Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [40]
Sims raised the weapon and pointed it at Rotondi’s head. Rotondi growled at Kathleen, “Get in the car, Kathleen.”
She didn’t move.
He turned to Sims. “You’ve got a beef with me, Paulie, fair enough, but this is my wife. She had nothing to do with your case, so let her get in the car. You and I can talk this out.” Rotondi extended his hand. “Give me the gun, Paulie. Give it to me!”
The tranquil silence of the side road exploded with gunshots, one after the other, a staccato barrage of bullets, the smoke and smell of cordite drifting up into the still night air. The pop-pop-pop of the gun was replaced by an anguished scream from Kathleen and a tortured groan from Rotondi as pain pulsated through his leg, causing it to collapse beneath him. He hit the sidewalk face-first, breaking his nose and taking the skin off his cheek. He twisted his head to see their assailant run out of sight. Rotondi turned in Kathleen’s direction. She was sprawled on the sidewalk six feet from him, on her back, legs akimbo, hands crossed defensively over her face.
“Kathleen,” Phil said. He tried to stand but his one leg was useless. He crawled toward her, a hand outstretched, saying her name over and over. He hauled himself on top of her body and pushed her hands away from her face. “Kathleen, say something. Say something, damn it!”
No words came, nor would they ever come from her again.
• • •
“…and so I spent two months in rehab for my leg,” Rotondi told those gathered in Mac and Annabel Smith’s apartment. “They arrested the punk the next morning. He’s doing life without parole. My sentence? They almost had to take the leg off, but the surgeons were great.”
Mac and Annabel knew about Rotondi’s wife but respected his decision to leave out that part of the story.
Emma squeezed Rotondi’s hand. His telling of the tale never failed to send chills through her, and to make her nauseous.
“What a horrible thing to go through,” Marla said.
“Yeah, but it’s history.” Rotondi turned to Annabel: “Hey, when’s dinner, sweetheart? I’m starving.”
As they enjoyed their dinner, a violent thunderstorm roared into the city. Blinding shafts of lightning were like strobe lights outside the glass doors to the terrace, and sharp cracks of thunder caused them to start. It was over as quickly as it had arrived.
“Maybe it’ll break the heat wave,” Emma commented.
Mac went to the sliding glass doors and opened them. “Heavenly,” he announced. “It must have dropped ten, fifteen degrees.”
The key lime pie was a hit, along with cups of cappuccino Mac brewed in the kitchen. He offered after-dinner drinks in the living room, but Rotondi and Emma declined. “I’ve got a seven o’clock breakfast at Homeland Security to cater,” she said. After they’d left, Mac, Annabel, Jonell, and Marla strolled onto the terrace.
“Turned out to be a lovely evening,” Annabel commented, taking a deep breath of the cooler air.
“Everything’s lovely about this evening,” Marla said.
“Phil left out the part about his wife,” Annabel said. “She was killed when that released criminal started shooting.”
“How sad. Poor man.”
“I think he preferred not to put a damper on the evening,” said Annabel.
The women stayed outside for a few more minutes before Annabel cleared some dishes; Marla followed her inside, leaving Mac alone with Marbury. “I imagine the police had plenty of questions for you, Jonell, about having been at the house the day Jeannette Simmons was killed,” Mac said.
“I haven’t spoken with them, Mac.”
“They’ll get around to questioning you.”
Marbury hesitated before saying, “I haven’t told them I was there.”
Mac looked at him quizzically. “I assume you intend to,” he said.
“I, ah—I’m not sure I should bother, Mac. I have nothing to offer. I rang the bell. She came to the door. I handed her the envelope and left.”
“Still, you have an obligation to tell them you were there. If the police come up with it on their own, they’ll focus in on you as a suspect.”
“I’m sure that’s good advice, Mac. Thanks. I’ll take care of it.”
Later that night as Mac and Annabel