“What good is a security system if you don’t use it?” he’d asked her repeatedly.
“Let the bogeyman in,” she had said defiantly. It was the alcohol talking, he knew. Too many alcohol-fueled words lately.
He thought he heard something. “Jeannette?”
There was no reply.
He reached for a switch that operated the foyer lights, and flipped it up. The explosion of light from wall sconces and recessed fixtures and two chandeliers came to life so suddenly that it was almost audible.
He turned to go to the kitchen at the rear of the house where, if she’d remembered, she would have put the day’s mail on a large island in the center of the room. He looked to his left. At first, it didn’t register. He narrowed his eyes to bring
it
into focus, then took tentative steps in
its
direction. He closed his eyes and rubbed them. Opened them. Another few steps, his shoes sounding unnaturally loud on the marble floor.
He said nothing as he approached the body. He stopped a few feet from
it
, lowered his head and bit his lip. The air-conditioning provided what seemed to be an arctic blast of frigid air.
“Jeannette?” he said softly, leaning closer. He extended his fingertips in the direction of her face and neck, but withdrew before making contact.
“Good God,” he muttered as he turned his back on
it
and went into a library off the foyer to his right, where he slumped behind the handsomely inlaid cherry desk. The outdoor lights poured through a window behind him. He switched on a desk lamp and stared at the phone. After drawing several deep breaths, he slowly removed the cordless unit from its cradle, dialed, and waited. He broke off, then entered another phone number. The ringing phone assaulted his ear.
“Hello?”
“Neil? It’s Dad.”
“Oh. Hi. How’d the speech go?”
“It went fine. Neil, there’s been an accident here at the house.”
“An accident? Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. It’s Mother.”
“What happened?”
“She’s—she’s dead.”
“What? Dead? How? What?”
“Get over here, Neil.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure about what? That Mother is dead? Of course I’m sure.”
“You—?”
“Yes, I confirmed it.”
“It’ll take me a few minutes. I’m in my pajamas and—”
“I don’t give a damn about pajamas. Be here!”
His second call was to his chief of staff, who’d just walked through the door of his own home. There was no talk of pajamas with Alan McBride. Simmons instructed him to summon Press Secretary Markowicz and get him rolling.
He paused before making his third call, inhaling as though sucking in much-needed oxygen. He tapped his fingers on the phone before dialing a two-number direct-dial code.
“Phil. It’s Lyle.”
“This is a pleasant surprise,” Phil said.
“But with unpleasant news. Jeannette is dead.”
“Say again.”
“It’s Jeannette. She’s dead.”
“My God, Lyle,” Rotondi said. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. She may have fallen and hit her head. There’s blood. Or someone might have bludgeoned her. I don’t know. Can you come?”
“Of course. Have you called nine-one-one?”
He paused. “Yes,” he said, fully aware that he hadn’t. “They’re on their way. Neil has been notified, and some of my staff. I need a friend, Phil.”
“I’m leaving now.”
Simmons returned to the foyer and cast a quick, sideways glance at his wife’s body. He stepped outside and called 911. “This is Senator Lyle Simmons. I’m calling from my home.” He gave the address. “My wife has died.”
“Have you checked for vital signs?” the dispatcher asked.
“Yes. There’s no sign of life.”
“Do you know the cause of her death?”
“No. She’s on the floor of our foyer. There’s blood around her head. She might have fallen, or—or she’s the victim of a homicide.”
“I’m dispatching police and medical personnel immediately, sir. Please don’t disturb anything at the scene and—”
Simmons disconnected the call. He returned inside, went into a powder room off the foyer, and checked his appearance in the mirror. Satisfied, he went outside again and awaited everyone’s arrival.
M
arkowicz’s arrival coincided with police and medical vehicles, six of the former, two of the latter, sirens wailing, lights flashing, tossing a garish red-white-and-blue kaleidoscope into the heavy, sullen night air. The official vehicles parked in the circular driveway, engines running; so did the press secretary’s. Two officers jumped out and took up positions at either end to keep the uninvited from pulling in behind them. Two other uniformed officers were first up the steps to where Simmons stood, followed by white-coated EMTs.
