Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [113]
Lobbyists who exploited loopholes in ever-changing campaign finance laws—lawmakers seemed to leave such loopholes in every piece of legislation—certainly were nothing new. They’d been snidely known for years in Washington as “the fourth branch of government,” so pervasive was their influence on lawmakers and the laws they passed. Much of it was unsavory and cynical, politicians’ unquenchable thirst for money creating conflicts between big-money interests and sound public policy.
But if what Phil had said was valid, the Marshalk Group made other controversial lobbying firms look like bastions of morality and pristine ethical conduct. They’d become a sophisticated money-laundering conduit between organized crime in Chicago—and undoubtedly other places—and Senator Simmons. Were other politicians the beneficiaries of the mob’s largesse? she wondered. A more chilling question was whether someone at the Marshalk Group, aware that Jeannette Simmons had possessed the sort of information that could destroy them, had ruthlessly silenced her.
And would they do the same to whomever else held the power to bring them, and Lyle Simmons, to their knees?
Someone like Philip Rotondi.
Since he’d shared the information with Emma, she hadn’t taken the time to appreciate the danger he might be in. Of course, she rationalized, it wasn’t established definitively that the Marshalk Group had been behind the murder of Jeannette Simmons.
But someone had.
Jonell Marbury had been framed via a glass with his prints that matched the glassware she used in her catering business; an African American hair belonging to Jonell; and his being at the scene that afternoon to deliver an envelope. Nicely packaged forensic evidence but, as Phil had pointed out, all easily choreographed to point a finger elsewhere.
Am I feeding food and drink to murderers?
She forced that grim contemplation out of her mind and got busy helping her staff serve the increasingly large crowd. She was checking with one of her bartenders when she saw Neil Simmons come through the door. He headed directly for the bar and ordered a white wine. Emma had met him half a dozen times, fleeting occasions, and wondered whether he would recognize her. He didn’t. He accepted the glass from the bartender and walked toward Rick Marshalk, who was entertaining a group of people with a story that had them laughing. Marshalk spotted Simmons and waved him into the conversation. Emma continued to observe. While everyone else laughed as Marshalk continued with his humorous tale, Simmons stood quietly, a stony expression on his face. Emma sauntered in their direction. But when the punch line had obviously been delivered—the laughter erupted then faded away—Marshalk and Simmons left the knot of happy people and headed for an unoccupied, dimly lit corner of the vast party room. Emma considered for a moment trailing behind them and getting close enough to eavesdrop. But she scotched that notion. She was a caterer, not a private eye. She went in the opposite direction and contented herself with standing where the piano-and-bass duo wove popular melodies as background for the guests. As she allowed the soothing sounds of their playing to wash over her, she saw another man heading toward the corner where Marshalk and Simmons had gone. She remembered him from a previous party; he’d been introduced as the Marshalk Group’s chief of security, a name like Parish, she thought, a former MPD officer.
“We’re running low on shrimp,” one of the catering staff said to Emma.
“Can’t have that happen,” she said. “I have more in the kitchen. Come with me.”
Had Emma stayed where she’d been, she would have seen Marshalk, Simmons, and Parish leave their secluded corner and head for the door. Simmons and Parish continued through it while Marshalk said something to a senior lobbyist