Murder on K Street (11 page)

Rotondi thought of what Crimley had told him about Detective Chang’s reaction to the senator’s appearance the night of the murder, neat as a pin, very much together, no sign that he’d tried to revive his wife or even touched her to determine if she was dead or alive. Rotondi stepped closer to the outline and tried to process what he was seeing, and what might have happened. She’d been struck in the back of the head, meaning she’d been moving away from her assailant. Running away? Walking away to fetch something for the attacker? There hadn’t been any sign of a break-in. Chances were she knew whoever killed her and had willingly allowed him or her into the house.

“They haven’t found the murder weapon?” Rotondi asked.

“Not as far as I know,” Simmons replied. He stepped into the library and stood in the middle of the room. No lights were on, and the shades were drawn. Rotondi observed him from the foyer. It was as though his friend of many years had entered some sort of hallowed sanctuary, a sacred place where a voice from above might provide answers to his questions. Rotondi said nothing, did not interrupt whatever Simmons was thinking at that moment.

Both men turned suddenly at the sound of voices from upstairs.

“Who’s here?” Simmons asked, returning to the foyer and standing at the foot of the stairs. “Who’s up there?” he said in a louder voice. There was no reply. He started up, stopped, and looked back down at Rotondi. “Coming?”

“Go ahead,” Rotondi said. “I’ll be along.”

Simmons disappeared at a turn in the elaborate staircase. Rotondi ascended slowly, favoring his leg and using the banister to help pull him up. He was almost to the top when he heard Simmons say, “Polly!”

She said, “Hi.”

“What are you doing here?” were her father’s next words.

Rotondi was startled at Simmons’s tone.
That’s no way to talk to your daughter
, he thought as he reached the second-floor landing and looked into the master bedroom, where Simmons stood with Polly. Behind them was an Asian American in a tan suit, white shirt, and skinny blue tie.

“This is Detective Chang,” Polly said pleasantly.

“I know who he is,” Simmons barked. “I ask you again, what the hell do you want? I was told your investigation here is over.”

“The investigation will be over when we find the person who killed your wife,” Chang said flatly.

“The detective was here when I arrived,” Polly said. “We’ve been having a nice chat.” She looked past her father. “Hello, Philip.”

Simmons closed the gap and reached out to hug his daughter. She allowed him to kiss her cheek, but avoided a clinch. “How are you?” he asked, sounding as though it was the only thing he could think of saying.

She adopted a cheery, singsong voice. “Oh, as good as can be expected for someone whose mother has been murdered. How are you, Daddy?”

Simmons ignored her and turned to Chang. “Would you please give me the courtesy of spending time with my daughter? Alone? We haven’t seen each other in quite a while.”

“So I understand,” said Chang.

Simmons glared at Polly, who turned her back to him and crossed the room to a nightstand on which small framed photographs stood. She picked one up and examined it, put it down and chose another. Rotondi couldn’t tell whether she was sincerely interested in the pictures or simply busying herself to avoid conversing with her father.

Simmons told Detective Chang, “I’m asking you again, Detective, to leave this house.”

“Of course, sir,” the short, slight detective said. He approached the bedroom door where Rotondi stood. “Excuse me,” he said. Rotondi stepped aside to allow him through, but he turned and said to Simmons, “One thing, sir. I would like to arrange for us to sit down together at your earliest convenience. When might that be?”

“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.

A
nnabel 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 one 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
.”