Murder on K Street Read online

  “Call my office and arrange a time and place.”

  “I will be happy to do that,” said Chang. “Oh, one more thing, sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “I spoke with your son this afternoon, Mr. Neil Simmons.”

  “So I heard.”

  “He indicates that your marriage might not have been—how shall I say it?—had not been especially happy. Is that true?”

  Simmons glared at him.

  “We can discuss that, and other things, when we meet,” Chang said. He nodded at Rotondi—almost a slight bow—and went down the stairs, pausing in the foyer to bend over the faded chalk outline of Jeannette Simmons’s body and examine the wall next to it. Simmons and Rotondi watched until he finally closed the front door behind him.

  They turned to face Polly, who had come to the door to listen.

  “He’s nice,” she said.

  “What did you talk to him about?” Simmons demanded.

  “A few things. Don’t worry, Daddy, I didn’t tell any tales out of school.”

  “You heard what Neil told him?” Simmons said.

  “Poor Neil. He’s in for it now.”

  Simmons pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” Polly said.

  Simmons stopped punching in Neil’s cell phone number. “What’s true?”

  “That you and Mom didn’t have what you’d call a happy marriage.”

  “This is neither the time nor the place to be having this discussion, Polly.”

  “What is a good time, Daddy, the Senate floor where you can orate about family values and the sanctity of marriage? God, how hypocritical!”

  Rotondi thought that Simmons might lash out physically at his daughter, and prepared to head it off.

  “Don’t you have any sense of what’s appropriate, Polly. My wife, your mother, has been killed and—”

  She spun around, entered the bedroom, and slammed the door.

  “Go on downstairs,” Rotondi told Simmons. “I’ll join you there in a minute.”

  Rotondi went into the bedroom, where Polly sat crying on the edge of the bed. He handed her his handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes and gave it back. “You understand, don’t you, Phil?” she said.

  “What I understand is that you’re acting like a brat, Polly. I don’t care what’s gone down between you and your father, he happens to be right. This is not the time or the place to get into it, and it won’t be the time or the place until your mother’s killer has been found, and she’s properly laid to rest.”

  His harsh words hit as though she’d been punched. She pushed away from the bed and went to a window. Rotondi followed. “He’s hurting, too, Polly, only he may not show it the way you’d like him to. What’s important is not what you think and feel, but what your mother would have wanted. She deserves some dignity, if a murder victim can ever truly find that, and you owe her that. Shelve your feelings about your father and do what’s right for your mother. Suck it up and act like a grown-up. Got that?”

  She sniffled and said, “I know you and Daddy are friends, but I didn’t think you’d take his side.”

  “The only side I’m taking, Polly, is your mother’s. I suggest you do the same.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for,” he said. “Just do the right thing while you’re here. And stay away from the press. They’ll take what you say and chew you up.”

  “Yes, sir!” She gave a halfhearted salute.

  Rotondi grinned. “Good girl,” he said. “What are your plans for tonight?”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “Why not suggest dinner with your father?”

  “Oh, Phil, I don’t know. I—”

  “Suit yourself. You’ll have to spend time with him at some point.”

  “I know. Phil?”

  “What?”

  “Mom really liked and respected you.”

  “The feeling was mutual.”

  “She talked about you a lot, especially in the past couple of years. Did you and she…?”

  Rotondi placed an index finger against her lips. “Go down and spend time with your father. I have to pick up Emma—you remember her—we have a dinner date with friends. Here.” He pulled a card from his pocket and wrote Emma’s number on it. “Call me anytime, Polly.”

  “Thanks, Phil.”

  The senator was sitting in his darkened library when they came downstairs. Polly went into the room and said, “Dad, would you like to have dinner together?”

  He’d been slumped in the chair. He came up straight, started to say something, paused, and said finally, “That would be nice, Polly. Yes, I’d like that.” He saw Rotondi standing in the foyer. “You have an engagement, Phil.”

  “Yes. I’d better get moving.”

