Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [17]
“What do you want me to do, Lyle?”
“Keep Polly on an even keel while she’s here. I don’t need her using Jeannette’s death as a platform for one of her causes. Stay close to her and—”
Press Secretary Markowicz knocked, entered, and handed Simmons a sheet of paper. Simmons read it and handed it back. “Sounds fine, Pete.
“A statement from me thanking everyone who’s shown kindness and understanding,” Simmons told Rotondi, as though seeking approval.
“You say Polly’s staying at the George. What time does she get in?”
“Plane lands at Dulles a little after eleven. She always liked you, Phil. I think she’ll listen to you.”
“All right,” Rotondi said. “I’ll head over to the hotel when I leave here.”
Simmons walked him to the door, his arm over Rotondi’s shoulder. “I need you, pal. I need someone around who I can trust.” He looked down at Rotondi’s cane. “You think about that night a lot, Phil?”
“Hard not to, Lyle. Nature has a way of reminding me. If I didn’t say it last night, I’m sorry about your loss.”
Simmons grimaced. “My loss. There are so damn many euphemisms for death and dying. But thanks. I know I’ll get through this.”
As Simmons opened the door and Rotondi stepped into the reception area, Neil Simmons arrived, accompanied by two well-dressed men, one white, one black. Neil greeted Rotondi.
“I’m just leaving,” Rotondi said. “I’m going to the George to be there when Polly arrives.” He looked back at the closed door to the senator’s office. “Your father asked me to.”
The younger Simmons nodded grimly. “Makes sense. I won’t have any time, with funeral arrangements and all. The police want me to come in for questioning. I told that detective everything I knew last night, but they want more.” He, too, checked his father’s office door before saying, “Has he mentioned anything about Aunt Marlene?”
“No,” Rotondi answered, not wanting to repeat what the senator had said last night about Marlene being crazy. He looked over at the African American, who’d stepped away to let them have a private conversation. “Jonell Marbury,” Neil said. “I work with him at Marshalk.”
Annabel Smith had mentioned that one of the dinner guests that evening was a Marshalk employee. One and the same? Probably not. The Marshalk Group, Rotondi knew, was one of D.C.’s largest lobbying organizations, with more than a hundred lobbyists and support staff.
“I’ll call you after I hook up with Polly, Neil.”
“Okay. I’m sure Dad appreciates everything you’re doing, Phil. Just having you here is a great comfort to him.”
Rotondi had never stayed at the Hotel George before, although he knew people who had and who were universal in their praise. He and Emma had eaten at Bistro Bis, the hotel’s restaurant adjacent to the main building, and had enjoyed their visits. This morning, he entered the ultramodern entrance and paused in the lobby to allow the air-conditioning to wash over him. Dominating the space was a colorful Steve Kaufman portrait of George Washington, more a colorful collage against a blow-up background of a dollar bill. That Kaufman was a protégé of Andy Warhol surprised no one. At least it wasn’t a soup can, Rotondi mused. He took a comfortable chair and picked up that day’s paper. Looking back at him from the front page’s lead story was a photograph of Lyle and Jeannette Simmons. Rotondi knew that photo only too well. He’d taken it.
Rotondi and his wife, Kathleen, had spent a long weekend with Lyle and Jeannette at a Delaware beach resort. The sight of them smiling as though at peace with themselves and the world caused their friend to close his eyes against what threatened to be tears, and to open them only after the threat had passed. Two additional photos accompanied the piece: one of the