“What was
she
doing there?”
Neil made a false start.
“Get to it, Neil.”
“She was in your bedroom pretending to be Mom.”
Simmons opened his mouth to say something but closed it before words escaped. Finally, he said, “That’s ridiculous.”
“I know it sounds that way, Dad, but I swear that’s what happened. She was at Mom’s dressing table wearing one of her robes, the pink one, and—”
“What did she say?”
Neil hesitated. “She said she wanted to look nice for you when you came home.”
Simmons’s sigh was deep and prolonged.
“She’s insane, Dad. Polly and I went to her condo after I told Polly about it. Marlene acted as though she’d never been at the house.”
The senator’s brow became deeply furrowed, his lips pressed tightly together.
“Do you understand what this means, Dad? Aunt Marlene killed Mom.”
Simmons said nothing.
“There’s no other conclusion to come to. In her sick mind, she killed Mom so she could take her place. She’s always been jealous of Mom, always thought she was the one who should be married to you.”
“Who have you told about this, Neil, aside from Polly?”
“Phil.”
“Why did you tell him?”
“Polly wanted his advice before we did anything. He came to the hotel and met with us.”
“I’ll talk to Phil.”
“All right, but I don’t know why you’d bother. He didn’t think it was a big deal. Frankly, I don’t understand why everything has to be run past him.”
Simmons gave another look at the clock. “I have to leave. Keep this between us, Neil.
I mean that
.”
He got up, took his suit jacket from an antique clothes rack, slipped it on, glanced at himself in a full-length mirror, and walked to the door.
“Dad.”
The senator stopped. “What?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Another time, Neil.”
“Were you and Mom going to get a divorce?”
Simmons looked down at his shoe tops, then up at his son. “It really doesn’t matter anymore, does it, Neil?”
Alone, Neil stared straight ahead, his mind a blank. He’d wanted to ask his father about the material his mother had claimed to have in her possession that would be destructive to his Senate career, and to Marshalk. Had she told him? Did he realize the jeopardy he might be in—that his political career and presidential aspirations could be at stake? He wanted to tell him that he intended to resign from the Marshalk Group, and that he was sorry for the mistakes he’d made, and…
Another time, Neil.
His eyes took in the photographic history of his father’s career that filled the walls of the office, this man who, with his mother, had brought him into the world, handsome and self-assured, shrewd and successful, his smile beaming out from picture after picture, an arm around a famous celebrity, shaking hands with world leaders, ruler of his domain, Senator Lyle Simmons, potentially the next leader of the free world.
Neil closed his eyes, clenched his teeth, and felt the pressure build in his eyes and throat.
“Can I get you something, Neil?” the senator’s secretary asked from the doorway. He had to confront his father as soon as possible.
“What?” Neil said, his eyes snapping open.
“Can I get you something?”
“Oh, no, thanks,” he said, not turning to have her see the tears on his cheeks. “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”
Mac Smith and the criminal defense attorney he’d brought in to represent Jonell Marbury were wrapping up their meeting with Jonell when Rotondi called. “Mac,” he said, “I’ve got to see you.”
“Sure.” He told Rotondi who was there.
“Have him stay. I’ll be fifteen minutes.”
Rotondi arrived. He greeted Marbury and Smith, and was introduced to the attorney. He laid the envelope on the table.
“That’s the one I took to the Simmons house,” Jonell said.
“I know,” Rotondi said. “Fortunately, the police didn’t think it was important to their case. I just came from the house—I found it there.”
“This is the envelope that Rick Marshalk told you to deliver to the Simmons home?” Smith said.
“That’s it,” said Marbury.
“Did you know what was in it?” Rotondi asked Marbury.
“No,” Jonell replied.
Rotondi opened the clasp and laid out for them the six pieces of paper, which they passed around.
“I’m not sure I see the relevance of this,” Jonell said.
“I do,” said his attorney. “These papers are worthless, junk, nothing but filler.”
“Why would Rick tell me to deliver worthless documents?” Jonell asked. He didn’t have to wait for their answer because it came to him without prompting. “He sent me there to put me at the house the day she was killed.”
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?” said Smith.
