Murder on K Street (13 page)

Mac and Annabel knew about Rotondi’s wife but respected his decision to leave out that part of the story.

Emma squeezed Rotondi’s hand. His telling of the tale never failed to send chills through her, and to make her nauseous.

“What a horrible thing to go through,” Marla said.

“Yeah, but it’s history.” Rotondi turned to Annabel: “Hey, when’s dinner, sweetheart? I’m starving.”

As they enjoyed their dinner, a violent thunderstorm roared into the city. Blinding shafts of lightning were like strobe lights outside the glass doors to the terrace, and sharp cracks of thunder caused them to start. It was over as quickly as it had arrived.

“Maybe it’ll break the heat wave,” Emma commented.

Mac went to the sliding glass doors and opened them. “Heavenly,” he announced. “It must have dropped ten, fifteen degrees.”

The key lime pie was a hit, along with cups of cappuccino Mac brewed in the kitchen. He offered after-dinner drinks in the living room, but Rotondi and Emma declined. “I’ve got a seven o’clock breakfast at Homeland Security to cater,” she said. After they’d left, Mac, Annabel, Jonell, and Marla strolled onto the terrace.

“Turned out to be a lovely evening,” Annabel commented, taking a deep breath of the cooler air.

“Everything’s lovely about this evening,” Marla said.

“Phil left out the part about his wife,” Annabel said. “She was killed when that released criminal started shooting.”

“How sad. Poor man.”

“I think he preferred not to put a damper on the evening,” said Annabel.

The women stayed outside for a few more minutes before Annabel cleared some dishes; Marla followed her inside, leaving Mac alone with Marbury. “I imagine the police had plenty of questions for you, Jonell, about having been at the house the day Jeannette Simmons was killed,” Mac said.

“I haven’t spoken with them, Mac.”

“They’ll get around to questioning you.”

Marbury hesitated before saying, “I haven’t told them I was there.”

Mac looked at him quizzically. “I assume you intend to,” he said.

“I, ah—I’m not sure I should bother, Mac. I have nothing to offer. I rang the bell. She came to the door. I handed her the envelope and left.”

“Still, you have an obligation to tell them you were there. If the police come up with it on their own, they’ll focus in on you as a suspect.”

“I’m sure that’s good advice, Mac. Thanks. I’ll take care of it.”

Later that night as Mac and Annabel got ready for bed, Mac told her about his conversation with Marbury about his not having gone to the police.

“I hope he listens to you,” she said.

“I do, too, Annie. I had the feeling that it wasn’t because he considered himself irrelevant. It’s almost as though he had a more concrete reason for his decision.”

“Well,” she said, “if he’s smart, which we know he is, he’ll do what you suggested. The evening was a success, wasn’t it?”

“It always is with you at the helm.”

A kiss good night, then lights out.

T
he next morning, Jonell Marbury sat in Rick Marshalk’s office with Marshalk and the firm’s president, Neil Simmons.

“What time is the press conference?” Marshalk asked Simmons.

“Noon.”

“It’s a good move,” Marshalk said. “You say your sister will be with you?”

“According to Dad, and I was happy to hear it. They haven’t always gotten along.”

“Sometimes tragedy brings families together,” Marbury offered.

“Glad everything went well with Betzcon,” Neil said.

Marshalk snapped his fingers. “Piece o’ cake. Couldn’t have gone better. They’ve got deep pockets and are willing to fund whatever we suggest. They’re putting up half of the reward money through CMJ. I talked to them this morning. They’ve committed to underwriting that rock concert in New York next month.” His laugh was snide. “Can you believe those clowns in Congress? They pass all those new ethics rules so we can’t buy a congressman a hamburger, but they open it up for us to pay thousands for their fund-raisers. The concert will cost Betzcon sixty grand, and we net half. That’s a bargain for Betzcon considering the political clout they’re getting.”

Neil stood and removed his suit jacket from where he’d hung it on the back of his chair. “I have some things to do before the conference,” he announced.

“How’d the interview with the cops go yesterday?” Marshalk asked.

