Murder on K Street Page 26

  “Not much I can contribute, but I’m trying. Jonell, that envelope you delivered the day of the murder. Can you describe it to me?”

  “Sure. Eight-by-ten, manila with a clasp. Rick Marshalk wrote the senator’s name on it in big purple letters.”

  “Purple letters?”

  Jonell laughed. “Yeah, it’s one of Rick’s many idiosyncrasies. He’s always writing things with a purple Flair. He’s flamboyant that way.”

  “Okay, thanks. Hope your afternoon goes well.”

  “I’m in good hands,” Marbury said. “The best.”

  Neil arrived at the Hotel George fifteen minutes late. “Sorry,” he said. “Dad was tied up and—”

  “No problem,” Rotondi said.

  “I can’t stay long,” Neil said.

  “Go ahead, Neil,” Polly said. “Tell Phil about Aunt Marlene.”

  Rotondi listened as Neil recounted his confrontation with Marlene in Jeannette’s bedroom. When he was through, Rotondi said, “It’s not news that Marlene has mental problems, Neil, but that doesn’t necessarily translate into her being a killer.”

  “That’s what I said,” Polly chimed in.

  “I know that,” said Neil, “and I know you both view Marlene as being a harmless kook, but as far as I’m concerned she’s crazy enough to do anything. Look, I have to go. Polly wanted to run this past you, Phil, and get your advice on what to do with it.”

  “My advice?” said Rotondi. “What do you think should be done, Neil?”

  “I want to go to the police and at least make them aware of the possibility that Marlene killed Mom.”

  Neil looked to Polly, and then to Rotondi.

  “Sure,” Rotondi said. “Go to MPD and give them the benefit of your thinking. But don’t expect anything to come out of it. Aside from Marlene’s aberrant behavior, there isn’t one iota of evidence pointing to her as your mother’s murderer.”

  Neil was aware that while what Rotondi had just said supported what he, Neil, wanted to do, the tone in which he’d said it testified to a different interpretation.

  “Thanks for your advice,” Neil said, and shook Rotondi’s hand. “Sorry I have to run. Thanks for coming.”

  When her brother was gone, Polly said what she’d been holding back while he was there. “Do you know what this is really about, Phil?” she said.

  Rotondi’s cocked head invited her to explain.

  “Neil will do anything to get Dad off the hook. I’m surprised he isn’t pointing a finger at me as Mom’s killer.”

  Rotondi let the comment slide, and asked, “Feel like doing me a favor, Polly?”

  “If I can,” she said.

  “I’d like to go to your house.”

  “Why? To smell the perfume?”

  “To find an envelope with purple writing on it.”

  She laughed. “Okay,” she said. “Whatever you say.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “What’s this all about?” Polly asked as a taxi took them to the house.

  “The police have focused in on someone in your mom’s murder,” he replied, leaning close to her ear to avoid being overheard by the driver. “Maybe you heard on TV when the cops announced that they had a break in the case.”

  “I don’t watch TV.”

  “Have you heard of Mackensie Smith?”

  “No.”

  “He’s a former top defense lawyer who’s helping this person. They’re friends. I’ve recently met him at Smith’s house.”

  “Who is this person,” she asked, “this break in the case?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later. For now, let’s just say that he didn’t kill your mother, or anyone else for that matter, and I’m trying to help Smith prove that. The envelope I’m looking for—”

  “With purple writing.”

  “Right. It might prove useful in establishing his innocence.”

  “How?”

  Rotondi grinned. She had a question for everything, accepted nothing at face value, like a good trial attorney.

  “I don’t know,” he said, “but I’m curious to see what the envelope contained. This fellow delivered it to the house the afternoon of the murder.”

  “It was for my mother?”

  “No, your father.”

  “From the Senate?”

  “No, from the Marshalk Group.”

  “Neil sent it?”

  “No, his boss, Rick Marshalk. This man—all right, his name is Jonell Marbury—he works for Marshalk.”