“Where is she?” an officer asked.
“In there,” Simmons said, nodding toward the door.
“It’s the senator,” one of the emergency medical technicians said to his partner, as though he’d spotted a rock star.
“I can’t believe this,” Markowicz said on reaching his boss.
“I know.”
“I heard the call on my car monitor,” Markowicz said. “The press will be here any minute.”
“I’ll need to make a statement,” said Simmons.
“Negative, Senator. No one will expect a statement from you so soon.”
“Still, come up with something.”
A short, slender Asian American man approached; he was wearing a lightweight green suit, dark green shirt, and unfashionably narrow lighter green tie. “Senator Simmons?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Chang, MPD.”
Simmons nodded and extended his hand; the detective didn’t offer his in return.
“Is there anyone in the house besides the victim?” Chang asked.
Simmons’s expression was puzzled. “No, of course not. Who would be there?”
“Staff? A housekeeper?”
“She’s away. What does this have to do with anything?”
Chang ignored the comment. “The victim is your wife?”
“Yes.”
“Excuse me,” Chang said and entered the house, where the first two officers on the scene had secured the foyer.
“There’s Alan,” Markowicz said, pointing to the chief of staff’s car that had just arrived. Other vehicles, including a TV remote news truck, roared up behind. “I’ll head them off,” the press secretary added, bounding down the steps in their direction.
McBride replaced him at the senator’s side. “I’m so sorry, Senator.”
“It’s quite a shock, Alan. Quite a shock.”
“She was murdered?”
“I don’t know. There’s a lot of blood. The police are inside now.”
McBride looked down at other cops in uniform, who had fanned out to maintain a security line between the house and those arriving on the road below. Markowicz, with the aid of an officer, had corralled the press.
“She was—she was dead when you got home?” McBride asked.
Simmons nodded, his lips tight.
“Someone broke in?”
“I don’t know, Alan.” Simmons’s annoyance at being asked a question for which he had no answer was palpable.
McBride had worked for the senator since his first six-year term, and read his boss. No more questions.
“I called Neil,” Simmons said. “He’s on his way.”
“Good. What about Polly?” He knew that asking about Simmons’s daughter was a mistake the moment the words left his mouth. She and her father had been noisily estranged for years.
“There’s time for that,” Simmons muttered.
Detective Chang emerged from the house as Neil Simmons arrived and joined his father and chief of staff. Chang looked at the two newcomers.
“My son, and my chief of staff,” Simmons said, responding to the detective’s questioning expression.
“May I speak with you, sir?” Chang said to Simmons. “Alone?”
“There’s nothing I have to say that they can’t hear,” Simmons said.
Now Chang’s hard expression didn’t ask a question. Rather, it said he’d meant what he’d said—that he wanted to talk to Simmons without others present.
“All right,” said Simmons.
“Dad, give me a few minutes first,” Neil said. He turned to Chang: “I just got here. It’s my mother in there. Surely—”
“I prefer that you and your father not talk before I have had a chance to speak with each of you.”
“This is outrageous,” Neil said, looking to McBride for assurance. McBride shrugged.
Senator Simmons walked with Chang to the bottom of the stairs. Chang flipped a small notebook to a fresh page and held a pen over it. “Tell me what you know, sir,” he said.
“What I know? What I know is that I arrived home to find my beloved wife dead, her head bashed in, blood everywhere. You tell me what
you
know, Detective. Was it a murder?”
“What time did you arrive home, sir?”
Simmons was suddenly aware that photographers had trained their cameras from afar at him and the detective. He turned his back to them and said, “Can’t we do this in a more private place? Inside the house? Out of this heat?” He was feeling soggy in his suit and tie. The detective appeared to be comfortable.
Chang responded by moving a few feet into a natural alcove created by a grouping of small evergreens. Simmons followed.
“What time did you arrive home, sir?”
Simmons gave Chang a thumbnail recounting of his evening, culminating with finding his wife’s body. He ended with, “Look, Detective Chan, I—”
“Chang.”
