, worse than that. They won’t share a damn thing.”

  Rotondi was tempted to suggest that the MPD’s penchant for leaking information was a good reason for other law enforcement agencies to keep their sensitive investigations close to the vest. He didn’t bother. Crimley didn’t need to be reminded of it.

  “Can we talk about Jonell Marbury?” Rotondi asked.

  “Sure. Since you’ve joined the Mac Smith team, ask away.”

  “Did your people take from the Simmons house the envelope that Jonell delivered that afternoon?”