Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [2]
McTeague laughed as he opened one of the rear doors and the senator climbed in.
“Home?” McTeague asked after he’d settled behind the wheel.
“As fast as possible. Put on the news.”
Simmons leaned back against the leather seat, closed his eyes, and took in what the WTOP radio guy said. News but no news. Nothing earth shattering, nothing directly affecting him. But he silently reminded himself that if he did seek his party’s nomination for president, everything would affect him, every niggling little incident across the nation and the world. Was it worth it? He was too tired at the moment to try answering that question.
They pulled into the long, circular driveway and came to a stop by the front door. Sensors picking up their arrival had activated a battery of halogen outdoor fixtures that bathed the front of the house in harsh white light.
“What’s the schedule for tomorrow?” McTeague asked, turning on an interior light and twisting to face the senator.
“I have to be at the Capitol by ten to seven.”
“Mind a personal comment, sir?”
“When have I ever minded a personal comment from you, Walter? Shoot.”
“You’re looking tired these days, sir. So is Mrs. Simmons. I saw her today when I delivered the dry cleaning. You and the wife ought to get away for a while. Rest up.”
Simmons smiled, leaned forward, and patted McTeague’s arm. “I’m sure Jeannette would agree with you wholeheartedly. I’ll mention it to her.”
McTeague came around, opened the rear door, and escorted Simmons up a set of wide marble steps. Simmons had given up trying to dissuade him from doing that; the former cop took his job seriously, both as driver and as protector. He was armed, his Glock nestled in a holster beneath his left armpit.
“Go on home,” Simmons said. “Best to your wife. Sorry for the early start these mornings.”
“Not a problem, Senator. You have a good night.”
Simmons watched the burly McTeague drive off. He was happy to have the man. Wealthy members of Congress, such as himself, were able to provide and pay for their own personal security and transportation. Others were on their own.
He looked up at thousands of gnats and other nocturnal insects swarming around the halogens. Constituents looking for favors, he thought. Staring directly at the lights blinded him momentarily, and he shifted his gaze to the massive set of doors leading into the house.
He drew a breath, inserted his key, and pushed open one of the doors. The marble foyer, larger than the first floor of most people’s tract houses, was dark; a chandelier at the top of a winding staircase cast a modicum of yellow light. He closed the door behind him. He didn’t bother looking at the alarm system’s keypad because he knew the alarm hadn’t been activated. Jeannette seldom had it on when she was home, especially at night.
“What good is a security system if you don’t use it?” he’d asked her repeatedly.
“Let the bogeyman in,” she had said defiantly. It was the alcohol talking, he knew. Too many alcohol-fueled words lately.
He thought he heard something. “Jeannette?”
There was no reply.
He reached for a switch that operated the foyer lights, and flipped it up. The explosion of light from wall sconces and recessed fixtures and two chandeliers came to life so suddenly that it was almost audible.
He turned to go to the kitchen at the rear of the house where, if she’d remembered, she would have put the day’s mail on a large island in the center of the room. He looked to his left. At first, it didn’t register. He narrowed his eyes to bring it into focus, then took tentative steps in its direction. He closed his eyes and rubbed them. Opened them. Another few steps, his shoes sounding unnaturally loud on the marble floor.
He said nothing as he approached the body. He stopped a few feet from it, lowered his head and bit his lip. The air-conditioning provided what seemed to be an arctic blast of frigid air.
“Jeannette?” he said softly, leaning closer. He extended