Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [119]
“Thanks, Imelda,” she told her employee after they’d emptied the van. “Drop you home?”
“No, thank you, Emma. I called my husband. He’s on his way. You go. Go on. Go home and rest.”
Emma got in her car, started the engine, closed her eyes for a moment, opened them, and pulled away. She was exhausted, physically and mentally. Engaging in pleasant chitchat with Rick Marshalk had been a chore because of what she knew about the allegations raised by Rotondi.
She turned on the radio, tuned to a classical music station, and played Beethoven’s Fifth loud, very loud, to drive those thoughts out of the car through the open windows.
Would Phil be there when she reached home?
She assumed he would, and that contemplation brought a smile to her face.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Jack Michael Albert Parish was named after his mother’s brother. That was before Uncle Jack was sent away for thirty years for aggravated assault with the intent to kill. Young Jack’s mother once confided in a neighbor and close friend—as well as their local Catholic priest, who advised that exorcism probably wouldn’t work—that her son, then fifteen years old, had inherited Uncle Jack’s genes. She’d arrived at the conclusion after Jack had been picked up by the police again for vandalism. Previous brushes with the law had involved assault on a classmate, a girl, and breaking into a local soda fountain. Jack’s father, who was fairly well connected in town, managed to negotiate with the victims and their families to drop charges in return for restitution, and none of Jack’s transgressions appeared on any police record.
He graduated from high school near the bottom of his class and worked a few menial jobs until hearing that the Washington police were actively seeking recruits in the face of rising crime in the nation’s capital. He applied, and to everyone’s surprise was accepted. He became a cop.
His twenty-year-stint on the force was not without incident. Parish was known as a hothead who too often took it upon himself to mete out his own brand of justice. He wasn’t unique within the department. There were a number of rogue cops who crossed the line, particularly with low-level drug dealers and other public nuisances, who tended to find themselves with bruises and broken bones after being confronted by Parish and those sharing his views. He’d been brought up on charges a few times, but nothing stuck. There were also rumors—and nothing more than that—that he’d killed a drug dealer during a confrontation in a deserted alley. Parish had called dispatch to report that he’d come across the body of an unidentified male. Why Parish had been in that alley raised all sorts of speculation, although there was no physical evidence to point to him as the one who’d crushed the dealer’s head. Those beat cops who worked closely with Parish over the years were convinced that he’d avoided the revolving-door justice system and rid the city of one of its less desirable citizens. Parish denied any involvement, of course, but when kidded about it by fellow officers, he’d smile his crooked smile and wink.
The truth was, Jack Michael Albert Parish enjoyed hurting people, and after twenty years on the force, his superiors were glad to see him gone.
He’d hooked up with Rick Marshalk two years ago through Senator Simmons’s driver, Walter McTeague, also a former D.C. cop. There had developed in Washington a club of sorts, its “members” retired police officers offering their services as private drivers and bodyguards. McTeague