Murder on K Street (31 page)

“As a matter of fact, I did. Kala Whitson is an assistant AG out there. We worked together in Baltimore before she moved to Chicago. We got together for old times.”

Crimley’s raised eyebrows suggested that Rotondi elaborate.

He didn’t. He was tempted to mention the materials Jeannette Simmons had received from “the Weasel,” but resisted, for two reasons. First, he didn’t want to lose control of the material. Give it to the police and chances were good that it would be leaked to the media by morning. The second reason was more pragmatic. He’d been sitting on potentially valuable evidence, incriminating or exculpatory, in a murder case. You could go to jail for that, he knew only too well. He’d put away a few such offenders himself.

“By the way, Morrie, I rendezvoused with Kala Whitson in her apartment. Juicy stuff, huh?”

“No comment. What do you know about a possible Chicago connection to Jeanette Simmons’s murder?”

“Chicago connection? Like in the mob?”

“Yeah. Speaking of juicy stuff, the senator’s extracurricular love life with a mob-connected Chicago woman has me wondering.”

“What the senator does behind closed doors, Morrie, is none of my business.”

“Even if it might have had something to do with his wife’s murder?”

“Do you think it did?”

Crimley’s large shoulders moved up and down. “Did your buddy, Ms. Whitson, have anything interesting to offer about their investigation?”

“What investigation?”

“Ah, come on, Phil, don’t treat me like an idiot. We know that the Chicago U.S. attorney has been looking into Senator Simmons and his connections with certain folks with crooked noses out there.”

“Why don’t you ask them?”

“We have. I’ve talked to Bergl here in D.C., who promises to bring us into the loop. He hasn’t. Justice is treating us like second cousins. No, worse than that. They won’t share a damn thing.”

Rotondi was tempted to suggest that the MPD’s penchant for leaking information was a good reason for other law enforcement agencies to keep their sensitive investigations close to the vest. He didn’t bother. Crimley didn’t need to be reminded of it.

“Can we talk about Jonell Marbury?” Rotondi asked.

“Sure. Since you’ve joined the Mac Smith team, ask away.”

“Did your people take from the Simmons house the envelope that Jonell delivered that afternoon?”

“No. Chang started to go through some of the stuff in the senator’s library—there were envelopes piled everywhere—but the senator’s people complained that some of it might be top secret and jeopardize national security. The usual bull. It didn’t matter. What’s in those envelopes is irrelevant to the investigation. Marbury admits delivering something for the senator, and Marshalk confirms that he sent him on the errand.”

Rotondi came forward in his chair, moved his injured leg with his hand, and looked through the evidentiary photos on the desk. He picked up the picture of the water glass taken from the Simmons kitchen, on which a fingerprint was identified as belonging to Jonell Marbury. “Nice glass,” he said. “Notice those little indentations around the middle? Hard to see in this picture, but they’re there.”

“So?”

“Emma’s kitchen cabinet is filled with them. She had those particular glasses custom-made for her catering service. The indentations provide a surer grip, fewer glasses slipping from people’s hands and breaking.”

“Interesting,” said Crimley, “only I don’t know why.” As he said it, he remembered Chang’s comment that the glass with the fingerprint didn’t match any of the other glasses in the Simmons kitchen.

“Wouldn’t be hard for someone to take one of Emma’s glasses at a catered event, have Jonell use it and leave his prints, and place that glass in Jeannette’s kitchen.”

“You’re not the first person to raise the possibility of a frame, Phil. Some of my detectives are doing the same thing. The question is,
who
?”

“Somebody at Marshalk. Emma caters all their parties.”

“They’re her only clients?”

“Of course not. She caters a lot of events on the Hill, agencies, fund-raisers.”

“And Marbury worked on the Hill before coming to Marshalk. I imagine he made a few enemies over there.”

Rotondi stretched his arms out in front of him, and sighed. “You accused me the last time I was here of being all take, no give. I don’t like that reputation.”

“I’m listening, Phil.”

“What would you say if there was a sheaf of papers and pictures that are not only damaging to Senator Simmons, but also damning to the Marshalk Group?”

“Is there such a thing, and why would it matter?”

