Murder on K Street by Margaret Truman Page B

sign that he’d tried to revive his wife or even touched her to determine if she was dead or alive. Rotondi stepped closer to the outline and tried to process what he was seeing, and what might have happened. She’d been struck in the back of the head, meaning she’d been moving away from her assailant. Running away? Walking away to fetch something for the attacker? There hadn’t been any sign of a break-in. Chances were she knew whoever killed her and had willingly allowed him or her into the house.
    “They haven’t found the murder weapon?” Rotondi asked.
    “Not as far as I know,” Simmons replied. He stepped into the library and stood in the middle of the room. No lights were on, and the shades were drawn. Rotondi observed him from the foyer. It was as though his friend of many years had entered some sort of hallowed sanctuary, a sacred place where a voice from above might provide answers to his questions. Rotondi said nothing, did not interrupt whatever Simmons was thinking at that moment.
    Both men turned suddenly at the sound of voices from upstairs.
    “Who’s here?” Simmons asked, returning to the foyer and standing at the foot of the stairs. “Who’s up there?” he said in a louder voice. There was no reply. He started up, stopped, and looked back down at Rotondi. “Coming?”
    “Go ahead,” Rotondi said. “I’ll be along.”
    Simmons disappeared at a turn in the elaborate staircase. Rotondi ascended slowly, favoring his leg and using the banister to help pull him up. He was almost to the top when he heard Simmons say, “Polly!”
    She said, “Hi.”
    “What are you doing here?” were her father’s next words.
    Rotondi was startled at Simmons’s tone.
That’s no way to talk to your daughter
, he thought as he reached the second-floor landing and looked into the master bedroom, where Simmons stood with Polly. Behind them was an Asian American in a tan suit, white shirt, and skinny blue tie.
    “This is Detective Chang,” Polly said pleasantly.
    “I know who he is,” Simmons barked. “I ask you again, what the hell do you want? I was told your investigation here is over.”
    “The investigation will be over when we find the person who killed your wife,” Chang said flatly.
    “The detective was here when I arrived,” Polly said. “We’ve been having a nice chat.” She looked past her father. “Hello, Philip.”
    Simmons closed the gap and reached out to hug his daughter. She allowed him to kiss her cheek, but avoided a clinch. “How are you?” he asked, sounding as though it was the only thing he could think of saying.
    She adopted a cheery, singsong voice. “Oh, as good as can be expected for someone whose mother has been murdered. How are you, Daddy?”
    Simmons ignored her and turned to Chang. “Would you please give me the courtesy of spending time with my daughter? Alone? We haven’t seen each other in quite a while.”
    “So I understand,” said Chang.
    Simmons glared at Polly, who turned her back to him and crossed the room to a nightstand on which small framed photographs stood. She picked one up and examined it, put it down and chose another. Rotondi couldn’t tell whether she was sincerely interested in the pictures or simply busying herself to avoid conversing with her father.
    Simmons told Detective Chang, “I’m asking you again, Detective, to leave this house.”
    “Of course, sir,” the short, slight detective said. He approached the bedroom door where Rotondi stood. “Excuse me,” he said. Rotondi stepped aside to allow him through, but he turned and said to Simmons, “One thing, sir. I would like to arrange for us to sit down together at your earliest convenience. When might that be?”
    “Call my office and arrange a time and place.”
    “I will be happy to do that,” said Chang. “Oh, one more thing, sir.”
    “Yes?”
    “I spoke with your son this afternoon, Mr. Neil Simmons.”
    “So I heard.”
    “He indicates that your marriage might