“Okay. They kept asking about Mom and Dad’s relationship, whether they had problems. I mean, Jesus, doesn’t every couple have problems? That’s what I told them, that my parents fought once in a while like every other married couple.” He shook his head. “Dad was all over me on the phone last night for telling the cops that. They’ve got this Chinese detective doing the questioning. I feel like I’m back in a nineteen-forties black-and-white movie.”

Marshalk laughed; Marbury was silent.

“I’ll check in later,” Simmons said.

Marshalk turned to Marbury after Simmons was gone. “You said you had something to talk to me about. Shoot.”

“The murder,” Marbury said. “I know you and Jack say I shouldn’t bother mentioning to the police that I was there at the senator’s house the afternoon of the murder, but I’m uncomfortable with that.”

“Why?”

“Because I might have been the last person to see her alive.”

“Oh, come on, Jonell, you come off like some knee-jerk dogooder.” He leaned his elbows on the desk. “You have nothing to offer the cops. So you were there delivering something for us. Big deal. You heard what Jack said. He should know. Christ, he was with MPD for twenty years before coming over here. He told you that if you volunteer that you were there, all it will do is open up a can of worms where you’re concerned, and cause problems for the firm. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to do that.”

“I had a conversation last night with Mackensie Smith.”

“Who’s he?”

“He used to be a top defense lawyer here in D.C. He teaches law at GW now. He suggests that I go to the police immediately.”

“You told him that you were at the Simmons house?”

“Yes.”

Marshalk sat back and sighed.

“I just want to do what’s right,” Marbury said.

“Sure. So do I.” Marshalk leaned forward again. “Look, Jonell, give it a day or two before you make a decision. Fair enough?”

“I talked to Marla about it last night. She thinks I should go to the police today.”

“Marla’s not an attorney, or a cop.” Marshalk came around the desk and slapped Marbury on the back. “All we all want, Jonell, is for the police to find who murdered Jeannette Simmons and bring that person to justice. Agreed?”

“Of course. Thanks for listening, Rick.”

“Hey, buddy, that’s what I’m here for.” He walked him to the door. “Call that rock promoter in New York and make sure everything’s on schedule. Free for lunch?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Morton’s. My treat.”

In his office, Jonell read that morning’s paper. The Simmons murder was still page-one news, as expected. Most of the lead article was a rehash of what had been written in previous editions, with a healthy dollop of rumor and innuendo thrown in for spice. He was pondering the conversation he’d just had with Marshalk when a woman knocked on the door and opened it.

“Hey, Camelia,” Marbury said. “How goes it?”

“It goes okay,” she said, plopping in a chair. “You?”

“So-so. I was just reading the latest about the murder.”

“Poor Neil. He seems lost.”

“To be expected. He and his mom were close. So, all ready for your farewell bash?”

“I think so.”

Camelia Watson had resigned from the Marshalk Group after two years. Before becoming a lobbyist, she’d worked at the Justice Department in its governmental oversight department. While there, she had developed close relationships with myriad top officials in Congress and in a variety of federal agencies. Her relationship with them was what had attracted Rick Marshalk, and he’d aggressively pursued her to come to work for him, dangling a series of large salaries and bonuses until she’d succumbed. While she enjoyed the money and lifestyle it afforded her, she’d never found her comfort zone lobbying former friends in Congress and at various agencies, and finally decided to return to her old job at Justice—if they’d have her. They didn’t hesitate: “Welcome back, Camelia.” She was that good.

Marshalk had been unhappy when Camelia turned in her resignation, and tried to entice her to stay. She resisted. The more he persevered, the more she grew resentful of his attitude that he could buy anything, including her. While she’d kept her mood upbeat throughout the process of leaving, her disenchantment with Marshalk and the firm had become increasingly pervasive, and she often confided her negative feelings to Jonell. He served as her sounding board and confidant, their bonding enhanced by their African American roots.

His relationship with Camelia had caused occasional bouts of jealousy with Marla, who saw Camelia as a romantic threat. Both women were extremely attractive, but in different ways. Marla was fashion-conscious, her tastes running to designer clothing and spa treatments, which Jonell sometimes kidded her about—“Pretty highfalutin for somebody working at a leading agency for social change and justice like the Urban League,” he would say, but not too often. To which she would reply, “Working nonprofit doesn’t mean taking a vow of poverty.” Interest from a modest trust created for her by her father, a deceased Atlanta physician, provided her “play money” with which to indulge some of her whims.

