Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [106]
“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.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“What’s this all about?” Polly asked as a taxi took them to the house.
“The police have focused in on someone in your mom’s murder,” he replied, leaning close to her ear to avoid being overheard by the driver. “Maybe you heard on TV when the cops announced that they had a break in the case.”
“I don’t watch TV.”
“Have you heard of Mackensie Smith?”
“No.”
“He’s a former top defense lawyer who’s helping this person. They’re friends. I’ve recently met him at Smith’s house.”
“Who is this person,” she asked, “this break in the case?”
“I’ll tell you about it later. For now, let’s just say that he didn’t kill your mother, or anyone else for that matter, and I’m trying to help Smith prove that. The envelope I’m looking for—”
“With purple writing.”
“Right. It might prove useful in establishing his innocence.”
“How?”
Rotondi grinned. She had a question for everything, accepted nothing at face value, like a good trial attorney.
“I don’t know,” he said, “but I’m curious to see what the envelope contained. This fellow delivered it to the house the afternoon of the murder.”
“It was for my mother?”
“No, your father.”
“From the Senate?”
“No, from the Marshalk Group.”
“Neil sent it?”
“No, his boss, Rick Marshalk. This man—all right, his name is Jonell Marbury—he works for Marshalk.”
“You’re sure he didn’t do it, Phil?”
His attention was diverted as the driver turned a corner into the street on which the house was located.
“Go up the driveway,” Rotondi instructed. “That one over there.”
“Should we have him wait?” Polly asked.
“No. We’ll call another. Got your key?” Rotondi asked as the driver drove off.
“Yup.”
She unlocked the door, and they stepped into the foyer.
“I feel like I was just here,” she said.
“You were,” he said.
He entered the library off the foyer and snapped on the overhead lights.
“What a mess,” Polly said, referring to the piles of material stacked on the hardwood floor.
“Your dad’s never going to win the Senate’s annual award for neatness,” Rotondi said. He went to the pile nearest the desk, took the chair, and started pulling things from that stack. He’d reasoned that if the envelope was still there, chances were that it wouldn’t be buried deep. Jeannette had probably tossed it on top of one of the piles. In the five days since the murder, Lyle had spent very little time at the house, making only brief stops to pick up clothes to take to the suite at the Willard that had become his second home.
His hunch was right.
Polly stood over him. “There it is,” she said.
SENATOR SIMMONS in bold purple strokes was on the sixth item he picked up.
Rotondi looked up at her, nodded, and turned the envelope over. The flap had not been sealed by its glued surface. Only the small metal clasp secured it. He opened it, reached inside, and withdrew six pieces of paper.
“What are they?” Polly asked.
“I’m about to find out.”
The first three papers were on the Marshalk Group’s letterhead. He scanned their contents, laid them on the desk, and examined the remaining three. They were virtually blank except for some scribbling that didn’t seem to make any sense. He retrieved the three letters and looked at them more closely this time. “Hmmm,” he said.
“What?”
“Look at the