  “You’re sure he didn’t do it, Phil?”

  His attention was diverted as the driver turned a corner into the street on which the house was located.

  “Go up the driveway,” Rotondi instructed. “That one over there.”

  “Should we have him wait?” Polly asked.

  “No. We’ll call another. Got your key?” Rotondi asked as the driver drove off.

  “Yup.”

  She unlocked the door, and they stepped into the foyer.

  “I feel like I was just here,” she said.

  “You were,” he said.

  He entered the library off the foyer and snapped on the overhead lights.

  “What a mess,” Polly said, referring to the piles of material stacked on the hardwood floor.

  “Your dad’s never going to win the Senate’s annual award for neatness,” Rotondi said. He went to the pile nearest the desk, took the chair, and started pulling things from that stack. He’d reasoned that if the envelope was still there, chances were that it wouldn’t be buried deep. Jeannette had probably tossed it on top of one of the piles. In the five days since the murder, Lyle had spent very little time at the house, making only brief stops to pick up clothes to take to the suite at the Willard that had become his second home.

  His hunch was right.

  Polly stood over him. “There it is,” she said.

  SENATOR SIMMONS in bold purple strokes was on the sixth item he picked up.

  Rotondi looked up at her, nodded, and turned the envelope over. The flap had not been sealed by its glued surface. Only the small metal clasp secured it. He opened it, reached inside, and withdrew six pieces of paper.

  “What are they?” Polly asked.

  “I’m about to find out.”

  The first three papers were on the Marshalk Group’s letterhead. He scanned their contents, laid them on the desk, and examined the remaining three. They were virtually blank except for some scribbling that didn’t seem to make any sense. He retrieved the three letters and looked at them more closely this time. “Hmmm,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Look at the dates.”

  She leaned closer. “They’re old,” she said.

  “Yeah. These letters are from last year.”

  “Is that important?”

  “Maybe,” he said, placing the papers in the envelope, folding the clasp, and standing.

  “That’s it?” she asked.

  “That’s it.”

  “I like being here with you, Phil,” she said. “For some reason the house isn’t as forbidding as it’s been.”

  “It’ll be a long time before you’ll be comfortable here, Polly.”

  “This man they think killed my mother. Why do they think he did it?”

  “Some forensic evidence,” Rotondi said. “They found his fingerprint on a glass in the kitchen, and a hair in the bathroom belonging to an African American.”

  “He’s black?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why was his fingerprint here? Was he a friend of Mom’s?”

  “No. He says he’d never met her before, and that he’d never set foot in the house.”

  “How can that be if his fingerprints and hair were here?”

  “I’ll explain on the way back. Call a cab.”

  Senator Simmons’s receptionist told Neil that the senator had just been called into an important last-minute meeting, and she didn’t know how long he’d be.

  “Maybe I’d better leave and—”


  The door to the inner office was flung open and the senator stood in the doorway.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  His father turned and disappeared back into the office. Neil followed.

  “Close the door,” Simmons said.

  Neil did as instructed. He handed the tan briefcase to his father, who dropped it to the floor behind his desk.

  “What’s new with the memorial service?” he asked as he sank into his large, leather swivel chair. He looked exhausted to Neil, puffy dark circles defining his eyes, his developing jowls more pronounced.

  “Everything is in order.”

  “Good.”

  “Dad, I have to talk to you about something.”

  The senator looked up at a wall clock. “I have a meeting to get to in five minutes, Neil. Make it quick.”

  Neil collected his thoughts. He hadn’t expected to have only a limited time to say what was on his mind. “When I went to the house today to pick up those papers for you, Aunt Marlene was there.”

  “What was she doing there?”

  Neil made a false start.

  “Get to it, Neil.”

  “She was in your bedroom pretending to be Mom.”

  Simmons opened his mouth to say something but closed it before words escaped. Finally, he said, “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I know it sounds that way, Dad, but I swear that’s what happened. She was at Mom’s dressing table wearing one of her robes, the pink one, and—”

  “What did she say?”

