Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [109]
Marbury shook Rotondi’s hand. “I know we’ve just met,” he said, “and that you don’t have any reason to be trying to help me, but I want you to know how much I appreciate it.”
Rotondi shrugged. “I spent my professional career pursuing justice, at least as I saw it. You don’t retire from that commitment. Besides, I have a stake in this, too, Jonell. Jeannette Simmons and I were close. I loved her, and I want whoever killed her to pay. Hang tough. This will all work out.”
Rotondi rode the elevator down to the lobby, where he called the cell number he had for Neil.
“Oh, hi, Phil,” Neil said.
After leaving his father’s office, Neil had taken a walk, ending up at a small neighborhood bar and restaurant that looked inviting. He’d gone in, taken a stool at the bar’s far end, and ordered a bourbon-and-water. The room was dimly lighted; soft rock music came from a speaker above his head. The barmaid ignored him after serving his drink and engaged in conversation with a couple at the other end.
“Neil,” Rotondi said, “can we get together tonight?”
“Tonight? I don’t know, Phil, I—”
“It’s important, Neil. Very important.”
“Is this about Dad?”
“I’d rather discuss it in person. Dinner? My treat?”
“I suppose so, but it will have to be a quick one. Alexandra doesn’t like me to be too late. I like to be home to help put the kids to bed and—”
“We’ll make it an early dinner, Neil. Any preference?”
“No.”
“Where are you now?”
“A bar on Capitol Hill. I needed to relax and—”
“Tell me where it is. I’ll meet you there.”
Neil looked down at the bar napkin on which the establishment’s name and address were printed and read it to Rotondi.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“I’m nervous about the memorial service,” Neil said to Rotondi as he joined Simmons at the bar.
“They’re always tough, Neil. Emotions run high, feelings run low. Everybody’ll get through it.”
“Sometimes I can’t believe what’s happened. I mean, people get murdered in other families, not your own.”
Rotondi tasted his Scotch.
“I’m worried about Dad.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“I saw him today, just a few hours ago. He didn’t look good.”
With Rotondi enjoying another sip, he took in his surroundings. It was the sort of small, worn, nondescript place that inspired songs—Billy Strayhorn’s “Lush Life” or “Something Cool” sung by June Christy—a place to escape from whatever blows you’d been dealt that day and to put things in perspective with the help of alcohol and anonymity.
“I assume you told your dad about Marlene,” Rotondi said.
“Yes, I did. He was running off to a meeting so he didn’t really have time to talk about it.”
A group of six men and women came through the door.
“Let’s take a booth,” Rotondi suggested. “You wanted a quick dinner. Why don’t we eat here? It’s early but—”
“Sounds good,” Neil said.
The barmaid insisted upon the drinks being paid for at the bar before the men took a table, and Rotondi obliged. They chose a booth at the rear of the place, and she brought them menus.
“I’ll get to the point,” Rotondi said after they’d chosen pasta dishes and salads, which seemed safe. “You know that Jonell Marbury is under suspicion in your mother’s murder.”
Mentioning that seemed to have a physical effect on Simmons. He made a sound as though he’d been poked in the ribs, and slowly shook his head. “When I heard about Jonell, it was almost as much of a shock as when Dad called me about Mom’s death,” he said. “Jonell and I have been friends ever since he came to work for Marshalk.”
“He didn’t do it, Neil.”
“I hope not.” A second thought came to him. “How do you know?”
“I’ve been working with Jonell’s legal counsel. Somebody set him up.”
“You mean like framing him?”
“That’s another way to put it.”
“Who would do that?”
Rotondi waited a beat before answering. “Someone at the Marshalk Group.”
Again, Neil reacted physically, lowering his head and splaying his hands on the table. “That can’t be,” he said.
“Why not?”
Simmons sat back. “Why would anybody at Marshalk want to frame one of its employees? That doesn’t make any