Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [34]
She said, “Hi.”
“What are you doing here?” were her father’s next words.
Rotondi was startled at Simmons’s tone. That’s no way to talk to your daughter, he thought as he reached the second-floor landing and looked into the master bedroom, where Simmons stood with Polly. Behind them was an Asian American in a tan suit, white shirt, and skinny blue tie.
“This is Detective Chang,” Polly said pleasantly.
“I know who he is,” Simmons barked. “I ask you again, what the hell do you want? I was told your investigation here is over.”
“The investigation will be over when we find the person who killed your wife,” Chang said flatly.
“The detective was here when I arrived,” Polly said. “We’ve been having a nice chat.” She looked past her father. “Hello, Philip.”
Simmons closed the gap and reached out to hug his daughter. She allowed him to kiss her cheek, but avoided a clinch. “How are you?” he asked, sounding as though it was the only thing he could think of saying.
She adopted a cheery, singsong voice. “Oh, as good as can be expected for someone whose mother has been murdered. How are you, Daddy?”
Simmons ignored her and turned to Chang. “Would you please give me the courtesy of spending time with my daughter? Alone? We haven’t seen each other in quite a while.”
“So I understand,” said Chang.
Simmons glared at Polly, who turned her back to him and crossed the room to a nightstand on which small framed photographs stood. She picked one up and examined it, put it down and chose another. Rotondi couldn’t tell whether she was sincerely interested in the pictures or simply busying herself to avoid conversing with her father.
Simmons told Detective Chang, “I’m asking you again, Detective, to leave this house.”
“Of course, sir,” the short, slight detective said. He approached the bedroom door where Rotondi stood. “Excuse me,” he said. Rotondi stepped aside to allow him through, but he turned and said to Simmons, “One thing, sir. I would like to arrange for us to sit down together at your earliest convenience. When might that be?”
“Call my office and arrange a time and place.”
“I will be happy to do that,” said Chang. “Oh, one more thing, sir.”
“Yes?”
“I spoke with your son this afternoon, Mr. Neil Simmons.”
“So I heard.”
“He indicates that your marriage might not have been—how shall I say it?—had not been especially happy. Is that true?”
Simmons glared at him.
“We can discuss that, and other things, when we meet,” Chang said. He nodded at Rotondi—almost a slight bow—and went down the stairs, pausing in the foyer to bend over the faded chalk outline of Jeannette Simmons’s body and examine the wall next to it. Simmons and Rotondi watched until he finally closed the front door behind him.
They turned to face Polly, who had come to the door to listen.
“He’s nice,” she said.
“What did you talk to him about?” Simmons demanded.
“A few things. Don’t worry, Daddy, I didn’t tell any tales out of school.”
“You heard what Neil told him?” Simmons said.
“Poor Neil. He’s in for it now.”
Simmons pulled his cell phone from his pocket.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Polly said.
Simmons stopped punching in Neil’s cell phone number. “What’s true?”
“That you and Mom didn’t have what you’d call a happy marriage.”
“This is neither the time nor the place to be having this discussion, Polly.”
“What is a good time, Daddy, the Senate floor where you can orate about family values and the sanctity of marriage? God, how hypocritical!”
Rotondi thought that Simmons might lash out physically at his daughter, and prepared to head it off.
“Don’t you have any sense of what’s appropriate, Polly. My wife, your mother, has been killed and—”
She spun around, entered the bedroom, and slammed the door.
“Go on downstairs,” Rotondi told Simmons. “I’ll join you there in a minute.”
Rotondi went into the bedroom, where Polly sat crying on the edge of the bed. He handed her his handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes and gave it back. “You understand, don’t you, Phil?