Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [6]
Chang stepped back from the closet, allowing Simmons into the room. The senator moved to another closet, again followed by Chang, in which his suits were hung with precision on a long rack. He put one into the hang-up bag, added two ties from among hundreds on a battery-powered tie rack, and laid the bag on the bed.
“No, sir, not on the bed,” Chang said. The detective picked up the bag and folded it over his arm.
“Don’t you think you’re taking your duties a little too far?” Simmons said.
Chang’s response was, “Please, sir, finish what you are doing.”
Simmons drew a deep breath of frustration, opened a dresser drawer, and removed items of clothing. “I need things from the bathroom,” he said.
Chang preceded him into the immense master bath. Everything was white marble and ornate gold fixtures. Simmons filled a toiletries kit with what he needed. “Satisfied?” he asked. “I didn’t touch anything except what I’m taking.”
Chang said nothing as he stepped aside to allow Simmons to leave the bathroom and reenter the bedroom. “I will need a formal statement from you,” Chang said. “You are going to the Willard Hotel?”
“That’s right, but I’ll tell you this. I’m in no shape to be giving you a statement, formal or otherwise. My wife has just been murdered, and I suggest you focus your investigation where it might do the most good. That doesn’t include me.”
Chang replied, “You said you were driven home by your driver. His name, please, and phone number.” Before Simmons could respond, Chang added, “And names of those who were with you tonight at the fund-raiser you say you attended.”
Simmons guffawed. “I can give you a hundred names,” he said. “My driver is Walter McTeague.” He rattled off McTeague’s number so fast that the detective had to ask him to repeat it. “He’s a former cop,” Simmons added.
“Do you have everything?” Chang asked.
“I think so.”
“Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill your wife?”
“No. She was loved by everyone.”
“Not everyone, sir.”
CHAPTER THREE
By the time Phil Rotondi reached Washington, he’d learned what everyone else had learned about the death of Jeannette Simmons. The story led each newscast on his car radio. Details were sparse; rumors—“unconfirmed,” or “according to reliable sources”—ran rampant. “Breaking news.” On TV, breathless male and female anchors spoke. “The city was shaken tonight by the murder of…” “The police are treating the death of Jeannette Simmons as a homicide, according to information provided exclusively to this station…”
On one, dramatic music worthy of a DeMille epic preceded each report. “More on this developing story after these commercial messages.”
Rotondi’s left leg ached.
His mind ached, too.
He’d quickly packed a small overnight bag after Simmons’s call. He let Homer, the fourteen-year-old mixed-breed dog—half German shepherd, half pit bull—whom he’d rescued as a pup from the streets, out into the fenced yard for a quick leg-lift, put the bag and the dog into the back of his Subaru Tribeca SUV, and was on his way within fifteen minutes. Packing to go to Washington was easy. He’d kept a portion of his wardrobe at Emma Churchill’s Foggy Bottom town house for the past three years, adding to it on each visit; he now had more clothing there than in his condo on the Eastern Maryland shore.
He parked in front of Emma’s town house and—stiffly—got out of the car. Although he’d made the trip in less than two hours, thanks to it being midweek and night, his skeleton had tightened up, especially his gimpy left leg. Opening the passenger’s-side door, he pulled out his cane and bag, closed the door, and led Homer on his leash from the rear seat. Emma wouldn’t be home, he knew. Her catering service had taken off in the past year,