Murder on K Street (32 page)

“Yes.”

Rotondi handed the envelope to Smith, who slowly opened it and looked at one piece at a time, carefully removing each paper or photo, examining it, and replacing it before extracting another. The process took ten minutes. He secured the clasp when he was through and handed the envelope back to Rotondi.

“What are you going to do, Phil?” Smith asked.

“Show it to Lyle at some point.”

“Well,” Smith said, “you know what he’ll say. He’ll tell you to burn it.”

“I know.” Rotondi leaned back and looked up into the pristine blue sky and puffy white clouds that drifted by. “The senator’s daughter, Polly, called me a little while ago. She sounded upset. I’m meeting with her and her brother at two.”

“Maybe you should run that stuff by them before going to the senator,” Smith said.

Rotondi pondered the suggestion. “Maybe. Jeannette said she was going to talk to Neil about it.”

“Did she?”

“I don’t know. Neil has never mentioned it, and I haven’t brought it up. It’s time I did.”

“Your call,” Smith said. “I’ll be home all afternoon if you need me. I’m meeting with Jonell and the attorney I’ve brought in to officially represent him.”

“Do me a favor,” Rotondi said. “Ask Jonell what the envelope looked like, the writing on it. It’ll help me identify it when I go there.”

Smith’s final words came as they parted ways in front of Smith’s apartment building. “If Mrs. Simmons was killed because she had that material in her possession, Phil, anyone else having it could be in jeopardy, too.”

Rotondi got the message.

Neil and Polly pulled up to the house in which they’d grown up. Neil turned off the ignition and stared at the front door.

“Coming?” Polly asked as she opened the door on her side.

“Yeah, sure,” Neil said, not sounding convincing.

He used his key to gain entrance. They stood silently in the foyer and strained to hear any sounds coming from upstairs.

“Smell that?” Neil asked.

Polly raised her head and sniffed. “Perfume,” she said. “Mom’s favorite.”

“See? I told you.”

Polly took deliberate strides up the stairs. She paused at the landing and looked back at her brother, who stood as though paralyzed. Polly waved, and he began a slow ascent. She waited on the second floor until he’d joined her. They went to the open door to the master bedroom. There was no one there. Polly went to the dressing table and looked down at the array of cosmetics. She turned to Neil. “I don’t see any sign that she was here,” she said.

Emboldened, he entered the room and stood at her side. “She was here, Polly. You can smell the perfume, can’t you?”

“Yes, I smell it. Let’s go to her place.”

“I’d rather not,” he said. “I say we go right to the police and let them know that she probably killed Mom.”

Polly fixed him with a quizzical stare. “You sound as though you
want
her to be the one, Neil.”

“Oh, no, that’s not true. It just makes sense, that’s all. We all know how sick she is, Polly. At least the police should be made aware of what I saw.”

“We’ll see what Phil thinks,” she said with finality. “We don’t do anything until we talk to him.”

“Phil’s not God,” he said.

Polly ignored him and went down the stairs and out the door, with Neil close behind. “If you won’t take me to Marlene’s place, I’ll go myself,” she said.

“All right,” he said.

They said little on the drive. Polly rang Marlene’s doorbell. Marlene answered. She was dressed in a designer set of pink sweatpants and sweatshirt with small green-and-yellow birds embroidered on the shirt.

“Hello, Polly,” she said pleasantly. “What a nice surprise.” She looked past her niece to where Neil stood. “And Neil, too. This must be my lucky day. Come in, come in. I have iced tea and lemonade and—”

“Aunt Marlene,” Neil said, “why were you at Mom’s house today?”

Marlene’s eyes widened in surprise. “I don’t understand,” she said. “I haven’t been at Jeannette’s house since—” She pressed her hand against her lips and said, “Since that dreadful day.”

Neil stepped forward. “Marlene,” he said, “I was there. I saw you in Mom’s bedroom and—”

“I have never heard such an outlandish thing,” Marlene said, a smile returning to her heavily made-up face. “All this heat must be having a bad effect on you. Now, you two come in and enjoy the cool and a nice cold drink.”

“We can’t,” Neil said. “We have to go. I have an appointment.”

“Well, now, this is certainly strange,” Marlene said, “stoppin’ by this way and not bein’ gracious enough to accept my hospitality.” She’d slipped into her southern belle mode.

