Murder on K Street (22 page)

“I’m sure he’ll listen to you, Jeannette. Ready to go back? I’ll drive you to the hotel and we can get that package for me.”

She didn’t respond.

“Jeannette?”

“I want to stay with you, Phil.”

He sighed. He’d wondered from the moment he’d received the call from her whether they would end up together. It wasn’t what he intended. But he certainly recognized that such a possibility existed, and had given considerable thought to what his response might be. In a sense—and he wasn’t especially proud of this thought—making love to Jeannette would represent some sort of sweet justice where Lyle was concerned. But that wasn’t Phil Rotondi’s style. Nor was taking advantage of someone’s vulnerability, and Jeannette had certainly joined the ranks of the vulnerable over the past couple of years. She’d confided her unhappiness to him before, never as directly as this evening, but her message was easily read by someone who knew her when—and now.

He’d finally concluded that no matter what transpired during her visit, it would not involve sex.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” she repeated.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jeannette.”

“Should my feelings be hurt?” she asked.

“No. You know I love you and have since the first day we met. But things didn’t work out.”

Her laugh was rueful. “And how did they work out, Phil? God, I was such a fool, getting pregnant by Lyle and marrying him. Why do we have to wait until we’re old before we get wise?”

“I suppose that’s the way it was planned by somebody.”

“God? If so, he has a cruel sense of humor.”

“Let me heat up some coffee for us.”

“I want a drink, Phil, a nightcap.”

“Now that you’re older and wiser, you know alcohol isn’t going to solve anything.”

“It may not solve anything, Phil, but it sure eases the pain. Please.”

They sat quietly in the dark until Phil announced he had to walk Homer.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Don’t be long.”

He was gone fifteen minutes. When he returned, she’d stretched out on the couch and was asleep. He covered her with a caftan that his mother once used to cover him as a boy, tiptoed into the bedroom with Homer at his side, lay down, and allowed his eyes to close. When they opened, early-morning sun streamed through the window.

Jeannette was already up and sitting on a small patio at the front of the condo. He made them breakfast, showered—she said she’d wait until returning to the hotel—and drove her to her pale blue Lexus in the Marriott’s parking lot. She opened the trunk, rummaged through paraphernalia, and came up with the FedEx package.

“Here,” she said, handing it to him. She kissed his check and said, “Thanks for being wiser and stronger than I am, Phil. You always have been. I wish I’d married you.”

He watched her walk quickly toward the hotel’s entrance and disappear through the doors.

“W
hat’s new with the Simmons investigation?” Smith asked Rotondi after they’d taken at a table in the Garden Café.

“Not much. Morris Crimley says they’re making progress. They have trace evidence they think might be important.”

“I see that they’re holding some drifter.”

“They have to hold somebody. They’re getting a lot of pressure to solve this thing.”

“How’s the senator holding up?”

“He’s holding up fine, no surprise. He always does. The press seems to be cutting him some slack, although they still keep harping on the state of his marriage.”

“Objective journalism at its best,” Smith muttered. “What’s your take on the murder, Phil? You’re obviously more than just a curious bystander.”

Rotondi thought for a moment before responding. “I’m convinced, Mac, that Jeannette Simmons wasn’t killed by some passerby. She was killed because of what she knew.”

“Knew about what?”

“Not here. It’s sensitive stuff. But I do want to run something past you later. Let me just say for now that Jeannette was in possession of information that could blow her husband’s career out of the water, and take down their son, too, along with the lobbying firm he works for.”

Mac exhaled and raised his eyebrows. “That’s pretty heavy stuff. You will elaborate now that you’ve captured my complete and undivided attention.”

“Of course I will. That’s why getting together was so appealing to me. Let’s get food out of the way first.”

After lunch, they entered a nearby pocket park and sat on its only bench. A leafy elm provided dappled shade from the sun.

“You’re pretty well connected in this town, Mac,” Rotondi said.

“Not that I try to be.”

“You’ve always had a reputation as a stand-up guy who doesn’t tell tales out of school. You were the most honorable defense lawyer I’ve ever known.”

“Are you saying I’m the best of a bad bunch?” Smith said, playfully.

“I’m saying that you’re someone I know I can trust.”

“I’ll try to live up to that,” Smith said. “Are you in legal trouble?”

Rotondi grinned. “Get right to it, huh? No, I’m not in any trouble, at least not yet. I’ll get to the point, too. I have information Jeannette Simmons gave me a month before she died. It came from an unnamed guy in Chicago who called and said he was sending it, and that unless she came up with money, he’d use it to destroy the family.”

“What sort of information?”

“Dirt on Senator Simmons and the Marshalk Group, ties to organized crime, money laundering through Marshalk that ends up in Simmons’s coffers. There are photos, too, of Lyle with a woman in Chicago who has ties to the mob.” Rotondi winced. “Pictures like that are supposed to be salacious and erotic. They’re almost comical, all those limbs intertwined, the expression of the senator’s face while in the heat of the moment. It would almost make you think that sex is overrated, unless you’re a United States senator with his eyes on the White House. Not so funny then.”

“How much money is this guy after?”

“I don’t know. That’s what’s strange about this, Mac. Jeannette never heard from him again. I kept in touch with her by phone almost every day during the period between when she gave me the material and her murder.”

“Not a very efficient blackmailer.”

“Most criminals aren’t that smart.”

“Why did she give the material to you?” Smith asked.

“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.

D
etectives 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?”