Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [8]
“How’s he holding up?” Rotondi asked, referring to the senator.
“Okay. He—”
Press Secretary Markowicz entered the room.
“Phil, this is Peter Markowicz,” McBride said, “the senator’s press secretary.”
“Phil Rotondi,” Markowicz said, shaking Rotondi’s hand. “The senator talks about you a lot.”
“We go back a little way,” said Rotondi. He’d known Markowicz’s predecessor but hadn’t met this relatively new addition to the staff. “I suppose the press is all over this tonight.”
“We thought we’d buy some time by coming here to the Willard,” Markowicz said, “but they’ve tracked us down. The desk is holding all calls.”
Simmons emerged from the bedroom wearing a hotel robe over shirt and pants. He crossed the parlor and gave Rotondi a quick embrace. “I am so glad you’re here, Phil. So glad. Sorry to have disturbed your idyllic evening on the shore.”
“You disturbed nothing, Lyle. Homer’s not happy, though. He was watching his favorite show on Animal Planet.”
“I owe him a dog treat.”
A room-service employee delivered Rotondi’s Rob Roy, along with an array of finger food ordered up by McBride and an assortment of liquor bottles.
“Is Neil here?” Rotondi asked.
“No,” the senator said. “I told him to get home to his family. There’s nothing he could do here.”
Except to partner with his father in their grief, Rotondi thought.
“Have something to eat, Phil,” Simmons said. “I have to return more calls, some of my Senate colleagues. But I do want to huddle with you later.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Rotondi watched TV along with McBride and Markowicz, who popped in and out of the parlor, leaving Rotondi to bring them up to date on what they’d missed. It was no surprise that the murder of Jeannette Simmons dominated every newscast, the competing stations pulling in anyone with even a tangential connection to Simmons for interviews and comments. A TV crew was camped outside Neil Simmons’s home in Bethesda, as well as maintaining a vigil at the senator’s house. The MPD issued a nonstatement: “We have no comment at this time.” File photos and footage of Simmons with his wife, and some with his son and daughter, flooded the screen. Seeing Jeannette’s face caused Rotondi discomfort. At times, he looked away from the screen. Other times, he swallowed against a lump in his throat that seemed permanently lodged there. He kept adjusting his position in a chair to try to mitigate the pain in his leg, and massaged his thigh.
It was almost an hour later that the senator emerged from the bedroom and sat in a chair next to Rotondi.
“Have the police interviewed you, Lyle?” Rotondi asked.
“I suppose you could call it an interview. Some Asian American detective showed up and asked about my activities tonight. I don’t think he knew what he was doing, Phil. Christ, I hope they put some better people on the case.”
“I’ll check in with friends over there,” Rotondi said.
“Good. I suppose murder isn’t as shocking to you as it is to me.”
“Murder is always shocking,” Rotondi replied, “especially when it’s someone you know and love. Had Jeannette had any conflicts with anyone lately? A workman at the house? Someone in town? Had she mentioned anyone she’d had a run-in with?”
Simmons shook his head.
“What about you, Lyle? Any death threats lately?”
“No. There’s always some nut who writes and says he’ll kill me because of a vote I cast, or a speech I made taking a stand on a contentious issue. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“What about her sister?”
“Marlene? As crazy as ever.”
“Even with the medication?”
“Not when she remembers to take it.”
The latest report about the murder came on the screen: “According to sources within the MPD, an autopsy is being performed on Jeannette Simmons, wife of Senator Lyle Simmons, as we speak.”
“Couldn’t they wait?” Simmons