  Neil hesitated. “She said she wanted to look nice for you when you came home.”

  Simmons’s sigh was deep and prolonged.

  “She’s insane, Dad. Polly and I went to her condo after I told Polly about it. Marlene acted as though she’d never been at the house.”

  The senator’s brow became deeply furrowed, his lips pressed tightly together.

  “Do you understand what this means, Dad? Aunt Marlene killed Mom.”

  Simmons said nothing.

  “There’s no other conclusion to come to. In her sick mind, she killed Mom so she could take her place. She’s always been jealous of Mom, always thought she was the one who should be married to you.”

  “Who have you told about this, Neil, aside from Polly?”

  “Phil.”

  “Why did you tell him?”

  “Polly wanted his advice before we did anything. He came to the hotel and met with us.”

  “I’ll talk to Phil.”

  “All right, but I don’t know why you’d bother. He didn’t think it was a big deal. Frankly, I don’t understand why everything has to be run past him.”

  Simmons gave another look at the clock. “I have to leave. Keep this between us, Neil. I mean that.”

  He got up, took his suit jacket from an antique clothes rack, slipped it on, glanced at himself in a full-length mirror, and walked to the door.

  “Dad.”

  The senator stopped. “What?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Another time, Neil.”

  “Were you and Mom going to get a divorce?”

  Simmons looked down at his shoe tops, then up at his son. “It really doesn’t matter anymore, does it, Neil?”

  Alone, Neil stared straight ahead, his mind a blank. He’d wanted to ask his father about the material his mother had claimed to have in her possession that would be destructive to his Senate career, and to Marshalk. Had she told him? Did he realize the jeopardy he might be in—that his political career and presidential aspirations could be at stake? He wanted to tell him that he intended to resign from the Marshalk Group, and that he was sorry for the mistakes he’d made, and…

  Another time, Neil.

  His eyes took in the photographic history of his father’s career that filled the walls of the office, this man who, with his mother, had brought him into the world, handsome and self-assured, shrewd and successful, his smile beaming out from picture after picture, an arm around a famous celebrity, shaking hands with world leaders, ruler of his domain, Senator Lyle Simmons, potentially the next leader of the free world.

  Neil closed his eyes, clenched his teeth, and felt the pressure build in his eyes and throat.

  “Can I get you something, Neil?” the senator’s secretary asked from the doorway. He had to confront his father as soon as possible.

  “What?” Neil said, his eyes snapping open.

  “Can I get you something?”

  “Oh, no, thanks,” he said, not turning to have her see the tears on his cheeks. “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”

  Mac Smith and the criminal defense attorney he’d brought in to represent Jonell Marbury were wrapping up their meeting with Jonell when Rotondi called. “Mac,” he said, “I’ve got to see you.”

  “Sure.” He told Rotondi who was there.

  “Have him stay. I’ll be fifteen minutes.”

  Rotondi arrived. He greeted Marbury and Smith, and was introduced to the attorney. He laid the envelope on the table.

  “That’s the one I took to the Simmons house,” Jonell said.

  “I know,” Rotondi said. “Fortunately, the police didn’t think it was important to their case. I just came from the house—I found it there.”

  “This is the envelope that Rick Marshalk told you to deliver to the Simmons home?” Smith said.

  “That’s it,” said Marbury.

  “Did you know what was in it?” Rotondi asked Marbury.

  “No,” Jonell replied.

  Rotondi opened the clasp and laid out for them the six pieces of paper, which they passed around.

  “I’m not sure I see the relevance of this,” Jonell said.

  “I do,” said his attorney. “These papers are worthless, junk, nothing but filler.”

  “Why would Rick tell me to deliver worthless documents?” Jonell asked. He didn’t have to wait for their answer because it came to him without prompting. “He sent me there to put me at the house the day she was killed.”

  “Looks that way, doesn’t it?” said Smith.

