Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [21]
His answer was to pull her closer. He said nothing, allowing this outpouring of pain to run its course.
“I’m sorry,” she said once the tears had subsided. Rotondi pulled a tissue from a small pack in his jacket pocket and handed it to her.
“I guess now that I’m here in D.C.,” she said, “the reality has set in. Is there anything new? Have they found Mom’s killer? Do they have leads? Anything?”
“It’s too early in the investigation, Polly. I’ve been in touch with the police and they’ve promised to keep me informed. When was the last time you spoke to your mother?”
“Just yesterday.” She shuddered. “The day she was murdered. In the afternoon, about four.”
“Did everything seem all right? Normal?”
“Uh-huh. She…”
Rotondi waited.
“She sounded like she’d been drinking.” Polly turned to Rotondi. “She had that problem, you know, Phil. I mean, not always, just the last couple of years. Don’t misunderstand. Not falling-down drunk or anything like that. But I could always tell when I called.”
Rotondi’s silent nod said that he wasn’t hearing anything he didn’t already know.
“She’s been so unhappy,” Polly said.
“Do you know why?” he asked, already knowing but wanting her input.
“Everything. Getting older, I guess. She’s been so disappointed in him.”
“Disappointed in whom?”
“Dad, of course.” She said it with a fleeting smile. “And Neil, too, for that matter.”
“Disappointed in what?”
“What they’ve done with their lives.”
“I’d say they’ve done quite well with their lives,” Rotondi said. He got up and approached the minibar. “Like something, Polly? Soft drink, something stronger? Bloody Mary?”
“Bloody Mary mix, no booze.”
“You’ve got it.”
“I know what you mean,” she said as she unlaced her sneakers and kicked them off. “Dad’s a United States senator, a really big guy, huh? Neil’s a lobbyist. Tell me, Phil, what does either of them do to make this a better world?”
“Well,” he said as he handed her the drink—he poured one for himself from a can of lemonade—“your father has been behind some important legislation over the years that has made a difference in some people’s lives.”
“And how many deals did he have to cut to get that legislation through?” she asked angrily. “How many bad bills did he have to sign on to get what he wanted?”
“That’s politics, Polly,” said Rotondi, pulling up a chair on the opposite side of a glass coffee table. “Compromise and negotiation. In its purest sense, it’s—”
“Purest sense?” she said. “Come on, Phil, you know there’s nothing pure about politics. My mother really respected you, maybe even envied Kathleen for having you as a husband. You did what you wanted on your own terms, no compromise, no negotiation, just honor.”
“You give me too much credit, Polly. There’s been plenty of compromise in my life.”
She ignored what he’d said. Instead, she said, “Look at Neil. All you have to do is pick up any newspaper on any day and read about the lobbying scandals, the payoffs to politicians, the fancy junkets, the sleaze. I don’t think Neil ever wanted to take that job with Marshalk, Phil. It was Daddy who pushed him into it because it would help feather his own nest on Capitol Hill.” She paused, head raised, index finger to her lips as though a sudden thought had come to her. “When Neil was a little boy, he wanted to be a garbageman.” She laughed.
“Did he?”
“Yeah. Looks like he got his wish.”
Rotondi let it go and sipped his lemonade. “Mind a bit of a history lesson, Polly, about lobbyists?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Lobbying—in its purest sense—I know, there’s the purity thing again, but many things start out pure and get corrupted along the way. Back when Ulysses S. Grant was president, he’d stroll over from the White House, sit in the lobby of the Willard hotel, enjoy a brandy and a cigar, and—”
“And be approached by men who wanted something from him,” Polly said. “Grant called them lobbyists because they hung around the lobby waiting for him. Neil told me that when he took the job at Marshalk. I think he was trying to justify what