“But the glass and my hair and—”
“All part of the frame-up,” Rotondi said. “Marshalk made you a patsy.”
Marbury, who’d been seated on the couch next to Smith, smiled, got up, and clapped his hands. “This proves I had nothing to do with the murder,” he proclaimed ecstatically.
“Not so fast,” said Smith. “While this looks to us like a classic frame-up, proving it is another matter.”
Marbury’s smile faded. “If you take this to the police,” he said, “surely they’ll agree.”
“I’m afraid we’ll need more than this,” Marbury’s new attorney said.
“How do we get more?” Jonell asked, his voice less exuberant than a moment ago.
Rotondi answered. “Let me talk to Neil Simmons. He’s been at Marshalk throughout this period. I don’t know how candid he’ll be, but I somehow have the impression that he’s disillusioned with Marshalk. It’s worth a shot.”
“Give it a try,” Smith said. “In the meantime, having this envelope and its worthless contents might be enough to convince the MPD to back off a little where Jonell is involved in case they decide to get more aggressive. Before we break this up, however, there’s the added question of the death of your friend Ms. Watson, Jonell.”
“Do you think her death is connected with Mrs. Simmons’s murder?” he asked.
“It might be nothing more than coincidence,” said Smith, “but maybe not. Jonell, you told me that she was leaving Marshalk because she was concerned about illegalities there.”
“That’s right.”
Mac looked at Phil. Should he bring up the material in Rotondi’s possession? He decided not to—yet.
“I’m going to try to catch up with Neil when I leave,” Rotondi said. “I’ll get back to you if it results in anything useful.”
Marbury shook Rotondi’s hand. “I know we’ve just met,” he said, “and that you don’t have any reason to be trying to help me, but I want you to know how much I appreciate it.”
Rotondi shrugged. “I spent my professional career pursuing justice, at least as I saw it. You don’t retire from that commitment. Besides, I have a stake in this, too, Jonell. Jeannette Simmons and I were close. I loved her, and I want whoever killed her to pay. Hang tough. This will all work out.”
Rotondi rode the elevator down to the lobby, where he called the cell number he had for Neil.
“Oh, hi, Phil,” Neil said.
After leaving his father’s office, Neil had taken a walk, ending up at a small neighborhood bar and restaurant that looked inviting. He’d gone in, taken a stool at the bar’s far end, and ordered a bourbon-and-water. The room was dimly lighted; soft rock music came from a speaker above his head. The barmaid ignored him after serving his drink and engaged in conversation with a couple at the other end.
“Neil,” Rotondi said, “can we get together tonight?”
“Tonight? I don’t know, Phil, I—”
“It’s important, Neil. Very important.”
“Is this about Dad?”
“I’d rather discuss it in person. Dinner? My treat?”
“I suppose so, but it will have to be a quick one. Alexandra doesn’t like me to be too late. I like to be home to help put the kids to bed and—”
“We’ll make it an early dinner, Neil. Any preference?”
“No.”
“Where are you now?”
“A bar on Capitol Hill. I needed to relax and—”
“Tell me where it is. I’ll meet you there.”
Neil looked down at the bar napkin on which the establishment’s name and address were printed and read it to Rotondi.
“I
’m nervous about the memorial service,” Neil said to Rotondi as he joined Simmons at the bar.
“They’re always tough, Neil. Emotions run high, feelings run low. Everybody’ll get through it.”
“Sometimes I can’t believe what’s happened. I mean, people get murdered in other families, not your own.”
Rotondi tasted his Scotch.
“I’m worried about Dad.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“I saw him today, just a few hours ago. He didn’t look good.”
With Rotondi enjoying another sip, he took in his surroundings. It was the sort of small, worn, nondescript place that inspired songs—Billy Strayhorn’s “Lush Life” or “Something Cool” sung by June Christy—a place to escape from whatever blows you’d been dealt that day and to put things in perspective with the help of alcohol and anonymity.
“I assume you told your dad about Marlene,” Rotondi said.
“Yes, I did. He was running off to a meeting so he didn’t really have time to talk about it.”
A group of six men and women came through the door.
“Let’s take a booth,” Rotondi suggested. “You wanted a quick dinner. Why don’t we eat here? It’s early but—”
“Sounds good,” Neil said.
