Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [85]
“That’s ridiculous,” Marbury protested. “He…wait a minute. He disappeared from the lobby before I left.”
“Uh-huh,” Crimley muttered.
“He left through a door behind the desk,” Marbury added.
“Right,” said Crimley.
Marbury looked from detective to detective, his expression a melding of concern and pleading. “I don’t believe this,” he said, growing smaller in the chair as though air had been released from his body. “Camelia dead? You think I was in the house when Mrs. Simmons was killed. This is a nightmare.”
“Care to change anything you’ve said so far, Mr. Marbury?” Crimley asked.
Marbury didn’t reply.
“The DNA,” Chang said. “We will be able to get a court order if you do not cooperate.”
“Of course I’ll cooperate,” said Marbury. “I have nothing to hide.”
Crimley was summoned from the room. When he returned, he announced that questioning would stop. Marbury’s lawyer had called.
“Who?” Marbury asked.
“You travel in good company,” Crimley said. “Mackensie Smith says he’s representing you. He’s on his way.” Crimley motioned for Chang and Widletz to follow him from the room. “Relax, Mr. Marbury. We’ll be back once your attorney arrives.”
Smith and Marla Coleman showed up twenty minutes later. She was told to wait in the reception area while Smith was brought to the interrogation room.
“I can’t believe what’s happening to me,” Marbury told him. “They say I was in the Simmons house the day she was murdered. That’s not true, Mac. And I just learned that Camelia Watson died last night. They think I might have had something to do with it.”
Smith, who was about to leave his apartment for a tennis game when a frantic Marla called, had changed into a blue blazer, white shirt, slacks, and tie. Marbury started to elaborate on the situation but Smith stopped him, glancing up at the two-way glass. “Not here,” he said. “Have they charged you with anything specific?” he asked.
“No. They said something about impeding an investigation because I didn’t freely tell them that I’d been at the house delivering an envelope. I meant to do that this morning.”
“Okay, Jonell,” Smith said, standing. “Let me go talk with them.”
He found Crimley just outside the room.
“Microphone’s turned off, Counselor,” the detective said.
“I wouldn’t expect any less,” Smith said. “Where can we talk?”
They settled in Crimley’s office.
“What’ve you got?” Smith asked the barrel-chested detective.
“Plenty. We’ve got his print off a glass in the kitchen of the Simmons residence, but he says he’s never been inside the house. He was there late afternoon the day she was killed but doesn’t bother to tell us that little fact until we pick him up. He says his boss, Rick Marshalk, told him to not come to the police with that information, but Marshalk says otherwise, says he encouraged him to do it.
“We’ve got a hair from the downstairs bathroom, African American hair. He says he’ll be happy to give us a DNA sample. Wanna bet he matches up with it?
“And last night, a lady he drives home from a party falls, or jumps, or is pushed off her eighth-floor balcony. Some folks from that party say that he and the deceased were pretty cozy. His girlfriend storms out of the party because he’s paying too much attention to the deceased, and the doorman at her building claims he didn’t see your client leave that night. Of course, your client claims the doorman disappeared conveniently just as he was walking out.
“I’d say we’ve got plenty of reason to hold him, wouldn’t you, Counselor?”
Smith smiled. “I’d say you have reason to consider him a person of interest, Morrie, but hold him? No. He’s a respected member of the community, used to work for a congresswoman, now a lobbyist. If he agrees to provide a DNA sample, it’s all right with me. But the questioning stops unless you charge him with something.”
“How about double homicide?”
Smith’s smile vanished. “I’ve always appreciated cops’ sense of humor. I saw the TV reports this morning of the woman who fell from her apartment. From what I heard, it looks like a suicide.”
“Could be. I just find it interesting that your