  “Walter will drive you.”

  “I’ll call a cab.”

  “Walter will drive you,” Simmons repeated. “Polly and I will spend some time here until Walter gets back. Thanks for coming with me, Phil. I know it’s not easy for you, either.”

  “You two take care,” Rotondi said. “We’ll catch up tomorrow.”

  As he sat in the Mercedes’s backseat, he was flooded with thoughts. Simmons was right. This wasn’t easy for him, and he had the sinking feeling that it would soon become even harder. He considered packing it in the next morning and fleeing back to his condo on the Eastern Shore. But he knew he couldn’t do that, wouldn’t do that because—and he was loath to admit it—he was part of the emerging puzzle of Jeannette Simmons’s murder, and of the dynamics of the Simmons family.

  Neil had wanted it all to go away.

  If only. If only.

  ELEVEN

  Annabel Lee-Smith’s dinner conquered the oppressive heat. The entrée was lobster salad, the lobsters shucked and chopped with loving care by Mackensie Smith. Gazpacho was first on the table, accompanied by fresh French bread. Key lime pie would top things off.

  “You look splendid in that apron,” Annabel told Mac as they awaited the arrival of their guests.

  “Thank you, ma’am. You look pretty good yourself.”

  “It’s a shame we can’t have cocktails out on the terrace. The ice wouldn’t last a minute out there. Neither would we.”

  “I’ll have to hoist a toast to Mr. Carrier tonight.”

  “Who?”

  “Willis Carrier. He invented air-conditioning more than a hundred years ago.”

  “And why do you know that?”

  “In case I end up on a quiz show. Want to know who invented the chastity belt?”

  “No.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  The front desk called to announce that Mr. Marbury and Ms. Coleman had arrived. A few minutes later Mac, Annabel, and Rufus, their blue Great Dane, greeted the couple at the door and led them into the living room, where Mac’s small bar was set up in a corner. “Drink?” Mac asked. “I have the ingredients for most concoctions. Just don’t ask for a pousse-café.”

  Jonell Marbury’s laugh was a rumble. “I was counting on one of those, Mac, but I’ll settle for a gin-and-tonic.” The woman accompanying him, his fiancée, Marla Coleman, opted for the same.

  Once everyone was settled with drinks and hors d’oeuvres in hand, the conversation almost immediately turned to the murder.

  “I thought you might have to cancel, Jonell, because of it,” Annabel said.

  “There’s really not much I can do,” he replied. “We all feel terrible for Neil Simmons. He was so close to his mother.”

  “A terrible loss,” Marla said.

  Marbury’s Caribbean roots were evident in the slight but discernible lilt to his voice. Considerably darker than Marla, who hailed from Savannah, Georgia, the thirty-seven-year-old was a man who turned heads and commanded attention when he entered a crowded room. Mac had met him when Jonell was chief of staff to an African American congresswoman from California. He’d established a reputation as on
e of the most effective staffers on the House side, and his influence in drafting legislation was considerable. He was, among other things, especially skilled at working with lobbyists who had a stake in a pending bill, weaving their input and legitimate concerns into the finished product. And he kept them all legitimate. Then, a year ago, he’d told Mac over lunch that he’d resigned from his post with the congresswoman to take a job with the Marshalk Group on K Street. His decision was not, he admitted, popular with Marla, an executive with the National Urban League in D.C.

  She, his fiancée, was equally attractive. She’d been cited by Washingtonian magazine as one of the city’s up-and-coming influence makers; the photograph of her in the magazine was stunning. This night she wore an off-white linen suit that hugged her tall, slender body. Jonell’s suit was light gray and nicely cut. Seeing the couple featured in the pages of a fashion magazine wouldn’t have surprised anyone. One thing was certain. They’d outdressed their host and hostess, who wore casual clothing.

  “Rick Marshalk is putting up a fifty-thousand-dollar reward,” Marbury said.

  “That might generate some leads,” Mac said. “Do the police have any suspects yet?”

