Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [108]
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