Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [121]
Up until that point, she’d thought only of fighting him off. Now reason replaced valor. She forced herself to relax, which prompted him to loosen his grip. He placed the muzzle of his weapon against her temple, slid off, and turned her onto her back.
“What do you want?” she managed, fighting to inject calm into her voice. “You want money. You can have it. Just don’t hurt me.”
“I don’t want your money,” he said. “Your boyfriend has something I need. He’s got an envelope that he shouldn’t have. You tell me where it is and I go on my way. You don’t—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
He slapped the side of the automatic against her face, cutting her cheek.
“Where is Rotondi?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
He threatened to strike her again.
“I don’t know where he went tonight. I swear it. And I don’t know about any envelope.”
The weapon’s barrel was pushed into her temple again. She squeezed her eyes shut in anticipation of having her brains blown out. As she did, the sound of a car door being slammed shut in front of the house reached them.
“Sounds like your boyfriend’s home,” Parish said.
Emma looked up into Parish’s face. His mouth was a slash, a cruel smile that at the moment was more frightening to her than the gun.
Parish got up, the weapon still pointed at her. “Come on,” he said. “Time to greet your honey.”
Emma slowly pulled herself to a sitting position. She touched her cheek and observed the blood on her fingertips.
“Don’t hurt him,” she said, standing unsteadily.
He came around behind her and again jabbed the gun into her temple. “Let’s go downstairs,” he said. “It’s showtime.”
• • •
Rotondi walked up the driveway toward the rear of the house. He saw Emma’s car and was pleased she was home. He had a lot to tell her.
• • •
The extended time spent with Lyle Simmons in his suite at the Willard had been a roller coaster of emotions and debate. It was as though Simmons had crashed against a wall that he’d always previously managed to circumvent. Over steak dinners delivered to the room, he and Rotondi talked of many things, of their years in college, the situation with Jeannette, Rotondi’s steadfast determination to go his own way, Kathleen Rotondi’s tragic slaying, Polly’s estrangement from her father, and Neil’s meandering adult life. Simmons ricocheted from one extreme to the other. He was, at times, maudlin and filled with remorse about certain aspects of his personal life. Then, without warning or smooth transition, he became belligerent and critical of Rotondi’s life choices, of his rigidity and deep convictions. Rotondi did little talking. His role was as it often was when alone with Simmons—foil, audience, superego.
There came a time when Rotondi brought the dialogue around to Jeannette’s murder.
“Marshalk arranged for her killing, Lyle, and framed Jonell Marbury,” he said bluntly.
“I don’t know this Marbury fellow,” Simmons retorted, “and I have serious trouble believing that anyone at the Marshalk Group would have murdered Jeannette.” When Rotondi started to follow up, Simmons said, “But if what you say is true, whoever was behind it should pay.”
“What about Neil?” Rotondi asked.
“Are you suggesting that he was a part of it?”
“No, I’m not, Lyle, but he is the president of the firm. It will impact him, too.”
“And you intend to take that information Jeannette got from Chicago, including those disgusting photos, to the police?”
“I’ve thought a lot about that, Lyle. I don’t see how the photos are relevant to the murder case, unless they provide a motive for you to have had Jeannette killed. I don’t believe that you did.”
“Then I’d like you to give me those photos, Phil.”
Rotondi didn’t commit.
“Neil thinks you intend to blackmail me about them, along with the other accusations about Marshalk funneling dirty money into my campaigns.”
“Neil is wrong.”
“Then give the pictures to me. I think I can ride out the laundering charges. Hell, I don’t know where most of my campaign money comes from. I leave that to other