Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [73]
“Sure. I don’t suppose you’re willing to share the information Mrs. Simmons gave you.”
“Not yet. I’d rather keep it locked up until I get a better handle on things.”
Smith waved over a taxi, and Rotondi got in. “Thanks for lunch,” he said.
“My pleasure, Phil. Stay in touch. I mean that.”
Rotondi gave him a thumbs-up as the cab sped away.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Detectives Crimley, Chang, and Widletz sat in Crimley’s office going over test results of forensic materials collected at the Simmons house that had just been delivered.
“It’s an African American hair,” Crimley said. “No doubt about that.”
“The handyman, Schultz, said he saw a black man arrive at the house as he was leaving.”
“But no ID,” Widletz said. “Drove an expensive sedan, light-colored, white or gray.”
“What’s the foul-up with the prints?” Crimley growled.
“A computer problem,” Chang offered. “They’re working on it. There is something I wish to mention.”
“Go ahead, Charlie.”
“The glass in question. When I went back to the house, I looked at other glasses in the kitchen cabinets.”
“Uh-huh?”
“The glass found on the counter doesn’t match the glasses in the cabinets. There was water in the one on the countertop. Other glasses in the cabinets that might be used for water are different.”
Crimley laughed. “So what?” he said. “You should see the glasses in my house. None of them match. You end up getting glasses from different places, different sources, giveaways, freebies, a glass that comes with a bottle of booze.”
“All the other water glasses in the cabinets match,” Chang said.
“What do you make of that, Charlie?” Widletz asked.
“I haven’t come to a conclusion,” Chang said.
“All your glasses match at home?” Crimley asked Chang. “No, forget I said that. I’m sure they do.” He glanced at Widletz, who returned his smile. “When does the lab think they’ll fix the computer?”
“Later today,” Widletz provided.
“Maybe we’ll get lucky. In the meantime, check out BMW and Lexus dealerships in the District. See if they can document the sale of a light-colored vehicle to a tall, dark African American man, well dressed according to Mr. Schultz.”
“Might as well try Audi dealers, too,” Widletz said, her tone indicating she considered the order a waste of time.
“Sure,” said Crimley. “Audi, too.”
A uniformed officer stuck his head in. “That bum, Lemon, wants to talk to you, Morris.”
“It’s Lemón,” Crimley said. “Like he says, he’s no fruit. What’s he want to talk about?”
“Maybe he wants to confess.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Crimley said. “Have him brought up to one of the interrogation rooms. Let me know when he’s there.” He said to Chang and Widletz, “Start checking out the dealerships. I’ll let you know if anything comes of my chat with Mr. Lemón.”
Lemón was in the interrogation room with a uniformed officer when Crimley arrived.
“I understand you want to talk to me,” Crimley said.
“Yes, sir, that’s right. I certainly do.”
“You’re entitled to have an attorney present.”
“I don’t need no lawyer.”
“Suit yourself. What’s on your mind?”
“I lied to you last time.”
Crimley glanced up at the officer. “Get a tape recorder in here.” He turned to Lemón. “I just want to get everything on the record, Mr. Lemón. Sure you don’t want an attorney present?”
“Nah.”
A few minutes later, a tape recorder was rolling. Crimley sat across from the vagrant. “Okay, the floor is yours,” Crimley said. “What did you lie about—how the woman, Mrs. Simmons, died?”
Lemón vigorously shook his head. “I don’t know nothing about that.”
Crimley’s enthusiasm waned. “So?” he said.
“You know what I said about losing my hammer?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I lied about that. I never owned no hammer.”
“Why did you say that you did?”
“’Cause I stole it. It wasn’t mine.”
“You stole it?”
He hung his head. “Yup.”
“You took it from the workman at the house where the woman was killed. Right?”
A solemn