Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [122]
There he was, Rotondi thought, playing the politician to the hilt. As long as there was someone else to blame, politicians could always feign ignorance and faulty recall to get off the hook. Sadly, there was never a shortage of lackeys willing to take the rap to protect their superiors, good soldiers with skewed senses of duty.
“I intend to go to the police in the morning,” Rotondi said, “and lay out for them what I believe. I may need that envelope and what’s in it to help make my point.”
Simmons finished his drink, patted his mouth with a napkin, got up from the table, and walked to the door. “You do whatever you think you have to, Phil. Not that you need my permission. I just ask that you remember how much we’ve meant to each other over the years.”
Rotondi left, his mind filled with nothing but.
• • •
He reached the end of the rear of Emma’s house and turned in the direction of the kitchen door.
“Homer?” he said. The dog sat on the steps wagging his tail at seeing his master.
“What are you doing out here?”
Emma’s car was there. She was home. She never would have let Homer out without having him on a leash. Rotondi was adamant about that, obsessive when it came to protecting Homer from harm.
What was going on?
A long wire lead used to tie Homer outside was attached to a tree ten feet from the door. Rotondi quickly clipped the dog’s collar to the lead and returned to the driveway, this time staying close to the house as he moved toward the street. He stopped. A pretty fabric shade Emma had purchased just that week was raised a few inches off the sill. Rotondi peered through the opening into the living room. At first, he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Emma was standing in a corner of the room. With her was a man—holding a gun to her head. Rotondi blinked to clear his eyes. He looked again. He wasn’t seeing things.
He backed away from the window, went behind one of the trees that lined the driveway, and dialed 911: “There’s a woman being held at gunpoint in a house in Foggy Bottom.” He gave the address. The 911 operator tried to ask for additional information, but Rotondi had clicked the phone closed. He opened it again, dialed Emma’s home number, and returned to the window, the phone to his ear.
He could see from his vantage point that Emma said something to the man holding her hostage. He couldn’t tell what she was saying but assumed it had to do with the ringing phone. The man with the weapon shoved Emma across the room, and she fell on the couch. Rotondi ducked away as the man came to the window and lifted the shade. Rotondi was inches from his face. Parish’s eyes darted back and forth before he allowed the shade to fall again. Rotondi raised his head at the distant sound of a siren. He moved as quickly as his lame leg would allow to the street and was standing there when the marked squad car came to a screeching halt. Two uniformed officers jumped out, leaving their doors open.
“What’s going on?” one of them asked Rotondi.
He gave the officer a fifteen-second précis.
“Who’s the woman?” the cop asked.
“My fiancée,” Rotondi said, a word he’d not used before when describing Emma. “I’m going in,” he added as two more cars arrived, each occupied by a pair of officers.
Rotondi didn’t wait for a response. As the cops fanned out around the house, Rotondi went to the rear door, opened it, and stepped into the kitchen. “Hey,” he shouted, moving to the doorway to the living room. Emma cowered on the couch while Parish stood over her, the gun pointed at her head.
“I don’t know who you are,” Rotondi said, “but the house is surrounded. There are cops everywhere. Drop the gun and—”
Parish’s face mirrored his genuine puzzlement. He lowered the gun. Rotondi reacted instantly. He lunged at Parish, his cane extended in front of him to shorten the distance between them. The point of the cane caught Parish in the eye and sent him sprawling on top of Emma on the couch. Rotondi closed the gap between them and