Murder on K Street

by Margaret Truman

  He cocked his head but didn’t voice his next question. What would prompt her to do that? When would she feel it was necessary?

  Believe her? I have no reason not to.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he said as she walked him from the room and down the stairs to the foyer.

  “You don’t have to say anything, Neil. But you do have to act.”

  “Does Dad know how you feel?”

  “Yes. We’ve been talking about a divorce.”

  Neil drew a deep breath before saying, “Can’t you work something out short of that? There’s his position in the Senate, and I think he’s serious about running for president.”

  “Politics!” she sneered. “I don’t care about politics. I care about my family. I care about you, Neil, and I’m perfectly willing to tell what I know if it means saving you and Polly.”

  “I’m sure it won’t come to that,” he said, kissing her cheek. “I’ll do the right thing. I’d better be going.”

  “Don’t forget the tool you wanted to pick up.”

  “The what? Oh, right. Yes, I’ll get it. Mom, give this some thought, huh? Some real thought.”

  “I already have, Neil.”

  He looked into her eyes and knew that she meant it.

  EIGHTEEN

  Rotondi had been at Emma’s house for an hour before she arrived.

  “How was it?” he asked.

  “Fine. Those C-SPAN people are terrific. Brian Lamb personally complimented me and the food.”

  “I’ve been complimenting you ever since we met.”

  “But you’re not Brian Lamb. Besides, I expect compliments from you.”

  “I never thought you’d take me for granted.”

  “I take it for granted that you got through the evening without me.”

  “Had dinner with a United States senator.”

  “And? How is your buddy?”

  “All right. I’m going with him to Chicago the day after tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “He asked me.”

  “That’s a good enough reason, I suppose. What’s the occasion?”

  He explained the purpose for the trip, adding, “The exploratory meetings are strictly between us.”

  “I’ve forgotten it already.”

  They changed for bed and sat in the den to watch news on TV. Homer had climbed up on the couch next to Emma, plopped his head on her lap, and closed his eyes.

  Jeannette Simmons’s murder was no longer the lead story, having slipped to second place behind coverage of a House committee hearing that day into the corrupting influence of lobbyists on the legislative and judicial processes.

  “The influence peddlers are taking big hits these days,” Emma said.

  “They’ve brought it upon themselves,” said Rotondi.

  “I expect to see Neil Simmons’s name on the news any day,” she said. “Have you spoken with him?”

  “Not lately. He’s supposed to be putting together Jeannette’s memorial service at St. John’s Episcopal. I’m sure that’s keeping him busy. Emma, remember the conversation at Mac and Annabel Smith’s house last night?”

  “Not much of it. Why?”

  “I’ve been thinking about something the fellow who was there, Jonell, said about having been at Jeannette’s house the afternoon she was murdered.”

  Emma screwed up her face. “Yes, I do remember that. Why?”

  “I haven’t seen or heard anything in news reports that mentions his name. He works for Marshalk.”

  “So?”

  “So—so I’m wondering why.”

  “The police probably questioned him and decided he wasn’t a suspect.”

  “Or he didn’t tell the police he’d been there.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “That’s what I’m wondering. I think I’ll call Mac Smith in the morning and see if he knows anything. Jonell—what was his last name?”

  “Marbury.”

  “Yeah, Jonell Marbury. Nice guy.”

  “I’m catering a going-away party tomorrow night for one of Marshalk’s staff.”

  “You mentioned that. Maybe he’ll be there. Where’s the party?”

  “Marshalk’s satellite office. Eighteenth Street. A town house. You should see it. It’s decorated like a New Orleans brothel.”

  Rotondi laughed. “Maybe it is.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Marshalk isn’t one of my favorite clients. He and some of his male buddies have wandering hands.”

  “Take my cane. You can fend them off with it.”

  Emma reached for Rotondi and traced an index finger around his lips, which woke Homer and sent him off the couch. “I wouldn’t fend you off,” she said.

