Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [97]
“Taint my opinion? I can’t find the words to tell you how tainted I am.”
“Well,” Rotondi said, “I’m glad you know everything, my history with Lyle and Jeannette, the package Jeannette received, all of it.”
“And you believe that the material you have is connected in some way with her murder?”
“I don’t know for certain, Emma, but I think it is. I have to run.”
He got up from his chair, grabbed his cane from where it leaned against the chair’s arm, and started for the stairs leading up to the bedrooms.
“Phil.”
He turned. “What, babe?”
“I love you. I’ve never loved you more.”
• • •
Neil Simmons stopped by his office before going to his father’s house to pick up the papers he’d been asked to collect. Camelia Watson’s death had cast the expected pall over the workplace. He muttered responses to comments about it, closed the door to his office, and sat heavily behind his desk. He’d made a list of things to be accomplished concerning his mother’s memorial service. He saw that there were still a number of loose ends to be resolved. He called Polly at the Hotel George but received only the hotel’s message service. He didn’t bother leaving one.
He realized as he looked out his window over Washington, D.C., that he’d become unraveled. He seemed incapable of making even the most minor of decisions. His father was fond of saying, “Any decision is better than no decision. At least you have a fifty-fifty chance of being right.” Good advice, except that when you were paralyzed, any chance of being wrong was anathema.
He was immersed in his fog when a knock snapped him to attention. Rick Marshalk opened the door and said, “Got a minute?”
“Sure, Rick. Come on in.”
Marshalk, dressed in white shirt, wide floral tie, and suspenders, took a chair across the desk. “Man,” he said, “when will it stop?”
“What? Oh, the rain?”
“No, not the rain. What’s been happening around here. First your mother, now Camelia.”
“It’s terrible news,” Simmons said.
“You’ve got that right. But wait’ll you hear this next bit of terrible news, Neil.”
Simmons stared blankly.
Marshalk came forward in the chair. “Catch this. The police think Jonell might have killed your mom.”
Simmons gasped and swallowed wrong, causing a coughing spasm. He got it under control and said, “That can’t be.”
“Hey, you’re preaching to the choir, Neil, and I’ll do everything in my power to help Jonell get through this.”
“Why do they think that?” Neil asked.
“The rumor is that they found some forensic evidence at your mom’s house that belongs to Jonell—a fingerprint, I think, maybe more.” He slid even closer to the desk. “And I’m afraid there’s speculation that Jonell might have had something to do with Camelia’s fall.”
Simmons kept shaking his head back and forth, as though motion would dispel what he’d just heard.
“I know, I know,” Marshalk said, standing. “Just thought you’d want to know. He drove her home last night, and we all know he and Camelia were getting it on.”
“I don’t think that’s true, Rick.”
“Well, no matter. I just thought you’d want to know. Just remember one thing, Neil. Jonell is innocent until proven guilty. That’s one of the most important safeguards we have in this great country of ours. How are plans coming for the memorial service?”
“I’m, ah—I’m working at it. I’ll be gone most of the day handling last-minute details.”
“Take all the time you need. Family rules, Neil. Family trumps. Ciao.”
Neil watched the door close and slumped in his chair. Jonell a murderer? Jonell his mother’s killer? Jonell responsible for Camelia’s fall from her balcony?
“It can’t be,” he said aloud. “It can’t be.”
He turned on a small TV in his office and watched the news. A report on his mother’s murder mentioned only that an anonymous source in the police department said there had been significant progress in the case. No mention of Jonell. Where did Marshalk hear it?
He clicked off the TV and went to Jonell’s office, where his secretary sat glumly.
“I just heard,” Neil said.
She burst into tears. “It can’t be true,” she said through them.
“Have you