TWENTY
Detectives 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?”
A solemn nod.
“What did you do with it?”
He looked up. “Like I said, I tossed it away, down by where I was sleeping. In that stream, only I made sure I got far away so nobody could find it and get me in trouble for stealing it.”
“And you didn’t use it?”
A slow shaking of the head.
“Sure the lady at that house where you took it from didn’t come out and catch you in the act?”
“No, she did not.”
Crimley sensed that he was telling the truth. The stone dust on his shoes was picked up when he approached the front of the house to swipe the hammer.
“Why did you bother stealing it, Mr. Lemón, if you didn’t intend to use it?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I do dumb things.”
You’ll get no argument from me, Crimley thought.
“Do I have to go now?” Lemón asked.
“You don’t want to go?”
“I don’t mind being here, only there’s things I’ve got to do, meetings to go to.”
“Yeah, I’m sure there are. You willing to take us to where you ditched the hammer?”
“I’ll do that.”
Crimley left the room and told other detectives who’d observed the exchange through the one-way glass, “We’ll keep him for a while. He’s not making a stink about being held, so let’s hang on to him. I don’t think he killed her, but maybe the hammer will say otherwise.”
Neil Simmons spent part of the day planning his mother’s memorial service, then he and his sister, Polly, got together that afternoon and met for an hour with people from St. John’s. Earlier, he’d consulted with the police about crowd control at the service, and had finalized a press release announcing the plans. Those necessary chores completed, he and Polly stopped at the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown for coffee in the expansive lobby, where an elegantly dressed woman sat behind a gleaming black grand piano and wove familiar melodies. It was the sort of serene scene Neil had been longing for all day.
He was dressed in suit and tie, Polly in jeans and a white T-shirt with STOP THE INSANITY emblazoned across its front. Neil had wished she’d dressed more conservatively, but knew it would be futile to suggest it, and would probably invite a rant on “empty suits” and a lecture on why people act like sheep and all dress the same.
“I think we accomplished everything we had to today,” Neil said pleasantly as his coffee, and her Diet Coke, were served.
“It would be nice if Daddy gave a damn and got involved,” she said. He started to respond, but she said, “What a sham having her service at Saint John’s. She never went near that church. The only reason Daddy wants it there is because of his image. What bull!”
“Oh, come on, Polly, let’s not get into that. You know how busy he is.”
“Busy doing the people’s business. I’ve come to the conclusion that the best thing Congress can do for the country is to stay home.”
Neil laughed.
“I’m serious,” she said. “All Congress does is take money from lobbyists and pass laws the lobbyists want passed. What kind of democracy is that?”
Neil started to respond but she cut him off. “I know, you’re a lobbyist, Neil, but just because you’re my brother doesn’t make it right. You ever think of leaving?”
“Sure.”
“No, I mean really think of leaving.”
“It’s not that easy, Polly. I have responsibilities, a family.”
“That’s no excuse. You were supporting your family just fine when you worked at the bank.”
“It was hand-to-mouth. Marshalk pays a lot better.”
She turned from him, recrossed her legs, and looked at the pianist. Neil drank his coffee and observed the formidable, sharply dressed men and women occupying other tables. They represented what he’d aspired to be, a smooth, confident player moving easily through the corridors of the nation’s most complex capital city. What he was feeling at that moment was hardly that. He was confused and deflated, unsure of who he was—who he’d ever been.
The conversation he’d had with his mother two weeks before she died had stayed with him day and night, making sleep virtually impossible. He’d tried to lose himself at work, but there wasn’t enough for him to do there to occupy his mind. Marshalk and his lieutenants had been busy wooing new clients and setting up fund-raising events for members of Congress with whom they had close ties. Simmons knew about the upcoming trip to Chicago on a private jet arranged by Marshalk, and had suggested to his father that he accompany him. “There’s no need for you to come, Neil,” the senator had said. “You stay here in D.C. and make damn sure the memorial service comes off the way I want it to.”
