Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [114]
“Are you sure, Neil?” Marshalk asked Simmons after a few minutes of conversation dominated by Simmons.
“I’m sure.”
Marshalk motioned for his driver to pull to where they stood. The driver opened a rear door of the stretch limo and Marshalk, Simmons, and Parish got in.
“The office,” Marshalk instructed the driver.
“I don’t want to cause trouble,” Simmons said. “I just want to—”
Marshalk gave his president, the son of Senator Lyle Simmons, a reassuring pat on the knee. “Don’t worry about a thing, Neil,” he said. “We’ll go back where we can be comfortable and talk privately. Everything will work out just fine, Neil. Trust me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Rotondi stayed at Emma’s house until quarter of nine, when he called a cab to take him to the Willard. He’d noticed earlier that Homer was limping again, and questioned whether he should find an emergency vet service open at that hour. He decided it wasn’t necessary. Tomorrow would do. He massaged the dog’s hindquarters, which resulted in a lot of licking of Rotondi’s hands and face. He washed up, gave Homer his usual cheery good-bye, and climbed into the taxi.
After Lyle’s call, Rotondi had had second thoughts about agreeing to meet with him. According to Neil, he’d discussed with his father the Chicago documents and photographs that Jeannette had received. That meant that the senator was well aware of the threat to him and to the Marshalk Group from the Chicago AG’s office, and from whomever had the copy that had ended up in Jeannette’s possession.
Kala Whitson had told Rotondi that political pressure had put a tight lid on what the informer had delivered to the Chicago AG. Did Lyle know that? Had that pressure come from Simmons himself, or from someone working on his behalf?
These sorts of political machinations were anathema to Rotondi. He’d seen plenty of them in the Baltimore office, although nothing to rival this situation. He’d realized shortly after becoming an assistant attorney general that he would never progress very high up the ladder of responsibility and status. One of his earliest cases had been shelved because of politics. The target was a city official with strong ties to the sitting administration in Washington. Rotondi had the goods on him, an especially strong case that would have been, to use a now familiar bit of slang, a slam dunk. But the case was dropped at the last minute, allegedly because his boss decided there wasn’t enough credible evidence to go forward. When Rotondi confronted him about the decision, he was given a lecture on political reality and the need to work as a team. Following that conversation, Rotondi was assigned only to criminal cases that did not include political overtones, which was fine with him.
Politics was for politicians.
For the Lyle Simmonses of the world.
But as the time to leave for the Willard grew closer, Rotondi’s attitude changed. He was now anxious to lay out on the table for Simmons what he knew, and how he knew it. While he was not out to derail his friend’s political future, he wouldn’t let that stand in the way of getting at the truth about Jeannette’s murder. If the envelope secreted in the trunk of his car held the answer, so be it. Chips could fall where they may.
Lyle Simmons was waiting in the suite when Rotondi arrived. He’d been sitting in a red-and-gold wing chair by the window. A glass of whiskey rested on a small table. The senator had rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt and discarded his tie. He’d removed his shoes; a hole in the sock on his right foot allowed the end of his big toe to poke through, unusual for someone as fastidious about his appearance as the senior senator from Illinois.
“Grab a drink at the bar,” Simmons told Rotondi. “There’s a room-service menu there, too. Order something for both of us. I don’t care what it is.”
Rotondi got the drink but ignored the menu. He took a matching chair across from Simmons.