“Chang. I know you have a job to do, and I wish to be as helpful as possible. I’ll be happy to sit down with you and answer any questions you might have, but right now I need to speak with my son and to my staff.” He made a move to leave.
“Senator Simmons.”
“What?”
“It was murder,” said Chang.
“You’re sure?”
“It was you who made the nine-one-one call?”
“That’s right.”
“Immediately upon coming upon the victim?”
“Look, Detective, I think that—”
“Excuse me,” Chang said. He went up the steps and disappeared inside the house.
Simmons rejoined his son and McBride. Neil was attempting to look into the foyer past one officer stationed at the front door but without success. An assistant medical examiner arrived and began to take charge of Jeannette Simmons’s body. The press, now numbering in the dozens, shouted questions from where they were sequestered.
“I wish they’d take her away,” the senator said in a low voice to Neil and McBride. “This is becoming a circus.”
“What did he ask you?” Neil asked his father.
“What time I got home. He’s an unpleasant little bastard.”
He’d no sooner said the words than Chang reappeared and said to Neil, “A word with you, please, sir.”
Neil looked to his father, who said with a nod, “Go on, Neil.”
After Neil and Chang had retreated to the area shielded by trees and shrubs, Simmons turned to McBride. “Why won’t they let me back inside?”
“Just as well that you stay out here, Senator, until they’ve finished up what they’re doing. It will take awhile.”
“Before they bring her out, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“How could this have happened?” the senator asked no one in particular. “Who would have wanted to kill her?”
McBride didn’t have an immediate answer to either question. “Some sicko,” he finally offered.
“Yes, a sicko. I can’t stay here tonight.”
“You’ll stay with Neil?”
He replied quickly. “No. Get me a suite at the Mayflower or the Willard.”
McBride stepped away to place a cell phone call as Chang returned with Neil Simmons.
“He wants a statement from me, where I’ve been all night, things like that,” said Neil. “You’d think I killed Mom.”
Now Neil was able to see into the foyer at his mother’s lifeless body. He turned away from the sight. What sounded like a gurgle came from his throat.
“I’ll need to pack,” the senator told Detective Chang.
“I’m afraid you cannot enter the house, sir, while my investigation is in progress.”
“How long will that be?”
“Overnight.”
“You can’t expect me to—”
“The Willard, Senator,” McBride announced, snapping shut his phone.
“I’ll need a change of clothes, damn it!” Simmons snapped at Chang. “I have a day of important meetings ahead of me and—”
Hard stares from Chang and McBride stopped Simmons. He spoke more softly now. “I would appreciate it, Detective, if I could pack a bag for the night.”
“I will see what can be arranged,” Chang said, and left.
Markowicz broke away from the press contingent, which had continued to grow in size, and came to the front steps of the house. “I’ve got to tell them something, Senator.”
“I can say that—”
“No, sir. A statement from you at this time would be viewed as inappropriate.”
“Is
anything
appropriate at a time like this?”
“There’ll be tremendous sympathy for you, Senator. No one, including the media, will be critical of you for not saying anything. I’ve formulated something in my mind. I can issue a statement that comes from you.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“I’ll keep it short. Here’s what I intend to say.” He spoke the words into Simmons’s ear. The senator nodded.
Chang returned. “Senator Simmons?”
“What?”
“If you wish to pack a suitcase, I will escort you inside.”
“I don’t need an escort into my own home.”
Silence from the others mitigated Simmons’s tone. “All right,” he said. He told McBride to call Phil Rotondi on his cell phone. “He’s on his way from the shore. Tell him I’ll be at the Willard and to come directly there.”
“I’ll come in with you,” Neil said.
“I’m afraid not, sir,” Chang said.
The detective and the senator entered the foyer, where a temporary sheet had been placed over Jeannette Simmons. Evidence technicians who’d joined the flow of people into the house took still photographs, along with a video of the crime scene. Chang led Simmons on a wide path around them to the foot of the stairs. “Upstairs, sir?” he said.
“Yes.”
Chang followed Simmons down a long hallway and into a huge master bedroom.
“I must ask you to not touch anything aside from the items you choose to take with you,” Chang said.