Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [3]
“Good God,” he muttered as he turned his back on it and went into a library off the foyer to his right, where he slumped behind the handsomely inlaid cherry desk. The outdoor lights poured through a window behind him. He switched on a desk lamp and stared at the phone. After drawing several deep breaths, he slowly removed the cordless unit from its cradle, dialed, and waited. He broke off, then entered another phone number. The ringing phone assaulted his ear.
“Hello?”
“Neil? It’s Dad.”
“Oh. Hi. How’d the speech go?”
“It went fine. Neil, there’s been an accident here at the house.”
“An accident? Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. It’s Mother.”
“What happened?”
“She’s—she’s dead.”
“What? Dead? How? What?”
“Get over here, Neil.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure about what? That Mother is dead? Of course I’m sure.”
“You—?”
“Yes, I confirmed it.”
“It’ll take me a few minutes. I’m in my pajamas and—”
“I don’t give a damn about pajamas. Be here!”
His second call was to his chief of staff, who’d just walked through the door of his own home. There was no talk of pajamas with Alan McBride. Simmons instructed him to summon Press Secretary Markowicz and get him rolling.
He paused before making his third call, inhaling as though sucking in much-needed oxygen. He tapped his fingers on the phone before dialing a two-number direct-dial code.
“Phil. It’s Lyle.”
“This is a pleasant surprise,” Phil said.
“But with unpleasant news. Jeannette is dead.”
“Say again.”
“It’s Jeannette. She’s dead.”
“My God, Lyle,” Rotondi said. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. She may have fallen and hit her head. There’s blood. Or someone might have bludgeoned her. I don’t know. Can you come?”
“Of course. Have you called nine-one-one?”
He paused. “Yes,” he said, fully aware that he hadn’t. “They’re on their way. Neil has been notified, and some of my staff. I need a friend, Phil.”
“I’m leaving now.”
Simmons returned to the foyer and cast a quick, sideways glance at his wife’s body. He stepped outside and called 911. “This is Senator Lyle Simmons. I’m calling from my home.” He gave the address. “My wife has died.”
“Have you checked for vital signs?” the dispatcher asked.
“Yes. There’s no sign of life.”
“Do you know the cause of her death?”
“No. She’s on the floor of our foyer. There’s blood around her head. She might have fallen, or—or she’s the victim of a homicide.”
“I’m dispatching police and medical personnel immediately, sir. Please don’t disturb anything at the scene and—”
Simmons disconnected the call. He returned inside, went into a powder room off the foyer, and checked his appearance in the mirror. Satisfied, he went outside again and awaited everyone’s arrival.
CHAPTER TWO
Markowicz’s arrival coincided with police and medical vehicles, six of the former, two of the latter, sirens wailing, lights flashing, tossing a garish red-white-and-blue kaleidoscope into the heavy, sullen night air. The official vehicles parked in the circular driveway, engines running; so did the press secretary’s. Two officers jumped out and took up positions at either end to keep the uninvited from pulling in behind them. Two other uniformed officers were first up the steps to where Simmons stood, followed by white-coated EMTs.
“Where is she?” an officer asked.
“In there,” Simmons said, nodding toward the door.
“It’s the senator,” one of the emergency medical technicians said to his partner, as though he’d spotted a rock star.
“I can’t believe this,” Markowicz said on reaching his boss.
“I know.”
“I heard the call on my car monitor,” Markowicz said. “The press will be here any minute.”
“I’ll need to make a statement,” said Simmons.
“Negative, Senator. No one will expect a statement from you so soon.”
“Still, come up with something.”
A short, slender Asian American man approached; he was wearing a lightweight green suit, dark green shirt, and unfashionably narrow lighter green tie. “Senator Simmons?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Chang, MPD.