“If there was such a thing—and I’m not saying there is—and somebody wanted to make sure that the information never became public, anyone in possession of it would be at risk.”

“All right,” Crimley said. “Who
was
in possession of it?”

“I didn’t say that such material existed, Morrie. Strictly hypothetical.”

“Right. And there’s no such thing as global warming. Come on, Phil, level with me. Do you know that the sort of material you mention—hypothetically, of course—was in the possession of someone connected with the Simmons murder, and maybe the Watson death?”

“I’m working on nailing it down,” Rotondi replied. “When I do, you’ll be the first to know. Thanks for the time, Morrie.”

Crimley walked him to the lobby. “Man,” he said, “you are really in pain, aren’t you?”

“Some days are worse than others. This is not one of the better ones.”

“Mind a word of advice, Phil?”

“Shoot.”

“Withholding evidence is a serious crime.”

“That it is.”

“It’s nothing you don’t already know, but sometimes we lose sight of things—exceed our ego boundaries, as the shrinks like to say.”

Rotondi nodded.

“If you have the sort of material you mentioned, don’t sit on it, Phil. Your friendship with the senator ain’t worth it. I’d hate to be the one who has to haul you in.”

Rotondi smiled. “I promise I’ll spare you that pleasure, Morrie.”

Neil Simmons’s encounter with his aunt Marlene had unnerved him. He sat in his car in front of the house and tried to bring his breathing under control. He felt like a bug in a swimming pool about to be sucked into the skimmer. He kept looking back at the house, hoping she wouldn’t come through the door. He’d seen Marlene act out strange fantasies before, but nothing like this. She’d obviously gone off the deep end. She was totally mad. The last time she’d been hospitalized, she’d slipped into a deep depression; it took powerful medications to bring her out of it. This time, depression would have been welcome.

The relationship between Marlene and her sister had never been good. Marlene’s mental problems contributed to that unfortunate situation, although Neil also knew that his father’s reaction to it exacerbated the tension between the sisters. Senator Simmons had little patience with Marlene’s antics, and avoided any personal interaction whenever possible. His answer was to shell out whatever money it took to fence her off from Jeannette and the family, happy to pay for her condo and car and daily living expenses, as well as whatever out-of-pocket costs her hospital stays incurred. Jeannette, on the other hand, frequently reached out to her sister behind her husband’s back. But on occasion, even she became exasperated and verbally lashed out at Marlene.
Dysfunctional
was the word that came to Neil’s mind.

When he felt he was sufficiently calmed to drive safely, he started the engine and pulled away, not sure where he would go next. He checked his watch. He was due at his father’s office at noon. It was eleven. He pulled off the road and called Polly on his cell phone. This time, she answered.

“Polly, it’s Neil.”

“Hi.”

“I have to see you.”

“Why? Is something wrong?”

“Yes. I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Neil, what’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you when I get there.”

Polly had come down to the lobby to wait for him. He burst through the hotel’s entrance and approached her; she put down her magazine.

“Are you okay?” she asked, aware of his agitated state.

“Let’s go to your room.”

Once there, he said, “Have you spoken to Marlene recently?”

She thought for a moment. “I called her yesterday.”

“Was she—what I mean is, was she okay? Sane?”

His comment brought forth an involuntary laugh from Polly. “Yeah, she sounded sane. Why?”

“I just came from the house. She was up in Mom and Dad’s bedroom, sitting at Mom’s dressing table putting on makeup. She had on Mom’s favorite dressing gown. Christ, she thinks she
is
Mom!”

“That’s ridiculous, Neil.”

“No, it’s not. I was there. I saw it. Do you know what she said? She said that she wanted to look nice for when Dad came home.”

Polly scrutinized him in an attempt to decide whether what he’d said was credible, made any sense. She decided it did.

“Did you talk to her about it?” she asked.

“No. I went there to pick up some papers for Dad. I got out fast.”

She’d sat on a small couch while he paced the room. Now he joined her and grabbed her hand. “Do you know what this means?” he asked.

“I’m afraid to ask,” she said.

“She must have killed Mom.”

His words jolted her.

