Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [33]
“He was second-team All Big Ten. Basketball.”
“That I didn’t know,” the press secretary said. “You didn’t try for the pros?”
“No,” Rotondi responded. “I was good enough to make the team at Illinois. The NBA was beyond any ability I had. Besides, it didn’t interest me.”
Simmons sighed, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. He opened them and said to Rotondi, “God, that was a long time ago, Phil, wasn’t it? You knew Jeannette before I did. You introduced me to her.”
Don’t go there, Rotondi thought.
“When was the last time you saw her?” Simmons asked.
“A month or so ago. When she came down to the shore for a long weekend. We had dinner.”
“That’s right, you did. She needed a break. She’d been acting, well, strange, under the gun, unhappy. She seemed a little happier when she came home. She needed to get away, touch base with her girlfriends there.”
“It was good seeing her,” Rotondi said, glad that they’d reached the house.
“There they are,” Markowicz said, referring to the press corps still camped on the road. As they pulled into the long driveway, they saw that a few reporters were also sitting on the front steps of the house.
“What the hell are they doing there?” Simmons demanded as McTeague came to a stop halfway up the drive.
“I’ll handle them,” Markowicz said, getting out of the car and sprinting toward the reporters.
“What’s that other car?” Simmons asked, pointing to a green four-door sedan parked near the front.
“Looks like an unmarked police vehicle to me,” Rotondi offered.
Markowicz herded the reporters away from the front door and back to where their colleagues waited on the road, then waved for McTeague to continue. Simmons and Rotondi got out of the Mercedes and walked to the front door. Simmons tried it. It swung open. “They didn’t even bother to lock it,” he complained as he stepped inside, followed by Rotondi. The air-conditioning was going full-blast; the foyer felt like a walk-in meat locker. The house was still, the only sound the whoosh of air coming from vents in the ceiling. Rotondi closed the door and waited for his friend of many years to make the next move.
“She was right there,” Simmons said, pointing to the faint chalk outline of Jeannette’s body. Whoever had tried to remove it from the floor hadn’t done a good job. “Right there,” Simmons repeated. “It was horrible, Phil.” They’d done a better job of cleaning up Jeannette’s blood; all that remained was a shadow.
Rotondi thought of what Crimley had told him about Detective Chang’s reaction to the senator’s appearance the night of the murder, neat as a pin, very much together, no sign that he’d tried to revive his wife or even touched her to determine if she was dead or alive. Rotondi stepped closer to the outline and tried to process what he was seeing, and what might have happened. She’d been struck in the back of the head, meaning she’d been moving away from her assailant. Running away? Walking away to fetch something for the attacker? There hadn’t been any sign of a break-in. Chances were she knew whoever killed her and had willingly allowed him or her into the house.
“They haven’t found the murder weapon?” Rotondi asked.
“Not as far as I know,” Simmons replied. He stepped into the library and stood in the middle of the room. No lights were on, and the shades were drawn. Rotondi observed him from the foyer. It was as though his friend of many years had entered some sort of hallowed sanctuary, a sacred place where a voice from above might provide answers to his questions. Rotondi said nothing, did not interrupt whatever Simmons was thinking at that moment.
Both men turned suddenly at the sound of voices from upstairs.
“Who’s here?” Simmons asked, returning to the foyer and standing at the foot of the stairs. “Who’s up there?” he said in a louder voice. There was no reply. He started up, stopped, and looked back down at Rotondi. “Coming?”
“Go ahead,” Rotondi said. “I’ll be along.”
Simmons disappeared at a turn in the elaborate staircase. Rotondi ascended slowly, favoring his leg and using