Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [99]
The woman turned. “Neil, darling,” she said in an exaggerated southern drawl. “How wonderful to see you.”
Marlene Boynton now turned to face him. She was heavily made up, her lips oversize with a heavy application of bloodred lipstick.
“What are you doing here?” Neil asked weakly.
“Why, ahm getting made up, silly. A woman has to look her best at all times, don’t you agree?”
Neil was aware that he’d allowed his mouth to hang open, and he closed it. He shifted from foot to foot and cleared his throat several times in anticipation of speaking, but said nothing.
“Don’t just stand there like that, Neil. Come in and give me a hug, a great big hug.”
“This is—I thought—this is Mom’s room and dressing table. Why are you sitting there using her makeup and…?”
She stood and turned slightly to admire her body in a full-length mirror next to the dressing table. She wore one of Jeannette’s favorite dressing gowns over her clothing, pink silk with a small, darker pink lace collar.
“Have you spoken with your father today?” she asked, slowly crossing the room in his direction.
“I think you should leave, Aunt Marlene,” he said, trying to force conviction into his voice.
“I thought I’d wait until your daddy came home. I always like to look good for him. Or…do you think I’m sexy?”
He backed to the head of the stairs and almost stepped off the landing. He grabbed the banister and righted himself. She continued to stand in the bedroom doorway, smiling, a hand on her hip.
He ran down the stairs, glancing back a few times. He reached the foyer and started for the door. But he realized that he’d carried his father’s briefcase upstairs with him and had dropped it to the floor outside the bedroom. He ascended the stairs as fast as possible. The briefcase was a few feet from Marlene. He reached for it as though going after something from a very dangerous place, grabbed it, took a final look at her, bounded downstairs, and stumbled out the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“I’m here to see Detective Crimley,” Rotondi told the desk officer.
“Is he expecting you?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
Rotondi gave him what passed for a grin. The officer frowned. “You are—?”
“Phil Rotondi.”
The uniform placed a call. “He’s in a meeting, but he wants you to wait. He’ll be free in fifteen minutes.”
“Thanks,” Rotondi said, limping to a wooden bench and picking up a dog-eared copy of People that had been discarded there.
• • •
Morris Crimley was conferring with the Simmons case task force, which now consisted of six detectives, including detectives Chang and Widletz.
“The presumptive blood test on the hammer Mr. Lemón stole from in front of the Simmons house came up negative,” Crimley announced.
“He wants a reward,” Widletz said through a chuckle.
“A reward for what?” Crimley asked.
“For showing us where he dumped the hammer. He thinks he’s solved the murder.”
“I suggest that we wait until more definitive tests are done on the hammer before releasing him,” Chang proffered.
Crimley’s shrug was noncommittal. He drummed his fingers on photographs of evidence on his desk. “Let’s talk about Marbury,” he said. “What bothers me is why he lied about being in the house. I mean, if he’d said Mrs. Simmons had invited him inside for a drink of water, or to use the bathroom, it would make sense. But—”
“It’s possible that someone is framing him, Morrie,” said Widletz.
“You sound like a defense attorney,” Crimley growled. “Go over again for me what they said at Marshalk.”
Chang, who with Widletz had interviewed employees at the Marshalk Group, consulted his notes. “Mr. Marshalk claims that he encouraged Mr. Marbury to come forward to the authorities about having been at the residence the day of the murder. He further stated that Mr. Marbury and the deceased, Ms. Watson,