  “Not that I know of. I was talking to Rick today and—”

  Another call from the downstairs desk informed Mac that Phil and Emma had arrived.

  “We invited another couple to join us tonight,” Annabel said as she stood to get the door. “I think you’ll enjoy them. Phil Rotondi was an assistant U.S. attorney in Baltimore, and Emma Churchill runs a top catering service here in Washington.”

  “She caters all of our affairs at Marshalk,” Marbury said.

  “Phil is a close friend of Senator Simmons,” Mac added. “They go back a long way.”

  Rotondi and Emma were introduced and joined the group in the living room.

  “I understand you and Senator Simmons are close friends,” Marbury said to Rotondi in his deep, well-modulated voice.

  “That’s right. College roommates.”

  “You should be on the radio,” Emma said to Marbury.

  “I was. The college station.”

  “The senator must be devastated,” Marla said.

  “Of course.” Rotondi turned to Marbury. “Annabel tells me that you work for Neil Simmons.”

  “Yes, I do. I’ve been there about a year now.” He turned to Marla. “Marla thinks I’ve sold out.”

  “I never said that,” she said.

  “Not in so many words.”

  “Jonell used to be chief of staff to a congresswoman on the Hill,” Annabel said.

  “Congresswoman Dustin,” Marla added.

  “She’s a firebrand, I hear,” Emma said.

  Marbury laughed. “She can be tough. I loved working for her.”

  “Marshalk recruited you?” Rotondi asked.

  Marbury nodded. “They offered me a deal I couldn’t refuse, like The Godfather.”

  “Money,” said Marla.

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Marbury said, defensively.

  “I never said there was anything wrong with being paid more,” Marla said. “It’s just that—”

  “Lobbyists have taken a beating lately,” Mac tossed in. “Refills anyone?”

  “Sure,” said Rotondi, holding up his empty beer stein, which had been frosted in the freezer before use.

  “They deserve to,” Marla opined.

  “Oh, come on now,” Jonell said. “Lobbyists play an important role in the legislative process.”

  Only in its purest sense, Rotondi thought.

  “Had you ever met Mrs. Simmons?” Mac asked Marbury.

  “Yes. A few times. In fact, I saw her yesterday afternoon.”

  His statement caused a hush to fall over the room.

  Rotondi broke it. “How was she?” he asked.

  “Fine. I mean, I was only there for a minute or two. I delivered something for the senator, an envelope. Rick Marshalk asked me to drop it off. I handed it to her at the door.”

  The conversation veered from that to a discussion of a developing scandal with a member of the House of Representatives that had made the papers that day. From there, it was on to some amusing stories from Emma Churchill about unusual catering situations she’d recently experienced, and Marla weighed in with the tale of a politician who’d fallen asleep during an Urban League–sponsored roundtable discussion on the state of race relations in America. Although Marbury and his fiancée, and Rotondi and Emma Churchill had never met before, they quickly fell into the sort of easy conversation typical of old friends. When Rotondi got up to fetch a plate of hors d’oeuvres, Marla asked what had happened to his leg.

  Rotondi shrugged. “It’s a long story,” he said.

  “When you were a U.S. attorney in Baltimore?” Marbury asked.

  “Yeah. A creep I put away decided to get even when he got out.”

  He hadn’t wanted a retirement party, and had made his feelings known to his bosses and fellow U.S. attorneys. But they weren’t about to be deprived of putting on a grand farewell for their iconoclastic colleague, and so the night was chosen and the site reserved—Caesar’s Den, Rotondi’s favorite haunt, on South High Street in Baltimore’s Little Italy.

  Ninety men and women showed up that evening. Spirits ran high, the liquor freely. Rotondi ordered his usual twenty-ounce veal chop, a house specialty. His wife, Kathleen, opted for mussels in a white wine sauce. In Rotondi’s eyes, she looked especially beautiful that night, although there had never been a day in their sixteen-year marriage when he hadn’t felt that way. Her long hair was naturally blond, and she wore it simple and straight. She had a surprisingly dusky complexion for an Irish girl from Annapolis; her grandmother had been French. All Rotondi knew was that she was as kind and gentle as she was attractive, coolly efficient in court, loving and playful when away from the black robes and stuffy decorum of the courtroom.

