Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [112]
He stopped at a corner when a particularly sharp pain shot up his leg and caused him to grunt in protest. He waved down a taxi and gave the driver Emma’s address in Foggy Bottom.
“Hi,” she said as he came through the door. Homer got to his feet and wagged his tail.
“Hello,” Rotondi said, dropping into a cushioned chair.
“How was your day?”
“Okay. You have a gig tonight?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Can you believe—another Marshalk party.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“A reception for a couple of congressmen and their fat-cat supporters.” She disappeared upstairs, returning minutes later with freshly applied makeup. “Sorry to run out, Philip, but duty calls.”
“Where’s the bash?”
“National Building Museum. One of my favorite venues. Cocktails and dinner. I’ll be late. Don’t wait up. There’s a killer lasagna in the freezer and a Caesar salad in the fridge.” She kissed the top of his head and was out the door.
He went upstairs, opened a closet door, and rummaged through a succession of shoe boxes on the floor until coming up with the envelope he’d been given by Jeannette Simmons. He returned downstairs and took the envelope to his car, where he did what Jeannette had done: He hid it in the trunk beneath a pile of things he thought he might need on the road one day, and that he hadn’t used since putting them there. He returned to the house and the chair and used the remote to turn on the TV. A rerun of Law & Order, one of his favorite shows, had just started. He watched a few minutes before leaning his head back and falling asleep.
He’d dozed through the first commercial break, and would have continued sleeping had his cell phone not sounded.
“Phil, it’s Lyle.”
“Oh, hi.”
“You sound sleepy.”
“I conked out. A power nap as they say.”
“I need to see you tonight.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“Does there have to be an occasion, Phil? I need your counsel.”
Rotondi’s antenna went up. He’d learned over the years that when Lyle claimed to need “his counsel,” it more than likely meant a large favor.
“Sure,” Rotondi said.
“I have a fund-raiser in an hour, a quickie, a drink and out of there. Come to the hotel. I’ll be back by nine. We’ll order up.”
“Okay, Lyle.”
While Rotondi watched the end of Law & Order, the senator returned to where Neil waited in the bedroom. “He’s coming here at nine,” Simmons said. “I appreciate you bringing me this information.”
“You can’t trust him, Dad. He’s not the friend you think he is.”
Simmons said nothing.
“He’ll blackmail you, Dad. He’s got that material and he’ll hold it over your head.”
“I’ll take care of it, Neil.”
“I’m glad I found out that he had it.”
“Yes, that was good, son. Good job. I have to leave now.”
“I have to go, too. Rick is hosting a fund-raiser. I need to stop by.”
“You go on then,” said the senator. “I’ll be in touch with you in the morning.”
Father and son left the Willard together. The senator got into the Mercedes driven by Walter McTeague, and Neil hailed a cab to take him to the National Building Museum where Emma Churchill’s catering staff was receiving last-minute instructions from her, the “battle plan” for the evening the basis of her comments.
“Good to see you again, Emma,” Rick Marshalk said after she’d dispersed her crew.
“Hello, Mr. Marshalk. Always a pleasure catering one of your events.”
“If you’re going to throw a party, always go with the best,” he said, flashing a wide white smile and patting her back.
She watched him head to where a contingent of men and women were arriving. The group included a familiar face to Emma from watching C-SPAN’s gavel-to-gavel coverage of the House of Representatives, a veteran congressman from California who’d recently been the target of a well-covered investigation into campaign finance irregularities. Marshalk warmly greeted the congressman and his