TWENTY-SIX

“I’m here to see Detective Crimley,” Rotondi told the desk officer.

“Is he expecting you?”

“Probably.”

“Probably?”

Rotondi gave him what passed for a grin. The officer frowned. “You are—?”

“Phil Rotondi.”

The uniform placed a call. “He’s in a meeting, but he wants you to wait. He’ll be free in fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks,” Rotondi said, limping to a wooden bench and picking up a dog-eared copy of People that had been discarded there.

Morris Crimley was conferring with the Simmons case task force, which now consisted of six detectives, including detectives Chang and Widletz.

“The presumptive blood test on the hammer Mr. Lemón stole from in front of the Simmons house came up negative,” Crimley announced.

“He wants a reward,” Widletz said through a chuckle.

“A reward for what?” Crimley asked.

“For showing us where he dumped the hammer. He thinks he’s solved the murder.”

“I suggest that we wait until more definitive tests are done on the hammer before releasing him,” Chang proffered.

Crimley’s shrug was noncommittal. He drummed his fingers on photographs of evidence on his desk. “Let’s talk about Marbury,” he said. “What bothers me is why he lied about being in the house. I mean, if he’d said Mrs. Simmons had invited him inside for a drink of water, or to use the bathroom, it would make sense. But—”

“It’s possible that someone is framing him, Morrie,” said Widletz.

“You sound like a defense attorney,” Crimley growled. “Go over again for me what they said at Marshalk.”

Chang, who with Widletz had interviewed employees at the Marshalk Group, consulted his notes. “Mr. Marshalk claims that he encouraged Mr. Marbury to come forward to the authorities about having been at the residence the day of the murder. He further stated that Mr. Marbury and the deceased, Ms. Watson, had been engaged in a romantic relationship during her employment at the firm, and that Mr. Marbury was affectionate with Ms. Watson at the party held for her departure from the firm. In addition, Mr. Marshalk says that Mr. Marbury had, on occasion, demonstrated a temper that, as Mr. Marshalk put it, ‘threatened to get out of hand and to erupt.’ That observation was corroborated by the firm’s vice president of security, Mr. Jack Parish.”

Crimley chewed his cheek. “Marshalk is no friend of Marbury,” he said.

“I disagree,” said Chang. “He said repeatedly that he would do anything to help Mr. Marbury, but wanted only to be truthful with us. His firm put up a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the apprehension and conviction of Mrs. Simmons’s murderer.”

“So I read in the papers,” Crimley said. “Good PR, huh?”

“Have you gotten any more info on the possible Chicago connection?” one of the other detectives asked.

“No. I’ll try Bergl again later today. He’s still stonewalling on this.” Crimley yawned. “Let’s get back on it. We’ll hold Lemón another day or two. I want you to talk to the handyman again, Schultz, and Senator Simmons’s driver, McTeague. See if they remember anything else about that day and night.”

They filed from the room, and Crimley called to the front desk to have Rotondi brought to his office.

“So, how was the Windy City?” Crimley asked after Rotondi had settled in a chair.

Rotondi sat up a little straighter and frowned. “How did you know I was in Chicago?” He didn’t need an answer. Obviously, Crimley had decided to keep tabs on his whereabouts.

“I don’t know where I heard it.”

“It was lovely,” Rotondi said. “Beautiful city, nicely lighted at night. The breeze off Lake Michigan is always bracing, and the drinks at the Pump Room are still top-notch.”

Crimley couldn’t help but laugh. “You talk like you went there as a tourist.”

“That’s right.”

“You and the senator taking in the sights?”

“You might say that. Thanks for letting me barge in on you like this, Morrie.”

“I have ulterior motives.”

“Why am I not surprised? I understand that you’re focusing on Jonell Marbury in the Simmons murder.”

“Word gets around. What’s your source?”

“His attorney, Mackensie Smith.”

“Ah, yes, Mackensie Smith. One of my few favorite lawyers.”

“No argument from me. You have Marbury’s print from inside the house?”

“I’ll be damned,” Crimley said. “Whatever happened to attorney–client privilege?”

“I’m on the team, Morrie.”

“Congratulations.”

“What about the African American hair?”

“There is one.”

“Belong to Jonell?”

“You sound as though you and Marbury are friends.”

“We’ve met. He doesn’t strike me as the murdering kind.”

“People change. Model citizen gets screwed by somebody and snaps, and doesn’t take kindly to a pretty young thing saying no.”

“Camelia Watson. You suspect him of having something to do with her death?”

“We’re interested in him. He drove her home, was the last person to see her alive.”

“Emma catered the party Ms. Watson was at the night she died.”

“I know. We’ll be talking to your lady friend about it. Your buddy, Marbury, and Ms. Watson were having an affair.”

“That’ll be news to his fiancée.”

Crimley glanced down at a yellow legal pad on his desk that was covered with notes. “Ms. Marla Coleman,” he read. “His fling with the deceased has been confirmed by people at Marshalk Group.”

“How would they know?”

“The Marshalk gang is a pretty close-knit group. Those things are never kept secret for very long.”

“Like squad car romances,” Rotondi said.

“Exactly! What did you do in Chicago?”

“Played listening post to the senator.”

“You hook up there with any of your old friends from Baltimore?”

Okay, Rotondi thought, you know about Kala Whitson.

“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?”

“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.”