Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [102]
“Is there such a thing, and why would it matter?”
“If there was such a thing—and I’m not saying there is—and somebody wanted to make sure that the information never became public, anyone in possession of it would be at risk.”
“All right,” Crimley said. “Who was in possession of it?”
“I didn’t say that such material existed, Morrie. Strictly hypothetical.”
“Right. And there’s no such thing as global warming. Come on, Phil, level with me. Do you know that the sort of material you mention—hypothetically, of course—was in the possession of someone connected with the Simmons murder, and maybe the Watson death?”
“I’m working on nailing it down,” Rotondi replied. “When I do, you’ll be the first to know. Thanks for the time, Morrie.”
Crimley walked him to the lobby. “Man,” he said, “you are really in pain, aren’t you?”
“Some days are worse than others. This is not one of the better ones.”
“Mind a word of advice, Phil?”
“Shoot.”
“Withholding evidence is a serious crime.”
“That it is.”
“It’s nothing you don’t already know, but sometimes we lose sight of things—exceed our ego boundaries, as the shrinks like to say.”
Rotondi nodded.
“If you have the sort of material you mentioned, don’t sit on it, Phil. Your friendship with the senator ain’t worth it. I’d hate to be the one who has to haul you in.”
Rotondi smiled. “I promise I’ll spare you that pleasure, Morrie.”
• • •
Neil Simmons’s encounter with his aunt Marlene had unnerved him. He sat in his car in front of the house and tried to bring his breathing under control. He felt like a bug in a swimming pool about to be sucked into the skimmer. He kept looking back at the house, hoping she wouldn’t come through the door. He’d seen Marlene act out strange fantasies before, but nothing like this. She’d obviously gone off the deep end. She was totally mad. The last time she’d been hospitalized, she’d slipped into a deep depression; it took powerful medications to bring her out of it. This time, depression would have been welcome.
The relationship between Marlene and her sister had never been good. Marlene’s mental problems contributed to that unfortunate situation, although Neil also knew that his father’s reaction to it exacerbated the tension between the sisters. Senator Simmons had little patience with Marlene’s antics, and avoided any personal interaction whenever possible. His answer was to shell out whatever money it took to fence her off from Jeannette and the family, happy to pay for her condo and car and daily living expenses, as well as whatever out-of-pocket costs her hospital stays incurred. Jeannette, on the other hand, frequently reached out to her sister behind her husband’s back. But on occasion, even she became exasperated and verbally lashed out at Marlene. Dysfunctional was the word that came to Neil’s mind.
When he felt he was sufficiently calmed to drive safely, he started the engine and pulled away, not sure where he would go next. He checked his watch. He was due at his father’s office at noon. It was eleven. He pulled off the road and called Polly on his cell phone. This time, she answered.
“Polly, it’s Neil.”
“Hi.”
“I have to see you.”
“Why? Is something wrong?”
“Yes. I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Neil, what’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there.”
Polly had come down to the lobby to wait for him. He burst through the hotel’s entrance and approached her; she put down her magazine.
“Are you okay?” she asked, aware of his agitated state.
“Let’s go to your room.”
Once there, he said, “Have you spoken to Marlene recently?”
She thought for a moment. “I called her yesterday.”
“Was she—what I mean is, was she okay? Sane?”
His comment brought forth an involuntary laugh from Polly. “Yeah, she sounded sane. Why?”
“I just came from the house. She was up in Mom and Dad’s bedroom, sitting at Mom’s dressing table putting on makeup. She had on Mom’s favorite dressing gown. Christ, she thinks she is Mom!”
“That’s ridiculous, Neil.”
“No, it’s not. I was there. I saw it. Do you know what