  They’d met on the job. A new addition to the criminal section, she was assigned to work with Rotondi on some high-profile cases he’d taken on. At first, she found his personality to be off-putting. He attacked every day with the zeal of a man possessed; smiles and relaxed moments were few and far between. But as the weeks went by, she began to see something in him that he wasn’t totally successful in hiding from public view—at least not from her, though he tried hard. And while he never veered from his professional approach, she also sensed a growing flicker of male interest.

  One night, after a particularly grueling all-day court session that lasted into the early evening, she suggested they grab a bite together.

  “Sure,” he said without hesitation, which surprised her. She’d assumed she would have to cajole him into accepting. “I’ll take you to my favorite place,” he added.

  That was the first of many nights at Caesar’s Den, where the owners greeted Phil with open arms and extended the same warm welcome to the lovely lady who now regularly accompanied him. Conversation on their first few evenings together consisted primarily of office talk—lawyer talk—hashing over cases in which they were involved. But as the days extended into weeks, his defenses slipped, and his more personal side peeked through.

  “…I used to think I’d never marry,” he told her one night. “I was immersed in my studies at law school, and joined the office here right after graduation. What about you?”

  “Me? I think marriage is wonderful, provided you meet the right person. I’ve seen some of my friends settle because they’re convinced they have to get married by a certain age. I think that’s dumb.”

  “Dumb?” He laughed.

  “Well, maybe ill advised is a better term.”

  “No,” he said. “I like dumb.” He swished the red wine remaining in his glass. “Maybe it was the thought of having kids,” he said to the wine. “I don’t think I’d make much of a father.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Just knowing myself. You might have noticed that I’m a little self-obsessed.”

  “I’ve se
en hints of it now and then,” she said with a smile. “I suppose I’d like children someday. But like getting married, I don’t think it’s something you have to do. There are so many pressures on us to do what others expect. Marry by a certain age. Have two and a half children, one and a half dogs. You might have noticed that I’m somewhat self-obsessed, too.”

  “I’ve seen hints,” he said, lightly. “So tell me about your family, Kathleen.”

  She obliged. Her father was a carpenter at an Annapolis boatyard. “He works hard,” she said. “He’s my hero, no pretensions, no posturing, just hard work every day. My mom is a receptionist in a dentist’s office. Every cent she made went into a college fund for me and my brother.”

  “What’s your brother do?”

  “Bart’s two years older. He teaches earth science in a local high school. His wife’s a doll. She teaches, too. They have one and a half children, no dog. I grew up with a border collie named—ready?—Lassie. I love animals.”

  “Why don’t you get one?”

  “Too busy. Wouldn’t be fair to the dog. What about you, Phil? I showed you mine. Your turn to show me yours.”

  “Not a lot to show, Kathleen, or to tell.” He talked about his sisters and wayward brother, and his deceased parents. He found it difficult to discuss such things, and there was a moment when Kathleen thought he might cry. But he didn’t, and eventually he even smiled when recounting a few intimate—intimate in his mind—details of family life. “Like I said, not much to tell.”

  “Your father sounds like he was a wonderful man.”

  “Yes, he was. His Old World views caused some tension between us now and then, but nothing major. I had a couple of fights with kids in school who made fun of the way he talked.” He laughed. “I won.”

  “I don’t doubt that. Were you a religious family?”

  “Not formal religion. We were brought up Catholic, and I was baptized and confirmed. So were my brother and sisters. My father, he believed in individual faith but was distrustful of organized religion. I suppose I feel the same way. He taught me a lot of things, Kathleen, including the importance of always standing for something, standing tall. I like to think I practice that advice.”