Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [55]
“And you ended up in bed with him.”
Her silence confirmed it.
He was struck with simultaneous conflicting thoughts, as he’d been when learning of his father’s death. His father had been sick for a long time, and had suffered. Phil’s reaction to the news was both grief, and relief.
As he sat in a car on an Illinois lovers’ lane, his mind was again operating on multiple tracks. He was angry, of course, and felt all the emotions of someone having been betrayed by those he trusted. At the same time, it was as though a weight had been buoyed from his shoulders. These were not unexpected reactions to what he’d just been told. He understood them while feeling them. But a third response elbowed aside the first two. For the first time, he felt superior to Lyle Simmons and in control of that relationship.
“Let’s go back, Phil,” Jeannette said.
He started the engine but didn’t slip the shift into gear. “I want you to know, Jeannette, that I’m not angry with you. Surprised? Sure. Disappointed? That, too.”
“You have every right to hate me, Phil.”
He put the Thunderbird into reverse and backed out of the spot. As they drove to the sorority house, he mentally grappled with the question that had taken center stage—could he ever be comfortable being married to Jeannette and raising Lyle’s child? By the time they reached the house, he’d concluded that if that was what had to be, he’d do everything in his power to make it work.
“Thanks for being so understanding,” she said.
“There’s really not much of a choice, is there?”
“You could have exploded.”
“Which would accomplish nothing.” He forced a smile. “Tell you what, Jeannette. Let’s sleep on this and talk again tomorrow after we’ve had a chance to digest things. I somehow think that—”
“Phil! Lyle and I are getting married.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Cirilli Group sure as hell isn’t being suttle about going after X-M Shipping as a client. Let’s cut them off at the legs. Rick.
It wasn’t fair, of course, to judge a man’s character and personality by a misspelling in a memo. But in Rick Marshalk’s case, it seemed apt. Subtle wasn’t a word in his vocabulary, correctly spelled or not; nor was it a part of his makeup. He’d navigated the treacherous shoals of Hollywood, and although his years there could never be considered a success, he’d learned plenty. Subtlety! That was for losers. His full-frontal-attack philosophy had served him well since arriving in D.C., and he saw no reason to change or even question it.
He’d called a meeting that afternoon at his high-rise condo overlooking Washington Harbor. It was the largest unit in the building, with splendid views of the water and of the complex itself from its wraparound balconies. Present were two of his top lobbyists, as well as the Marshalk Group’s head of security, Jack Parish.
“I wanted to meet here,” Marshalk said, “because I’m getting paranoid about talking in the office.” He turned to Parish. “I want the place swept again, Jack.”
“I had it done only a couple of weeks ago.”
“Do it again, every day if you have to.”
“It might not be a bug,” one of the execs said. “Maybe somebody at the office is leaking information.”
“Any ideas who that might be?” Marshalk asked.
His colleagues looked at each other. Parish, who sat on a window seat in front of a floor-to-ceiling window, had been examining a discoloration on the back of his hand. He looked up and said, “You want it straight, Rick?”
“Of course I do.”
“I’ve got my suspicions about a lot of people in the firm.”
They waited for him to elaborate.
“Neil,” he announced flatly.
“Why do you say that?”
Parish shrugged and grimaced against an unseen kink. “He’s a weak sister, Rick. He’s got a flabby mind.”
“Flabby mind?” someone asked.
“No