Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [32]
“Well, I’m glad you finally hooked up with a nice gal, Phil. I was getting worried about you. Is my roommate queer? I wondered.”
“Say you didn’t think that,” Rotondi said.
“Of course I didn’t. Just having some fun.” Simmons stood. “Time to hit the sack.”
“I’ve got a couple of hours with the books before I do that,” Rotondi said.
Simmons changed into pajamas and retired to the dormitory that took up the entire third floor of the house. Rotondi started to study but found his mind wandering, which bothered him. He’d meant what he’d said: Marriage was the last thing on his mind. But he couldn’t help envisioning being married to Jeannette Boynton. He fell to the floor and did a series of push-ups to clear such visions from his mind. Tomorrow’s exam took center stage, and he studied until three.
CHAPTER TEN
His cell phone rang as he was about to call a cab from Emma’s house.
“Mr. Rotondi, this is Walter McTeague.”
“Hello, Walter. How are you?”
“Just fine, sir. The senator thought you might like to be picked up. I know you’re meeting him at five.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“Where shall I pick you up, sir?”
“I’m at my—at a friend’s house in Foggy Bottom.” He gave the address, and was standing at the window when the car arrived.
“Any idea when this heat wave is supposed to break, Walter?” he asked McTeague as they headed for First and C streets.
“Maybe tomorrow, according to the radio. But frankly, Mr. Rotondi, I don’t put much faith in the forecasts.”
“Neither do I,” Rotondi said.
“We’ll be picking up the senator away from his building,” McTeague said, “out back near the entrance to underground parking. Too many press people out front.”
“Smart move. Have you heard anything new about the investigation?”
“No, sir, I haven’t.”
“You knew Mrs. Simmons,” Rotondi said.
“Oh, yes, I certainly did. A nice woman, a really good person.”
“Had you seen her lately? I mean, in the days leading up to her murder?”
McTeague maintained eye contact with Rotondi in his rearview mirror. “Yesterday, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh?”
“The senator asked me to pick up some dry cleaning and deliver it to her.”
“What time was that?”
“A little after two, I think. I’m sure the police will want to know about it. They’re questioning me tonight after I get off work.”
“You were MPD. You’ll probably know who’s doing the questioning.”
“I’m sure I will. A waste of time on their part. I would never harm that woman, not for a second.”
“Just routine.”
“I know, but it bothers me that anyone might even think I would.”
“What frame of mind was she in when you last saw her, Walter?”
“Oh, I don’t know. She was tired, that’s for sure. I suggested to the senator when I dropped him home last night that they get away for a while, take a little vacation.”
“What did he say?”
“He agreed, and said Mrs. Simmons would probably agree with me.”
“Was she depressed, as well as tired?” Rotondi asked.
“I wouldn’t know, Mr. Rotondi. I don’t know how you can tell that sort of thing about another person.”
Rotondi wanted to extend the conversation about Jeannette, but McTeague changed the subject. They parked on the street in the back of Dirksen and talked about things other than murder until Simmons, accompanied by his press aide, Peter Markowicz, joined them.
“We’re going to the house, Walter,” Simmons told McTeague.
He pulled away and joined the flow of traffic.
“Nice of the police to allow me to enter my own house,” Simmons grumbled.
“I’ve seen investigations where family members were kept away for months,” Rotondi said.
“I’m sure the press will still be camped at the front door,” Simmons said.
“I’ll handle them, Senator,” Markowicz said.
“There ought to be a law against them hounding people in a time of personal tragedy,” said the senator.
There ought to be a law against a lot of things, was Rotondi’s thought.
Simmons turned to Markowicz. “Phil Rotondi and I go back to our college days, Peter. We were roommates at Illinois.”
“I know that, Senator. It’s great that you’ve retained your