“Neil is right, Aunt Marlene,” Polly said. “We just wanted to say hello and make sure you’re all right.”

“Ah’ve never been better, you two sillies. Come back when you have some time to spend with your aunt Marlene. Ah insist.”

Neil drove Polly to the Hotel George. “I have to go see Dad,” he said. “He’ll be angry that I’m late. I wasn’t imagining that Marlene was there, Polly.”

“I believe you, Neil,” Polly said. “But that doesn’t mean she killed anyone.”

“I’ll be back by two,” he said, and drove off.

Rotondi finished lunch at the Blue Duck Tavern in the recently renovated Park Hyatt hotel and dialed Mac Smith’s number.

“Mac, Phil Rotondi here. Have you had a chance to ask Jonell about the envelope he delivered?”

“No, but he’s here, just arrived.” He put Jonell on the line.

“Hello, Jonell. I need something from you.”

“Anything,” Jonell said. “Mac tells me you’re working with him on my behalf.”

“Not much I can contribute, but I’m trying. Jonell, that envelope you delivered the day of the murder. Can you describe it to me?”

“Sure. Eight-by-ten, manila with a clasp. Rick Marshalk wrote the senator’s name on it in big purple letters.”

“Purple letters?”

Jonell laughed. “Yeah, it’s one of Rick’s many idiosyncrasies. He’s always writing things with a purple Flair. He’s flamboyant that way.”

“Okay, thanks. Hope your afternoon goes well.”

“I’m in good hands,” Marbury said. “The best.”

Neil arrived at the Hotel George fifteen minutes late. “Sorry,” he said. “Dad was tied up and—”

“No problem,” Rotondi said.

“I can’t stay long,” Neil said.

“Go ahead, Neil,” Polly said. “Tell Phil about Aunt Marlene.”

Rotondi listened as Neil recounted his confrontation with Marlene in Jeannette’s bedroom. When he was through, Rotondi said, “It’s not news that Marlene has mental problems, Neil, but that doesn’t necessarily translate into her being a killer.”

“That’s what I said,” Polly chimed in.

“I know that,” said Neil, “and I know you both view Marlene as being a harmless kook, but as far as I’m concerned she’s crazy enough to do anything. Look, I have to go. Polly wanted to run this past you, Phil, and get your advice on what to do with it.”

“
My
advice?” said Rotondi. “What do
you
think should be done, Neil?”

“I want to go to the police and at least make them aware of the possibility that Marlene killed Mom.”

Neil looked to Polly, and then to Rotondi.

“Sure,” Rotondi said. “Go to MPD and give them the benefit of your thinking. But don’t expect anything to come out of it. Aside from Marlene’s aberrant behavior, there isn’t one iota of evidence pointing to her as your mother’s murderer.”

Neil was aware that while what Rotondi had just said supported what he, Neil, wanted to do, the tone in which he’d said it testified to a different interpretation.

“Thanks for your advice,” Neil said, and shook Rotondi’s hand. “Sorry I have to run. Thanks for coming.”

When her brother was gone, Polly said what she’d been holding back while he was there. “Do you know what this is really about, Phil?” she said.

Rotondi’s cocked head invited her to explain.

“Neil will do anything to get Dad off the hook. I’m surprised he isn’t pointing a finger at me as Mom’s killer.”

Rotondi let the comment slide, and asked, “Feel like doing me a favor, Polly?”

“If I can,” she said.

“I’d like to go to your house.”

“Why? To smell the perfume?”

“To find an envelope with purple writing on it.”

She laughed. “Okay,” she said. “Whatever you say.”

“W
hat’s this all about?” Polly asked as a taxi took them to the house.

“The police have focused in on someone in your mom’s murder,” he replied, leaning close to her ear to avoid being overheard by the driver. “Maybe you heard on TV when the cops announced that they had a break in the case.”

“I don’t watch TV.”

“Have you heard of Mackensie Smith?”

“No.”

“He’s a former top defense lawyer who’s helping this person. They’re friends. I’ve recently met him at Smith’s house.”

“Who is this person,” she asked, “this break in the case?”

