Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [39]
“Come on, Phil, ’fess up,” a colleague yelled from across the table. “You use some kind of superman drugs, right?” His comment caused others to laugh, and to follow up with the same accusation. Rotondi was the star player on a once-a-week recreational basketball team that pitted prosecutors against defense lawyers. His intensity on the court matched his concentration in the courtroom, and although some joked about how seriously he took the games, few failed to appreciate his talent, on the court and off.
“All right, all right,” Rotondi said, standing and holding up his hands for silence. “I admit it. I’ve been taking steroids every morning with my granola. But even if I hadn’t, I’d still outplay all of you clowns.”
Kathleen looked up him and beamed. He’d started the evening stiff and reserved, but the drinks, and the outpouring of goodwill from everyone in attendance, had loosened him up. He was thoroughly enjoying himself.
Over dessert, Rotondi was roasted. It became raunchy as the evening wore on, but it was all in good fun, and the room roiled with laughter, Phil and Kathleen leading the charge.
Farewells took forever. Everyone wanted to shake Phil’s hand on the way out of the restaurant, and hug him, tell him how sorely he’d be missed, and warn Kathleen that having a retired husband was a recipe for marital disaster, wishing him many happy years of leisure and warning him to drive home safely lest he end up with a DUI and sully the department’s reputation.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Phil told them. “I’ve got the Jensen case on the docket tomorrow. My retirement doesn’t kick in for another month.”
“Know what I’d love?” he told Kathleen after everyone was gone and they stood alone on the sidewalk in front of Caesar’s Den.
“What’s that?”
“A cigarette. Can you imagine that? I’ve never smoked in my life but I have this urge to puff on a cigarette.”
“Well, get over it, my dear,” she said.
“Maybe you’d be willing to substitute another vice when we get home,” he suggested.
She gave forth with a wicked laugh. “I’ve been planning that all evening,” she said. “Come on. I parked around the corner.” She’d dropped him off at the office that morning and driven to the courthouse for her appearance.
He put his arm around her and held tight as they walked down the street, their gait a little rocky from all the wine, their spirits equally as intoxicated. They turned the corner, waited for passing traffic to clear, crossed, and proceeded down a deserted, dimly lit street.
“It’s down there,” she said, indicating the cream-colored Toyota Camry parked at the end of the block. When they’d almost reached it, Kathleen pulled keys from her purse. “You okay to drive?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
They were within a few feet of the car when a man’s voice said, “Hey, Rotondi!”
Phil and Kathleen turned in the direction of the voice, which came from behind a tree. Its owner stepped out of the shadows. “Hey, Rotondi,” he repeated. “Remember me?”
Phil ignored him and moved Kathleen closer to the car.
“You bastard!” the man said.
“Look, fella, I suggest that—” Rotondi said.
The man moved quickly to cut off their path to the Toyota. Now the handgun he wielded was visible.
Rotondi squinted to better see his face.
“You put me away six years ago, Rotondi. Remember? Paulie Sims?”
“Get in the car,” Rotondi said to Kathleen. He said to the gunman, “Yeah, I remember you, Paulie. What the hell do you think you’re doing with the gun? Put it down before you end up in bigger trouble.”
“You and your cop buddies planted that evidence on me and used it to put me away.”
“The hell we did,” Rotondi said. “You did the crime and you did the time. Now wise up