  “I think I’m being taken for granted again,” he said.

  “And?”

  “And—I love it. Come on, lady. I’m hungry. What’s on the menu tonight?”

  “It’s not coconut shrimp,” she said.

  Emma’s nonculinary appetizers and main course sated any hunger Rotondi had been suffering. He awoke the next morning rested and satisfied. He looked over to Emma’s empty side of the bed and heard the shower running. He got up, put on a robe, and went to the den, where he debated whether it was too early to call Mac Smith. The phone rang. He waited until the machine went into action, heard Morris Crimley’s voice through the tinny speaker, and picked up.

  “Screening calls these days?” Crimley asked in his gravelly voice.

  “You might say that,” Rotondi responded. “Then again, you might not. What’s up?”

  “Hope I’m not disturbing something pleasant.”

  “You’re late for that.”

  “What do you have on tap today?”

  “Thought I’d rob a bank, or assassinate somebody important.”

  “You shouldn’t say things like that on the phone, Phil. Ever hear of the Patriot Act? The Secret Service will be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Slow, aren’t they?”

  “Phil, I need to talk with you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “In person. Come by the office later this morning?”

  “Okay. Eleven?”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “Who called?” Emma asked as she emerged from the bathroom, body and head swathed in fluffy pink robe and towel.

  “Morris Crimley at MPD. He wants to talk to me about something.”

  “You’re out to solve Jeannette Simmons’s murder, aren’t you?”

  “No,” he said. “I just think there are things I know that others may not.”

  “Care to share them with this lowly caterer?”

  “Not at the moment. What time’s the Marshalk party?”

  “Seven.” She looked up at a wall clock. “I’d better get on my horse. I have two clients to meet with, and I need to do some shopping at Eastern Market.”

  “Keep your eyes and ears open tonight, Emma. You never can tell what somebody is likely to say to a ravishing woman in kitchen whites.”

  After she left, he took his time getting ready, reading cover-to-cover the newspaper that had been delivered. Showered and dressed, he called Mac Smith.

  “Good morning, Phil,” Smith said.

  “Good morning, Mac. I wanted to run something past you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Remember what your friend, Jonell Marbury, said at your dinner party about having been at the Simmons home the afternoon she was killed?”

  “Yes, I do. Why?”

  “I haven’t seen any mention of him in connection with the murder and was wondering whether the police know he was there.”

  “I don’t have an answer for you,” Smith replied. “I urged him to step forward. Whether he did or not is another question. I hope so. If the police come up with that knowledge on their own, he’ll have some explaining to do.”

  “I was surprised he casually mentioned it that night, Mac. It doesn’t sound as though he’s trying to keep it a secret.”

&nb
sp; “I agree. I’ll call him and ask. Free for lunch?”

  “I’ll be at MPD at eleven. Shouldn’t be there more than an hour.”

  “How about twelve thirty at the Garden Café? It’s in the State Plaza Hotel on E Street, between Twenty-first and Twenty-second, sort of a hangout for us GW professors.”

  “See you there.”

  Crimley was in a meeting with Detective Chang when Rotondi arrived. He saw the two men through a glass insert in Crimley’s office door and recognized Chang from having seen him at the Willard. Chang left, and Crimley waved Rotondi in.

  “How’s the leg?” Crimley asked after Phil had taken a chair and rested his cane against it.

  “Feels a little better today,” he replied, wondering whether having spilled precious bodily fluids the night before had activated his body’s natural painkilling endorphins.

  “Glad to hear that. I’ll get to the point, Phil. The detective who just left here, Chang, is lead on the Simmons case. We’ve run a check on the victim’s movements for the two months leading up to her death.”

  “I’d be surprised if you hadn’t.”

  “She didn’t go many places, stayed pretty close to home. We’ve pulled her bank records, credit card receipts, E-ZPass usage, the usual.”

  Rotondi nodded.