He waited until Polly had turned to pick up her soda to say, “Polly, I am going to be leaving Marshalk.”
“Really? When did you make that decision?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. Happy?”
“No. Why should I be? Proud? I suppose so. Have you told Daddy?”
“No, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it until I’ve had a chance to.”
She pressed her finger to her lips and said with exaggerated gravity, “My lips are sealed.” Her eyes opened wide. “He will not be happy,” she said.
“It’s important that I be happy.”
“You bet. What does the missus say?”
“I haven’t told Alex.”
“Boy, I’d love to be there when you do. There go her plans to redo the kitchen again.”
“Lay off Alex, okay?”
“Whatever you say, big brother.” She took in her surroundings, leaned close to him, and asked, “Do you think Daddy had Mom killed?”
“Jesus, Polly, how can you even think such a thing?”
“They were getting a divorce, you know.”
“They were?”
“You didn’t know?”
“I—I heard something.”
“And you know what that would do to Daddy’s political future.”
“I don’t want to hear this, Polly, this nonsense about Dad killing Mom.”
“You may not want to hear it, Neil, but you can’t just dismiss it out of hand.”
He felt a rush of heat to his face and wondered if he had reddened. “Please, Polly,” he said, “this isn’t the time. Our mother has just been murdered. We have to stick together as a family and honor her by our actions.”
“For Daddy’s sake?”
“No, damn it, for her sake.” He realized his voice had risen, and he looked around to see whether anyone had reacted. No one appeared to have. She reached for her glass, but he grabbed her hand en route. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, “who killed Mom. That’s for the police to determine. It’s our responsibility to stand tall and—”
“Stand tall?” she mimicked. “When have you ever stood tall, Neil?”
He released her hand and sat back.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said that. I know it hasn’t been easy being involved with Daddy. He’s overbearing, my way or the highway. That’s why I got as far away as I could, as soon as I could.” She paused as she saw his eyes become moist. “I love you, Neil. I just wish…”
“I’d like to leave,” he said, motioning for a check.
He drove her to the Hotel George and pulled up in front.
“You’re really leaving Marshalk?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m going to give Phil Marshalk my notice. I have to be at a going-away party tonight. Maybe I can corner him there and break the news. Dad is leaving tomorrow for Chicago. Phil is going with him. As soon as I tell Marshalk I’m leaving, I’ll get hold of Dad and tell him, too.”
“Everything will turn out okay,” she said, and kissed his cheek.
“I hope so, Polly. I hope so.”
Simmons watched her skip into the hotel. Then he drove to Marshalk’s headquarters. Jonell Marbury intercepted him on his way to his office. “Got a minute, Neil?” Marbury asked.
“Sure.”
Marbury closed the door behind them.
“What’s going on?” Marbury asked.
“About what?”
“About this place, Neil. Marshalk and Parish have turned it into an armed camp. You’d think we were some Defense Department think tank with top-secret information about where the next war will be.”
Simmons shrugged and waved his hand. “I don’t know, Jonell. I’m just the president.”
“You’ve heard the rumors.”
“Which ones?”
“About Justice investigating us.”
Simmons nodded.
“You must know something about it, Neil.” Marbury got up from his chair, leaned on Simmons’s desk, and said, “I’ve even heard it might involve money laundering for the mob.”
“Just a rumor, Jonell.”
Marbury sat again. “I’m getting really worried, Neil. I had a conversation with Camelia the other day. She’s bailing because she’s concerned about what’s coming down. I’m thinking of doing the same thing.”
Simmons was poised to reveal that he, too, intended to leave the firm, but thought better of it. Although he trusted Marbury, he also knew that even the most closed-mouthed people in Washington ended up spilling things said in confidence, perhaps not deliberately, but inadvertently.
“Maybe you should” was the way Simmons put it.
“You mean that?”