  “But the glass and my hair and—”

  “All part of the frame-up,” Rotondi said. “Marshalk made you a patsy.”

  Marbury, who’d been seated on the couch next to Smith, smiled, got up, and clapped his hands. “This proves I had nothing to do with the murder,” he proclaimed ecstatically.

  “Not so fast,” said Smith. “While this looks to us like a classic frame-up, proving it is another matter.”

  Marbury’s smile faded. “If you take this to the police,” he said, “surely they’ll agree.”

  “I’m afraid we’ll need more than this,” Marbury’s new attorney said.

  “How do we get more?” Jonell asked, his voice less exuberant than a moment ago.

  Rotondi answered. “Let me talk to Neil Simmons. He’s been at Marshalk throughout this period. I don’t know how candid he’ll be, but I somehow have the impression that he’s disillusioned with Marshalk. It’s worth a shot.”

  “Give it a try,” Smith said. “In the meantime, having this envelope and its worthless contents might be enough to convince the MPD to back off a little where Jonell is involved in case they decide to get more aggressive. Before we break this up, however, there’s the added question of the death of your friend Ms. Watson, Jonell.”

  “Do you think her death is connected with Mrs. Simmons’s murder?” he asked.

  “It might be nothing more than coincidence,” said Smith, “but maybe not. Jonell, you told me that she was leaving Marshalk because she was concerned about illegalities there.”

  “That’s right.”

  Mac looked at Phil. Should he bring up the material in Rotondi’s possession? He decided not to—yet.

  “I’m going to try to catch up with Neil when I leave,” Rotondi said. “I’ll get back to you if it results in anything useful.”

  Marbury shook Rotondi’s hand. “I know we’ve just met,” he said, “and that you don’t have any reason to b
e trying to help me, but I want you to know how much I appreciate it.”

  Rotondi shrugged. “I spent my professional career pursuing justice, at least as I saw it. You don’t retire from that commitment. Besides, I have a stake in this, too, Jonell. Jeannette Simmons and I were close. I loved her, and I want whoever killed her to pay. Hang tough. This will all work out.”

  Rotondi rode the elevator down to the lobby, where he called the cell number he had for Neil.

  “Oh, hi, Phil,” Neil said.

  After leaving his father’s office, Neil had taken a walk, ending up at a small neighborhood bar and restaurant that looked inviting. He’d gone in, taken a stool at the bar’s far end, and ordered a bourbon-and-water. The room was dimly lighted; soft rock music came from a speaker above his head. The barmaid ignored him after serving his drink and engaged in conversation with a couple at the other end.

  “Neil,” Rotondi said, “can we get together tonight?”

  “Tonight? I don’t know, Phil, I—”

  “It’s important, Neil. Very important.”

  “Is this about Dad?”

  “I’d rather discuss it in person. Dinner? My treat?”

  “I suppose so, but it will have to be a quick one. Alexandra doesn’t like me to be too late. I like to be home to help put the kids to bed and—”

  “We’ll make it an early dinner, Neil. Any preference?”

  “No.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “A bar on Capitol Hill. I needed to relax and—”

  “Tell me where it is. I’ll meet you there.”

  Neil looked down at the bar napkin on which the establishment’s name and address were printed and read it to Rotondi.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “I’m nervous about the memorial service,” Neil said to Rotondi as he joined Simmons at the bar.

  “They’re always tough, Neil. Emotions run high, feelings run low. Everybody’ll get through it.”

  “Sometimes I can’t believe what’s happened. I mean, people get murdered in other families, not your own.”

  Rotondi tasted his Scotch.

  “I’m worried about Dad.”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  “I saw him today, just a few hours ago. He didn’t look good.”

  With Rotondi enjoying another sip, he took in his surroundings. It was the sort of small, worn, nondescript place that inspired songs—Billy Strayhorn’s “Lush Life” or “Something Cool” sung by June Christy—a place to escape from whatever blows you’d been dealt that day and to put things in perspective with the help of alcohol and anonymity.