The barmaid insisted upon the drinks being paid for at the bar before the men took a table, and Rotondi obliged. They chose a booth at the rear of the place, and she brought them menus.
“I’ll get to the point,” Rotondi said after they’d chosen pasta dishes and salads, which seemed safe. “You know that Jonell Marbury is under suspicion in your mother’s murder.”
Mentioning that seemed to have a physical effect on Simmons. He made a sound as though he’d been poked in the ribs, and slowly shook his head. “When I heard about Jonell, it was almost as much of a shock as when Dad called me about Mom’s death,” he said. “Jonell and I have been friends ever since he came to work for Marshalk.”
“He didn’t do it, Neil.”
“I hope not.” A second thought came to him. “How do you know?”
“I’ve been working with Jonell’s legal counsel. Somebody set him up.”
“You mean like framing him?”
“That’s another way to put it.”
“Who would do that?”
Rotondi waited a beat before answering. “Someone at the Marshalk Group.”
Again, Neil reacted physically, lowering his head and splaying his hands on the table. “That can’t be,” he said.
“Why not?”
Simmons sat back. “Why would anybody at Marshalk want to frame one of its employees? That doesn’t make any sense.”
Rotondi let enough time to pass to allow Simmons to answer his own question.
Neil faced Phil. “If that’s true,” he said, “it means that somebody at Marshalk killed Mom.”
Rotondi locked eyes with him.
“No,” Neil said. “You’re wrong. Maybe Jonell did do it. What about Camelia Watson?”
“What about her?”
“He was with her the night she died. He was having an affair with her.”
“I don’t believe that,” Rotondi said, not aware that Neil didn’t believe it, either. “Let me show you something, Neil.” He pulled the six pieces of paper from the envelope Marbury had delivered to the house and handed them to Neil.
“What’s this?”
“This is the envelope that Rick Marshalk asked Jonell to deliver to the house the day your mother was killed.”
Simmons handed them back.
“No,” Rotondi insisted, shoving them into Neil’s hands. “Look at them, Neil. They’re worthless pieces of paper. The letters are a year old. Marshalk sent Jonell to the house to establish that he was there close to the time of the murder. Why else would he have Jonell deliver worthless documents?”
Simmons gave the papers back to Rotondi, who returned them to the envelope. “I’m sorry, Phil, but it couldn’t have been somebody from Marshalk. What about Marlene? I told you what she did, believing she’s my mother.”
Rotondi decided not to debate that scenario. Instead, he said, “Neil, I wanted to talk to you because of something I’ve come to learn about the Marshalk Group—and about your father.”
“What’s that?” Simmons asked as their salads were served, along with beers.
“Did your mother discuss with you a package she’d received from someone in Chicago?”
Rotondi’s question obviously took Simmons by surprise. His eyes mirrored that surprise, as well as concern.
“I believe that she did, Neil,” Rotondi added.
“How would you know about that?”
“She told me she intended to.”
“You know about that package?”
“Yes, I do. In fact, I have it.”
“
You
have that package?”
A nod from Rotondi.
“Mom gave it to
you
?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t believe she’d do that.” He shifted his position as though to create distance between them. His level of agitation was palpable. “What was in that package?” he asked.
“Damaging material about your father and the Marshalk Group.” He didn’t wait for Simmons to respond. “Did you share with your father what your mother told you?”
Simmons’s awkward silence testified that he had.
“So he knew,” Rotondi said. “Who else knew?”
“No one.”
“What was your father’s reaction when you told him?”
The pasta arrived. Neither salad had been touched. “Is something wrong?” the barmaid asked.
“No, everything is fine,” Rotondi said. “We’ll have it with our pasta…Neil,” he went on, placing his hand on Simmons’s arm, “I want to know who killed your mother as much as you do. I don’t care how it ends up as long as there’s justice. Who else did you tell about your mother having that package?”
“No one. I told you I didn’t say anything to anybody except Dad.”
Rotondi closely observed Simmons. He didn’t buy his answer. “What was your father’s reaction?” he repeated.
Neil gathered his thoughts before replying. “He said it was nothing to worry about and that he would take care of it.”