Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [16]
“I expected to see that phone catch fire in your hand,” he said.
There was an eruption of rings again. “The senator’s in a meeting. He should be back in a few minutes,” she said. “Urrggh! The press! I’m canceling my Post subscription and cable TV.”
Rotondi watched as she went back to handling calls. A succession of people, primarily young, passed through the outer office, moving with conviction and purpose. He’d always been interested in the allure of working for a member of Congress or other government bigwig. Rubbing shoulders on a daily basis with Washington’s power brokers was obviously an aphrodisiac to the many young men and women who flocked to Washington in search of reflected importance. Rotondi had known plenty of them during his career, and decided early on that he preferred orgasms of the old-fashioned variety. His disdain for politics hadn’t helped him advance in the Baltimore prosecutor’s office, and he didn’t care. His passion was going head-to-head with the best defense lawyers in the area, and successfully putting most bad guys behind bars. Philip Rotondi’s conviction rate was the highest in the history of the Violent Crimes Section of the Baltimore U.S. attorney’s office.
He picked up that day’s copy of Roll Call, the publication covering congressional news—Monday through Thursday when Congress was in session, Monday only otherwise—and was into an article on the backstage machinations behind a contentious bit of legislation when Simmons burst through the door, followed by Press Secretary Markowicz, Chief of Staff Alan McBride, and three other staffers. Simmons stopped and said to Rotondi, “Philip, good to see you. Give me ten minutes. We need to talk.”
Ten minutes later, Rotondi had finished the article he was reading. Simmons’s personal secretary opened the door to his private office and motioned for Rotondi to come in. Simmons was in shirtsleeves and on the phone, his feet up on his immense, custom-crafted teak desk. The walls were filled with autographed photographs of him with a Who’s Who of political heavyweights, top business leaders, and Hollywood, sports, and television celebrities. He motioned for Rotondi to sit, and ended the conversation he was having with “I’ll be damned if I’ll let that amendment sneak its way into the bill. Got that? Good!” He slammed down the receiver, withdrew his feet from the desk, and asked his secretary to leave. When she had, he asked, “What do you hear, Phil?”
“Nothing you haven’t heard, Lyle. The investigation is barely twelve hours old. I stopped in to see my friend Morrie Crimley at MPD. He says the detective you mentioned, Charlie Chang, is good, a real stickler for details.”
“I want him off the case.”
“That’s not your call.”
“Don’t count on it. I want back in my house. They tell me maybe this afternoon.”
“That’d be good. Are funeral plans under way?”
“I suppose so. I’m leaving that up to McBride and Neil. Polly’s due in today. I wanted her to stay with Neil, but he’s got her at the Hotel George. I suppose that wife of his put the kibosh on Polly staying there. I never will understand what Neil saw in her.”
Rotondi suppressed a smile. This was vintage Lyle Simmons, blustery in one situation, buttery smooth and conciliatory in others. It often occurred to Rotondi that he should be flattered that one of the Senate’s most powerful members, and a potential future president, would be so open and candid with him, a mark of how close they were. But each time that notion crossed his mind, he reminded himself of Jonathan Swift’s characterization of flattery, terming it “the food of fools.” That his former college roommate was now a national leader meant nothing to him. They were friends, that was all, two men with wildly different views of most things, but with a bond born of time and shared experiences.
And there was Jeannette.
“Look, Phil, I’ve got my hands full with Senate business.” Simmons sensed