Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [68]
Jeannette finished her drink and motioned for the waitress to bring her another. Rotondi was about to suggest that they skip a second drink and order, but she reached across the table, placed her hand on his, and said, “I lied to you, Phil.”
“Oh?”
“I didn’t come here to see Josie Williams. I came here to see you. I didn’t want to tell Lyle that. And I didn’t come just to enjoy a pleasant dinner.”
Their second round was delivered and she drank. “I need your advice, Phil. I need your help.”
“About what?”
“About what’s happening with Lyle and Neil.”
“I’m not sure my advice is worth much, Jeannette, but I’m a good listener.”
The waitress returned to the table “Care to order?” she asked.
“Maybe we’d better,” Rotondi said. “The place is filling up.”
As Rotondi ate, he watched Jeannette push food around on her plate, taking an occasional nibble between sips of the wine she’d insisted on having with dinner. Aside from a slight thickening to her speech, she showed little effect from the alcohol. Whatever it was that she needed to discuss with him had been forgotten, at least for the moment, and their conversation centered on pleasant topics, nothing weighty. Rotondi proved his claim of being a good listener, going with the flow and reacting to things she said, humorous comments about Washington and how much she disliked living there, a few reminiscences about their college days—without getting into their tangled relationship—and other areas that didn’t demand advice. It was over a rice pudding to share and cappuccinos that she brought the conversation back to something meatier.
“Phil,” she said softly, “Lyle and Neil are in serious trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?”
She started to explain, but he took note of tables in their vicinity that were now occupied. “Maybe we’d better have this conversation someplace more private, Jeannette,” he suggested, motioning for a check.
The husband-owner intercepted them on their way out. “Was everything all right, Mr. Rotondi?” he asked.
“Everything was great,” Rotondi said, slapping him on the shoulder.
“It was delicious,” Jeannette said.
The owner beamed. “That is always good to hear. Come back soon.”
Rotondi drove directly to his condo. Homer greeted them enthusiastically, one hind paw held slightly off the ground. “Poor baby,” Jeannette said, roughing up the hair on his head and neck.
“I’ll put coffee on,” Rotondi said.
“I’d love a drink,” she said.
“Maybe later.”
He left her in the living room while he puttered in the kitchen. When he returned, she was perusing a series of photographs hanging on a wall above a desk, some of them with Kathleen.
“It’s so tragic what happened to her,” Jeannette said.
“I still sometimes have trouble believing it,” he said, setting down on a coffee table in front of a couch two steaming mugs of black coffee, along with a small bowl containing packets of sugar and Sweet’N Low, and a pitcher of half-and-half. “Come, sit,” he said, patting the cushion next to him.
“How is Emma?” she asked when she joined him.
“She’s fine. Busy. Now, you said that Lyle and Neil are in trouble. What do you mean?”
She sat back, leaned her head against the back cushion, closed her eyes, and said, “I don’t even know where to begin.”
“Political trouble?”
She came forward. “There’s always political trouble for Lyle, but he seems able to handle that. I’m afraid the sort of mess he’s in goes beyond politics, Phil.”
“Go on,” Rotondi said, sipping his coffee. Jeannette’s remained untouched.
“I received a call a week ago from someone in Chicago.”
“Who in Chicago?”
“It was a man. I don’t know his name. He sounded old.”
“Old?”
“His voice was weak, raspy. Maybe he wasn’t old. Maybe he had a sore throat. I don’t know.”
“What did he say? How did he introduce himself?”
“He didn’t. I mean, he asked if I was Senator Simmons’s wife.”
“Senator Simmons wife? That’s the way he put it?”
“Yes. He asked that, and I said I was.”
“What happened next?”
She sighed and reached for her coffee, then withdrew her hand. “I really would love something to drink besides coffee, Phil.