  “It looks like she made only one trip out of town during those two months.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, she went down to the Eastern Shore.”

  Crimley cocked his head as though waiting for Rotondi to respond. When he didn’t, Crimley added, “Looks like she made that trip to spend time with one Philip Rotondi.”

  “Let’s be a little more accurate, Morris. She came to the Eastern Shore for reasons other than seeing me. While she was there, we had dinner together. Shocking? As you said, Jeannette and I were close friends.”

  Crimley pulled a receipt from a folder on his desk. “Nice restaurant,” he said, handing the receipt to Rotondi.

  “The best crab cakes in the area.”

  Crimley rubbed stubble on his face with the palm of his hand, and shifted to his eyes with his knuckles. “Phil,” he said, “why are you in Washington?”

  “I’m here as Lyle Simmons’s friend.”

  “No interest in the case beyond that?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “We’ve been friends for a long time, Phil.”

  “We sure have.”

  “You asked me to keep you informed of how the investigation is going. I’m willing to do that. But it would be nice if it were a two-way street. You were probably closer to the family than anyone else around.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “We’re holding a suspect.”

  “So I see on TV. The drifter. What’s his name?”

  “Lemón.”

  “He’s convenient, but he didn’t do it. It wasn’t some down-and-out stranger who killed Jeannette Simmons, and you know it.”

  “Give me an alternative.”

  “I don’t have one at the moment.”

  “At the moment?”

  “I have some ideas.”

  “For the first time I feel you’re leveling with me. We have prints.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “We don’t have a match yet. Maybe by tomorrow.” He slid an eight-by-ten photograph in Rotondi’s direction, a close-up of a water glass. A fingerprint processed at the crime scene was evident on the glass.

  Rotondi examined the photo before pushing it back to Crimley. “Sounds like you’re making progress,” he said.

  “Slow but sure.”

  A shooting pain stung Rotondi’s leg from hip to foot, and he grimaced against it. “Look, Morris, I have to leave,” he said. “A lunch date. I promise I’ll get back to you in a day or two and we can discuss this further.”

  “Sure, Phil. Thanks for stopping in. Oh, one more thing. After you and Mrs. Simmons enjoyed your crab cakes together, where did you go next?”

  Rotondi knew what was coming.

  “You’ve got alert neighbors in your condo complex, Phil. Real crime stoppers. It seems one of them saw you and Mrs. Simmons go into your condo unit in the evening and not come out till morning. They identified Mrs. Simmons from photos. Detective Chang and his partner not only interviewed that neighbor, they talked to a second one who confirmed what the first one said.”

  Rotondi stood, stretched, picked up his cane, and smiled at Crimley. “You missed your calling, Morris. You should be working for a tabloid.”

  “Just part of a routine investigation, Counselor.”

  “You should add me to your suspect list.”

  “I already have, but don’t sweat it. I’ll take you up on your offer to come back. In fact, I’ll be damn upset if you don’t.”

  He’d been exercising early one morning a month ago when Jeannette called.

  “Hi, Phil, hope I’m not waking you.”

  “I’ve been up for a while.”

  “You sound out of breath.”

  “Doing some light weight lifting. How are you?”

  “All right.” She didn’t sound terribly convincing.

  “How’s the family?”

  “Everyone is fine. I’m coming down your way in a few days.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “I just need to get away. One of my classmates, Josie Williams, lives on the shore with her husband. He’s retired. It would be nice to see her again.”

  “I remember her. A sorority sister.”

  “I thought maybe you and I could have lunch or dinner together.”

  “Love it. Are you staying with her?”

  “No. I’ve booked a room at the Marriott. It’s not very far from you.”

