Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [69]
“Cognac?”
“That will be fine.”
He brought her a small cordial glass one-third filled with Cognac.
“Thanks,” she said, tasting it.
“Let’s get back to what this man from Chicago said to you.”
“He apologized for calling me. He spoke with a strange kind of formality, as if he wasn’t an educated person but was trying to sound as though he was. He apologized to me for—oh, yes, for calling with such bad news.”
“Was it bad news?”
She guffawed and finished the Cognac in a swallow. “It certainly was, Phil. This gentleman—and I’m being generous in labeling him that—this guy threatened me.”
“Physically?”
“Blackmail.”
“Over what?”
“Over what he claimed to know about Lyle and his dealings with the underworld.”
“Whoa, wait a minute. He claimed that Lyle is tied in with organized crime?”
“That’s right. But Phil, he didn’t just claim that. He said he could prove it. He told me I would be receiving a package within a few days with the proof.”
“And?”
“It arrived a day later. FedEx, overnight delivery.”
“What was in it?”
“Damaging evidence backing up what the caller claimed. Copies of checks and e-mails between these people in Chicago and Marshalk, transcripts of recorded conversations, all sorts of damning evidence. Good God, Phil, organized crime has been laundering money through the Marshalk Group, and a lot of that money has ended up with front groups that use it to fund Lyle’s run for the White House.”
“You say the package contained evidence. Can you trust it? Can you trust this man who sent it to you?”
“I don’t know. I want you to see it.”
Rotondi asked, “Why would Lyle get involved with this sort of thing, Jeannette? For money? He doesn’t need money.”
“To run for president of the United States? Come on, Phil. No one has that kind of money. It takes hundreds of millions to even have a chance. Besides, you know Lyle isn’t as rich as he was when his father was alive. Before he died, his father made some dreadfully bad real estate investments that almost broke him.”
Rotondi did know. Lyle had confided in him throughout the period of his father’s failing fortunes, and he had attended the senior Simmons’s Chicago funeral, where his bad investments dominated the conversation.
“Excuse me,” Rotondi said. He returned from the kitchen carrying a glass of beer.
“Please,” Jeannette said, indicating her empty glass.
“You sure?” he asked. He was torn. Still, withholding another taste of Cognac wasn’t going to send her straight to AA. He obliged.
“There’s more, Phil,” she said. She put her lips to her glass, made a face, and put it down on the table. “Photographs.”
“In the package?”
“Yes.”
He knew what was coming.
“Pictures of Lyle with a woman. I’ve known about her for a long time, not her name or anything, but I’ve been aware that he was seeing someone in Chicago. The photos are—oh, God, they’re so disgusting. She’s not the only one. I know that for certain. I can’t stand the thought of living with him any longer, Phil. I’m divorcing him.”
“He knows?”
“Oh, I’ve told him, which sends him into a rage. Do you know what he suggested? He suggested that we live separate lives but stay married. He gave me permission to see other men, as long as I was discreet about it and didn’t do anything to reflect poorly on him and his political future.”
The pragmatic Lyle Simmons in full flower.
“Did you show him the package you received from this guy in Chicago?”
“No. I was afraid of how he might react. I wanted to talk to you first.”
She’d been relatively calm up to this point, considering the subject matter. Now, suddenly, as though struck by lightning, she swung around on the couch to face him. Her face was a fright mask. “It’s Neil,” she said. “I’ve got to get him away from Marshalk. He’ll be destroyed along with the rest of them.”
“Do you think Neil knows?” Rotondi asked.
“I haven’t told him any of this, but I intend to.”
“I mean about the Marshalk connections with the mob. He’s there every day. Hell, he’s the president of the firm.”
“He’s a figurehead, Phil, that’s all. Lyle put