Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [71]
“I suppose that’s the way it was planned by somebody.”
“God? If so, he has a cruel sense of humor.”
“Let me heat up some coffee for us.”
“I want a drink, Phil, a nightcap.”
“Now that you’re older and wiser, you know alcohol isn’t going to solve anything.”
“It may not solve anything, Phil, but it sure eases the pain. Please.”
They sat quietly in the dark until Phil announced he had to walk Homer.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Don’t be long.”
He was gone fifteen minutes. When he returned, she’d stretched out on the couch and was asleep. He covered her with a caftan that his mother once used to cover him as a boy, tiptoed into the bedroom with Homer at his side, lay down, and allowed his eyes to close. When they opened, early-morning sun streamed through the window.
Jeannette was already up and sitting on a small patio at the front of the condo. He made them breakfast, showered—she said she’d wait until returning to the hotel—and drove her to her pale blue Lexus in the Marriott’s parking lot. She opened the trunk, rummaged through paraphernalia, and came up with the FedEx package.
“Here,” she said, handing it to him. She kissed his check and said, “Thanks for being wiser and stronger than I am, Phil. You always have been. I wish I’d married you.”
He watched her walk quickly toward the hotel’s entrance and disappear through the doors.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“What’s new with the Simmons investigation?” Smith asked Rotondi after they’d taken at a table in the Garden Café.
“Not much. Morris Crimley says they’re making progress. They have trace evidence they think might be important.”
“I see that they’re holding some drifter.”
“They have to hold somebody. They’re getting a lot of pressure to solve this thing.”
“How’s the senator holding up?”
“He’s holding up fine, no surprise. He always does. The press seems to be cutting him some slack, although they still keep harping on the state of his marriage.”
“Objective journalism at its best,” Smith muttered. “What’s your take on the murder, Phil? You’re obviously more than just a curious bystander.”
Rotondi thought for a moment before responding. “I’m convinced, Mac, that Jeannette Simmons wasn’t killed by some passerby. She was killed because of what she knew.”
“Knew about what?”
“Not here. It’s sensitive stuff. But I do want to run something past you later. Let me just say for now that Jeannette was in possession of information that could blow her husband’s career out of the water, and take down their son, too, along with the lobbying firm he works for.”
Mac exhaled and raised his eyebrows. “That’s pretty heavy stuff. You will elaborate now that you’ve captured my complete and undivided attention.”
“Of course I will. That’s why getting together was so appealing to me. Let’s get food out of the way first.”
After lunch, they entered a nearby pocket park and sat on its only bench. A leafy elm provided dappled shade from the sun.
“You’re pretty well connected in this town, Mac,” Rotondi said.
“Not that I try to be.”
“You’ve always had a reputation as a stand-up guy who doesn’t tell tales out of school. You were the most honorable defense lawyer I’ve ever known.”
“Are you saying I’m the best of a bad bunch?” Smith said, playfully.
“I’m saying that you’re someone I know I can trust.”
“I’ll try to live up to that,” Smith said. “Are you in legal trouble?”
Rotondi grinned. “Get right to it, huh? No, I’m not in any trouble, at least not yet. I’ll get to the point, too. I have information Jeannette Simmons gave me a month before she died. It came from an unnamed guy in Chicago who called and said he was sending it, and that unless she came up with money, he’d use it to destroy the family.”
“What sort of information?”
“Dirt on Senator Simmons and the Marshalk Group, ties to organized crime, money laundering through Marshalk that ends up in Simmons’s coffers. There are photos, too, of Lyle with a woman in Chicago who has ties to the mob.” Rotondi winced. “Pictures like