Free Murder on K Street by Margaret Truman Page B

he asked.
    There were many, the answers to almost all of them satisfactory to the Betzcon questioners.
    Dishes and glasses were cleared as the meeting was about to break up. There had been discussion about the fee Betzcon would pay to the Marshalk Group—forty-five thousand dollars a month—as well as contributions Betzcon was urged to make to some of the dozen nonprofit groups established by Marshalk, through which funds for “our friends on the Hill” could be dispersed. In addition, Betzcon’s executives had agreed to pay fifteen thousand a month to a public relations firm recommended by Marshalk—and in which he was a silent partner.
    “I would suggest that you make a donation to the fund we’ve established to find Mrs. Simmons’s murderer,” Marshalk told Betzcon’s VP as they gravitated toward the door. “We’re offering it through one of our affiliates, the Center for American Justice. Senator Simmons—he chairs HELP—will surely show his appreciation when we let him know of your generosity in helping find and convict his lovely wife’s killer. We’ve offered fifty thou. If you could come up with half, it would be a welcome and much-appreciated goodwill gesture.”
    “We can do that.”
    “Great,” Marshalk said, slapping him on the back. “I’m really excited about working with you to keep Congress on the right track.
Ciao
, my friend. And don’t forget the golf trip to California. That’s coming up in a couple of months. Senator Simmons has committed to joining us. This tragedy might change that, but I’m assuming he’ll be ready for some R-and-R once the murderer is found and things get back to normal. Sorry Neil couldn’t be with us today. I’ll fill him in on everything.”
    With the Betzcon executives gone, Marshalk’s administrative assistant dispatched back to headquarters, and the catering staff busy packing up in the kitchen, Marshalk sat with his colleagues in the living room. He punched the palm of one hand with the fist of the other. “Damn, that went well. Let’s step up the pressure on those HELP committee pols.” He said to his security chief, “Get me some inside info from the MPD that I can pass on to Simmons. I want to be his best source of information on the planet. Got it?”
    Jack Parish stood, stretched, yawned, and said, “I’ll see what I can do.” The man with the crooked mouth left the room, his exit from the house heralded by the tinkling of a bell attached to the front door.
     
     
     

CHAPTER   EIGHT
     
     
    T hat afternoon, a group of MPD detectives gathered in a large, scarred room at police headquarters on Indiana Avenue, Charles Chang among them. Morris Crimley led the meeting. Behind him was a blackboard. Earlier that day, a female officer had written notes on the board pertaining to the Jeannette Simmons case. Working from a yellow legal pad containing Crimley’s handwritten comments, she was chosen for the task because of her neat penmanship. Besides, she was the only one on the Simmons task force who could decipher Crimley’s scribbles. Her future at MPD was bright.
    One section of the board contained the names of every possible suspect in the murder. In this early stage of the investigation, no one was excluded—for any reason. Senator Lyle Simmons led the list, followed by his son, Neil; daughter, Polly; Jeannette Simmons’s sister, Marlene; the housekeeper, Gina; the senator’s driver, Walter McTeague; some of the Simmonses’ neighbors; a handyman who often did work at the house; a slightly demented homeless man who’d found a space beneath a small bridge a few blocks from the house to his liking (he’d been picked up early that morning and was being held on a vagrancy charge to make sure he stayed around); and a dozen others, none of whom was a viable suspect but all of whom had had some connection, however tangential, with the deceased.
    Another section of the blackboard contained a summation of forensic evidence that had been