“She’s always been jealous,” he went on, squeezing her hand harder. “Polly, she killed our mother so that in her twisted mind she could take Mom’s place.”

The blood drained from Polly’s face. She withdrew her hand and looked toward the windows.

“Are you listening to me?” he said. “It’s so obvious. Aunt Marlene snapped and killed Mom. Jesus!” He got up and resumed pacing.

She faced him. “What do you think we should do?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve got to tell Dad what to expect when he goes home. Maybe we should go to the police and tell them what we know.”

“No,” she said, her voice steady now. “That would be a mistake. What about Phil?”

“Rotondi?”

“He’ll know what to do. I mean, Neil, this might all be a mistake. Maybe you misunderstood her.”

His face reddened, and he held his fists at his side. She sounded to him like Alexandra, always questioning him. “I did not misunderstand her,” he said.

“Okay, okay,” she said, aware of his pique. “Let’s get ahold of Phil and see what he thinks.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Do you have his number?”

She fished his cell number from her purse, along with her phone, and made the call. “Phil, I’m with Neil at my hotel. We need to speak with you.”

“Sure. Now?”

“Yes. Can you come to the hotel?”

Neil said, “Not now, Polly. I have to get those papers to Dad, and go over plans for the memorial service. Tell him to come later. Two o’clock.”

“Can you come by here at two?” she asked.

Rotondi agreed and they hung up.

“I want to go to the house,” Polly said.

“Why?”

“To talk to Marlene before we go spreading poison about her.”

“Polly—”

“You don’t have to come, I’ll take a cab.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” he said. “I’ll call Dad and tell him I’ll be late.”

“Damn!” she said.

“What’s the matter?”

“I have an appointment for a manicure and pedicure in fifteen minutes.”

“Cancel it,” he said, not adding what he was thinking—that getting your nails polished was frivolous under the circumstances.

She made the call, and they headed for the house.

Rotondi clicked off his cell phone. Why did Polly and Neil want to meet with him? Polly’s voice had sounded urgent. Had something developed that had a bearing on their mother’s murder? He’d have to wait until two to find out.

He drove to the Watergate complex, found a parking spot, and called Mac Smith’s apartment. Annabel answered.

“Mac and I planned to get together this morning,” Rotondi told her. “Hold on, Phil. He’s just getting off the other line.”

“Hello, Phil,” Smith said.

“I’m around the corner,” Rotondi said. “Any chance of getting together now?”

“It’s fine with me, Phil. I’ll come down. I’d rather talk away from here.”

“I’ll be in the lobby.”

Smith arrived ten minutes later and suggested they walk through the public area separating the Watergate Hotel from the apartment complex. It was a fat day, as Smith was fond of terming days with sunny, cool, breezy weather. They sat near a large fountain that created a pleasant background rush of water.

“What’s up?” Smith asked.

“I went by MPD today and talked with Morris Crimley.”

“Anything new on their end?”

“No. He says they didn’t remove any envelopes from Lyle’s library. He’s not the neatest of people. He’s got magazines and envelopes and God knows what else piled up everywhere in that room. I want to see what was in the envelope that Jonell delivered that afternoon.”

“For what purpose?”

“Just curiosity. I raised the question with Crimley about the glass with Jonell’s print on it. Although it’s hard to make out in the photo, that glass looks like the ones Emma uses in her catering business. Catch this, Mac. Morris told me that some of his own detectives are raising the possibility that Jonell was framed. That’s exactly what must have happened, and it has to have been Marshalk who’s behind it. He sends Jonell on an errand that places him at the scene of the murder. They have a glass from one of their parties that Emma catered and arrange for Jonell to pick it up somewhere along the line and leave his prints. They plant a hair from him. And Marshalk counsels Jonell not to go to the police about having been there. That puts Jonell in a further bad light with the cops.”

Smith listened impassively, an occasional grunt his only verbal response. When Rotondi was finished, Smith said, “The question is
why
?” He looked at the manila envelope Rotondi carried with him. “Is that the material you’ve told me about?”

“Yes.”

“You think it might provide a motive for Mrs. Simmons’s murder?”

“Yes.”

“Time for me to look at it, Phil?”