“Look, Jonell, I’m as aware as you are of things here getting out of hand. I hear the scuttlebutt as clearly as you do. Do you have something else lined up?”
“No, but I’m not worried about that. I had a long talk with Marla about it. She’s all for me leaving.”
“Well,” Simmons said, “Marshalk will obviously miss you if you decide to resign. You have to do what’s right for you.” Simmons rubbed his eyes and added, “We all do.”
Marbury looked at Simmons quizzically but didn’t say what he was thinking: that Simmons’s final comment was intriguing, and troubling. He changed the subject: “Things shaping up for your mom’s memorial service?”
“Yeah, I think so. My sister and I tied up some loose ends today.”
“Going to Camelia’s bash tonight?”
“Sure. You?”
“Right. I’m leaving now and stopping at home before the party. Is your wife coming?”
“No. Tough getting sitters these days. Teenagers don’t want to bother anymore making a few bucks watching somebody else’s kids. Mommy and Daddy give them all the money they need.”
Marbury got up and laughed. “I know what you mean, Neil. If I have kids someday, I intend not to spoil them.”
“I wish you well in that, Jonell. See you at the party.”
Marbury left the building, and Neil Simmons went through a sheaf of papers without focusing on any of them.
At the other end of the long corridor, Jack Parish sat in his office with Rick Marshalk. He activated a small digital tape recorder he’d taken from a locked cabinet that had recently been delivered. Inside the cabinet was other electronic equipment all tied in to a system that delivered conversations from a series of offices in which listening devices had been installed simultaneously with the sweeping of those same offices for other bugs. Parish activated the recorder.
“What’s going on?”
“About what?”
“About this place, Neil. Marshalk and Parish have turned it into an armed camp. You’d think we were some Defense Department think tank with top-secret information about where the next war will be.”
“I don’t know, Jonell. I’m just the president.”
“You’ve heard the rumors.”
“Which ones?”
“About Justice investigating us. You must know something about it, Neil. I’ve even heard it might involve money laundering for the mob.”
“Just a rumor, Jonell.”
“I’m getting really worried, Neil. I had a conversation with Camelia the other day. She’s bailing because she’s concerned about what’s coming down. I’m thinking of doing the same thing.”
“Maybe you should.”
“You mean that?”
“Look, Jonell, I’m as aware as you are of things here getting out of hand. I hear the scuttlebutt as clearly as you do. Do you have something else lined up?”
“No, but I’m not worried about that. I had a long talk with Marla about it. She’s all for me leaving.”
“Well, Marshalk will obviously miss you if you decide to resign. You have to do what’s right for you—we all do.”
“Things shaping up for your mom’s memorial service?”
“Yeah, I think so. My sister and I tied up some loose ends today.”
“Going to Camelia’s bash tonight?”
“Sure. You?”
“Right. I’m leaving now and stopping at home before the party. Is your wife coming?”
“No. Tough getting sitters these days. Teenagers don’t want to bother anymore making a few bucks watching somebody else’s kids. Mommy and Daddy give them all the money they need.”
“I know what you mean, Neil. If I have kids someday, I intend not to spoil them.”
“I wish you well in that, Jonell. See you at the party.”
Parish looked at Marshalk after turning off the recorder.
“Play that recording of Marbury and Camelia again,” Marshalk said.
“Something wrong?”
“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. Jonell, 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.”
“Come on, Camelia, 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.”
Parish turned off the recorder. His office was silent.
Marshalk, whose mouth was empty, moved it as though chewing something.
Parish looked at his boss.
“Nice, huh?” Marshalk said. “There’s no honor anymore. You do the right thing for people, give them the best jobs they’ll ever have, and they stick it to you in the back.”
Parish returned the cassette recorder to the cabinet and locked it.
Marshalk got up and went to the door. He paused, turned, and said, “Traitors get hanged. They get strung up because they violated a trust that can take down a country. Nobody’s taking me down, Jack. Nobody!”