Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [4]
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