Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [117]
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Rick Marshalk, Neil Simmons, and Jack Parish were in Marshalk’s office on K Street. Marshalk sat in his red, high-backed, tufted leather office chair, which rested on a small platform, assuring that he always looked slightly down at whomever was on the other side of his oblong, tempered-glass desk.
His tone had been soft and conciliatory at the beginning of the meeting. He’d encouraged Simmons to expand on what he’d said at the National Building Museum, which Neil did in bursts, tossing out a sentence and then retreating, going to extremes to clarify what he’d said to avoid confusion on the part of Marshalk and Parish, and to avoid adding to his own confusion.
“So tell us again about Rotondi,” Marshalk said softly. “He’s your father’s best friend. Your dad has mentioned him a few times.”
“He was,” Simmons said. “Dad’s best friend. He’s not! I think that he wants to blackmail him.” Perspiration appeared on Neil’s forehead. “What I mean is, why would he be holding on to the papers and photos unless he intended to do something with them? Dad’s always trusted him. I did, too. I mean, he comes off like a nice guy and all but—”
“Go over again for me what he said to you, Neil,” Marshalk suggested, with a smile to indicate that he was only trying to be helpful.
“He said he only wants to get to the bottom of Mom’s murder. He said…”
“Go on, Neil. It’s important that I fully understand what we’re dealing with here.”
Simmons made a false start, ran his index finger across his forehead, and said, “He’s never forgiven Dad for stealing my mother from him back at school. I think Phil and my mother were lovers.”
“Back at school?”
“And after.”
“A real friend wouldn’t have done that to your dad.”
“I don’t know. I mean, I just think that…My mom was having some problems the last few years, drinking—I already told you about that—and troubles with Dad. She wanted a divorce.”
“Yes, I recall you saying that when you came to me about the package she’d received. I want you to know, Neil, how much I appreciated you coming forth with that information. As you know, we have a lot at stake here. You’re the president of this firm. You have a fine future with us. I trust I’ve made that abundantly clear over the few years that you’ve been here.”
“Of course,” Neil said, “and I hope you know how much I’ve appreciated it.”
Marshalk had listened with his hands formed into a tent, his chin resting on it. Now he lowered his palms and leaned forward, resting them on the glass surface. “I’ve been hearing rumors lately, Neil, that you might be thinking of leaving us.”
“That’s not true,” Neil said, his voice cracking. “That’s just not true.”
Marshalk went back to his original position. “So, tell me more about this Rotondi fellow. He’s married?”
“Not anymore. He has a girlfriend here in D.C. She’s a caterer, Emma Churchill. She caters all our events.”
“Of course. She’s the best in the city.” He took a business card that had been on the desk and handed it to Simmons. “Her card,” Marshalk said. “It has her home address on it. I’ve kept it in case I wanted to have a personal, private party catered by her. This Rotondi, he lives with her?”
Simmons tossed the card back on the desk in front of Parish, who sat slightly behind Neil. “Sometimes, I think. He has a house or a condo somewhere down on the Eastern Shore. He stays with her when he’s in town.”
“And he’s in town now.”
“Of course.”
Marshalk gave an understanding nod. “And you say he has the envelope that your mother received from someone in Chicago.”
“He told me about it in the restaurant tonight. Like my mom did. Horrible stuff that claims that Dad is on the take from the mob, and that we’re laundering money for the mob here at Marshalk and funneling it to Dad for his campaigns. As I told you when I came and mentioned what my mother had said, I don’t want to see us or Dad hurt in any way. That’s why I urged you