“I’ll tell you about it later. For now, let’s just say that he didn’t kill your mother, or anyone else for that matter, and I’m trying to help Smith prove that. The envelope I’m looking for—”

“With purple writing.”

“Right. It might prove useful in establishing his innocence.”

“How?”

Rotondi grinned. She had a question for everything, accepted nothing at face value, like a good trial attorney.

“I don’t know,” he said, “but I’m curious to see what the envelope contained. This fellow delivered it to the house the afternoon of the murder.”

“It was for my mother?”

“No, your father.”

“From the Senate?”

“No, from the Marshalk Group.”

“Neil sent it?”

“No, his boss, Rick Marshalk. This man—all right, his name is Jonell Marbury—he works for Marshalk.”

“You’re sure he didn’t do it, Phil?”

His attention was diverted as the driver turned a corner into the street on which the house was located.

“Go up the driveway,” Rotondi instructed. “That one over there.”

“Should we have him wait?” Polly asked.

“No. We’ll call another. Got your key?” Rotondi asked as the driver drove off.

“Yup.”

She unlocked the door, and they stepped into the foyer.

“I feel like I was just here,” she said.

“You were,” he said.

He entered the library off the foyer and snapped on the overhead lights.

“What a mess,” Polly said, referring to the piles of material stacked on the hardwood floor.

“Your dad’s never going to win the Senate’s annual award for neatness,” Rotondi said. He went to the pile nearest the desk, took the chair, and started pulling things from that stack. He’d reasoned that if the envelope was still there, chances were that it wouldn’t be buried deep. Jeannette had probably tossed it on top of one of the piles. In the five days since the murder, Lyle had spent very little time at the house, making only brief stops to pick up clothes to take to the suite at the Willard that had become his second home.

His hunch was right.

Polly stood over him. “There it is,” she said.

SENATOR SIMMONS
in bold purple strokes was on the sixth item he picked up.

Rotondi looked up at her, nodded, and turned the envelope over. The flap had not been sealed by its glued surface. Only the small metal clasp secured it. He opened it, reached inside, and withdrew six pieces of paper.

“What are they?” Polly asked.

“I’m about to find out.”

The first three papers were on the Marshalk Group’s letterhead. He scanned their contents, laid them on the desk, and examined the remaining three. They were virtually blank except for some scribbling that didn’t seem to make any sense. He retrieved the three letters and looked at them more closely this time. “Hmmm,” he said.

“What?”

“Look at the dates.”

She leaned closer. “They’re old,” she said.

“Yeah. These letters are from last year.”

“Is that important?”

“Maybe,” he said, placing the papers in the envelope, folding the clasp, and standing.

“That’s it?” she asked.

“That’s it.”

“I like being here with you, Phil,” she said. “For some reason the house isn’t as forbidding as it’s been.”

“It’ll be a long time before you’ll be comfortable here, Polly.”

“This man they think killed my mother. Why do they think he did it?”

“Some forensic evidence,” Rotondi said. “They found his fingerprint on a glass in the kitchen, and a hair in the bathroom belonging to an African American.”

“He’s black?”

“Yes.”

“Why was his fingerprint here? Was he a friend of Mom’s?”

“No. He says he’d never met her before, and that he’d never set foot in the house.”

“How can that be if his fingerprints and hair were here?”

“I’ll explain on the way back. Call a cab.”

Senator Simmons’s receptionist told Neil that the senator had just been called into an important last-minute meeting, and she didn’t know how long he’d be.

“Maybe I’d better leave and—”

The door to the inner office was flung open and the senator stood in the doorway.

“Hi, Dad.”

His father turned and disappeared back into the office. Neil followed.

“Close the door,” Simmons said.

Neil did as instructed. He handed the tan briefcase to his father, who dropped it to the floor behind his desk.

“What’s new with the memorial service?” he asked as he sank into his large, leather swivel chair. He looked exhausted to Neil, puffy dark circles defining his eyes, his developing jowls more pronounced.

“Everything is in order.”

“Good.”

“Dad, I have to talk to you about something.”

The senator looked up at a wall clock. “I have a meeting to get to in five minutes, Neil. Make it quick.”

Neil collected his thoughts. He hadn’t expected to have only a limited time to say what was on his mind. “When I went to the house today to pick up those papers for you, Aunt Marlene was there.”