Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [86]
“Maybe he’s not lying.”
“He says he was never inside the Simmons house, but his prints on a glass, and his hair in a bathroom, say otherwise. Forensics don’t lie. People do.”
“Some people. I’ll go back and tell him to let you swab his mouth for DNA. After we leave, Morrie, you can always reach him through me as his attorney.”
“Good to see you again, Mac Smith. I thought you’d packed in your law practice to teach a whole new gang of defense attorneys over at GW. What brings you out of retirement?”
“Jonell Marbury is a friend.”
“He’s lucky. Okay. He submits to a DNA sample, and he walks out of here with you. His lady is out front. We’ll want to talk to him again.”
“Of course.”
A swab from Marbury’s cheek was taken, and Smith escorted him to where Marla waited. After she and Jonell embraced, and she’d wiped tears from her face, they left headquarters and went to Smith’s car.
“We can’t thank you enough,” Marla said to Smith.
“Happy I could help,” Mac said. “Now let’s go to my apartment where you can tell me everything, Jonell—and I mean everything.”
• • •
Rotondi caught a few updates on Camelia Watson’s death from TV news, but there wasn’t much additional to report. As he was about to call for a taxi to take him to Reagan National Airport, Rick Marshalk’s face appeared on the TV screen, interviewed by a reporter.
“Camelia’s death is a true tragedy for all of us at the Marshalk Group,” Marshalk said solemnly. “She was an outstanding young woman with a great future.”
The reporter said, “The police are saying that it’s an apparent suicide. Did you see signs of despondency in her recently?”
“Unfortunately, I did. Of course, you never think that someone who appears to be depressed will take his or her own life this way. But yes, she’d been depressed lately. I asked her about it and offered to help, but she said she was fine. All I know is that we will miss her greatly.”
Another story followed.
Rotondi made his call and went to the kitchen to take pain pills before heading for the airport. He pulled a glass from a cabinet, filled it with water, and downed the capsules. He placed the half-empty glass in the sink and started to walk away. But he stopped, returned, and retrieved the glass. Everything in Emma’s home kitchen came from her catering business—glasses, silverware, plates, cups and saucers, pots and pans, table mats, carving knives, serving spoons, toothpicks, and wooden skewers, all nontaxable perks. He held the glass up to the light coming through a window and frowned as he ran his fingertips over the surface, tracing the almost indiscernible indentations on it. He didn’t know why, but that particular water glass had meaning to him at that moment.
He continued to ponder it until he heard a blowing horn from outside. He placed the glass back in the sink, grabbed his overnight bag, roughed up Homer’s coat and kissed him on the snout, and left.
• • •
“Aren’t you going to work?” Alexandra Simmons said to her husband, Neil, that morning. It was ten o’clock and he was still in nightclothes.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to. I can’t believe this has happened—first Mom, now Camelia. I just want to crawl under the covers and stay there.”
“You were with her last night. Did she seem suicidal to you?”
“No. She was never suicidal. I mean, I didn’t stay long at the party, just long enough to make an appearance. She seemed fine.”
“You never can tell about people,” said Alex. “Remember that woman, Jacqueline, from up the street? She was the happiest person you could ever want to meet until she ran a hose from the exhaust of her car into it. You just never can tell.”
He sat glumly at the table.
“What did Rick say when he called?”
“What?”
“Rick,” she snapped. “You never listen to me. I asked what Rick said when he called with the news.”
“Oh, sorry. Rick said that he’d been noticing for a while now that Camelia was depressed. He said he was worried and even talked to a friend of his, a psychiatrist, about her. He was sure I’d noticed the