Camelia Watson, on the other hand, lived a simpler lifestyle despite the lofty salary Marshalk had been paying her. She was no less attractive than Marla, just packaged differently. Her understated sexiness appealed to Jonell, including—especially—the oversize, round, red-framed eyeglasses she wore. He’d told her he thought the glasses were sexy, and she’d made it known, subtly, of course, that she wouldn’t have minded a romantic relationship with him. But it never went beyond that sort of office flirtation. Jonell might have lusted for her, but only, as a former president of the United States once famously said, in his heart.

Her face turned serious.

“Something wrong?” Jonell asked.

“It’s Marshalk. He insisted on taking me to dinner last night and—”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing wrong with going to dinner with your boss. It’s what he said that bothers me.”

“I’m listening.”

“He—he basically threatened me, Jonell.”

“Threatened you? With what?”

“About what I’ve learned about Marshalk Group since I’ve been here. He’s afraid that by going back to work at Justice, I might use my inside knowledge of how things work here to bring some sort of legal action against him and the firm.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“He doesn’t think it is. It was creepy, really creepy. He was all smiles and happy talk during most of the meal. But then he got serious,
very
serious, and gave me this lecture on how he expected me to treat what I know as sacred, and that…”

“And that
what
?”

“And that he’d hate to see something terrible happen to me.”

“He
said
that? I mean, those were his words?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what he said. Oh, he couched it with lots of flowery talk about what a great career I have in front of me, and how much he’s appreciated the work I’ve done here. But when he said that—when he threatened me—my blood ran cold.” She looked behind her to confirm that the door was closed. “Jonell,” she said, “the Marshalk Group breaks the law every day. That’s one of the reasons I’m leaving. This place is a legal train wreck waiting to happen.”

Marbury forced a laugh. “Come on, Camelia,” he said, “it can’t be that bad.”

“It’s worse, Jonell. Want some good advice?”

“Sure.”

“Listen to Marla. She wants you to leave. You don’t want to be on this train when it goes off the rails.”

That same morning, Detective Charles Chang sat in an interrogation room with his partner, Amanda Widletz. Across the table from them was the handyman who’d worked on the Simmons house the day Jeannette Simmons was killed. He was a stout, barrel-chested man, almost totally bald, and had the red nose and whiskey veins in his cheeks often associated with heavy drinking. His name was Lou Schultz.

“Am I a suspect?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Chang said. “Absolutely not, sir.”

“We wouldn’t be doing our job if we didn’t talk to everyone who knew the victim,” Widletz added. “By the way, thanks for coming in like this.”

“I want to help.”

“Of course you do,” said Widletz.

“You were doing repairs on the Simmons house two days ago,” Chang said.

“That’s right.”

“Were you their regular repairman?”

He nodded. “I was recommended to Mrs. Simmons by a neighbor about two years ago. She liked the work I did, and I’ve been there ever since, part-time, general repairs, things like that, painting, wallpapering, fixing up outside. It’s a really nice house.

“But no major projects, no additions or things like that. I like to keep it simple.”

“Were you there all day?” Widletz asked “Got there early in the
AM
. I wanted to start early ’cause of the heat.”

“And you worked there all day?”

“Pretty much. I took an hour, maybe a little longer for lunch—Mrs. Simmons paid me by the project, so there’s no problem with taking off time now and then.”

“You ate there?”

“No. There’s a bar and restaurant about a mile away. I go there regular. Everybody knows me. Mrs. Simmons offered me a cold drink about noon and wanted me to come inside where it was cool. I didn’t want to do that. She was one nice lady. I can’t believe somebody did this to her.”

“Aside from offering you a cold drink, Mr. Schultz, did you have other conversations with Mrs. Simmons?” Widletz asked.

He rubbed his chin. “A couple of times. She came out once and admired the work I was doing on a stone wall.” He laughed. “She said it was a work of art. That’s what she said. A work of art. Oh, and when I took a break in the afternoon, I told her I’d be gone for about an hour. She told me to come inside to cool off, but I was uncomfortable doing that, so I went back to where I had lunch and enjoyed a beer. Boy, that heat was tough. Cleared up really good though, with that storm that came through last night. Some difference, huh?”