  They arranged a date for dinner, and he went back to his weight lifting. It would be good to see her. They hadn’t spoken in a while. He’d been in Batavia visiting family and had returned only a few days earlier. He kept up with Lyle Simmons’s activities through the press, of course, and had received a call just yesterday from Polly Simmons. The purpose of her call was to ask that he use his friendship with her father to persuade him to not go forward with a piece of legislation that she found offensive and unconstitutional, but otherwise palatable. While he agreed with her that it was a bad law if passed, he wasn’t about to inject himself into Simmons’s political life. He never had.

  Rotondi chose a restaurant equidistant between his condo and the hotel where Jeannette would be staying, a lively neighborhood spot short on pretense and long on fresh seafood. He’d eaten there often and was by now a familiar face to the owners, a husband and wife who ran the place with Prussian efficiency. Mom and Pop stayed where they belonged, in the kitchen, except for occasional forays into the dining room to ask how diners were enjoying their meals. An attractive daughter manned the reservations podium.

  Jeannette called early that afternoon from the hotel, and Rotondi filled her in on plans for the evening. He suggested getting together earlier for a walk along the shore, but she begged off: “I’m exhausted, Phil. A nice nap is appealing at the moment.” He said he would pick her up at six.

  She was waiting in the lobby when he arrived.

  “You look rested,” he said as they embraced. “And beautiful.” He was being truthful. Jeannette was the sort of woman who would remain beautiful until her dying days. She had lost considerable weight, though, which concerned Rotondi. Had her drinking progressed to the point of not eating regularly?

  “Hardly beautiful, Phil, but yes, I am rested.” She stepped back and took him in. “And you look—well, you look terrific.”

  “Now that we’ve lavished compliments on each other, let’s go.”

  “It’s so peaceful here away from Washington,” she said as they drove to the restaurant. She’d rolled down her window and leaned in its direction, allowing the breeze to whip her hair, which had grown darker with age but was lightened somewhat with streaks recently applied. It was a perfect day on the Eastern Shore, the sky
cobalt blue, the air pleasantly warm. They entered the restaurant from the adjacent parking lot and were seated in a secluded booth Rotondi had requested when making the reservation. A young waitress asked if they’d like drinks.

  “Extra-dry Beefeater martini, straight up, cold and dry, with a twist.” Jeannette rattled it off like those silly disclaimers at the end of commercials. Phil ordered a glass of house red.

  “I’m a purist when it comes to martinis,” she said, laughing. “No vodka for me. Any martini not made with gin isn’t a martini.”

  “So I’ve heard,” he said.

  Their drinks arrived and they touched the rims of their glasses. “Here’s to you being here,” he said.

  “Here’s to my being here,” she repeated. “I’m so glad I am. How’s Homer?”

  “He’s good. He hurt his rear leg the other day racing up the stairs and is limping around a little, like me. We make a wonderful gimpy pair when I walk him. No broken bones, according to the vet.”

  “What about your leg, Phil? The last time I saw you, you said you were considering another surgery.”

  “Ruled it out. The surgeon said it might not do any good, but he’s willing to try. I’d just as soon not provide a practice session for him. How are Neil and Polly?”

  Her mood darkened, but she took another sip and lightened up. “They’re okay. Polly said she spoke with you recently.”

  He recounted the gist of Polly’s call.

  “She’s so passionate about her causes,” Jeannette said. “I admire that.”

  Rotondi nodded.

  “I wish Neil had some of her passion for something—for anything.”

  “Different personalities, Jeannette. Always amazes me how kids from the same parents and upbringing can end up so different.”

  “What amazes me is how much Polly is like her father, yet they’re always at each other’s throats.”

  “Their relationship still rocky?”

  “Worse than that. It breaks my heart.”

  “Maybe Polly ought to loosen up, accept Lyle for what he is.”

  “Don’t you think I’ve lectured her about that? She’s so stubborn.”

  “Like her father,” Rotondi said.

  Jeannette finished her drink and motioned for the waitress to bring her another. Rotondi was about to suggest that they skip a second drink and order, but she reached across the table, placed her hand on his, and said, “I lied to you, Phil.”