Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [80]
“Uh-oh, trouble on the domestic front.”
“You might say that. Marla thinks he’s getting too cozy with the woman who’s leaving Marshalk. The party was for her. Anything new on the murder?”
“No. Was Neil there?”
“He was, but I don’t think he stayed long. At least I didn’t see him again after he arrived. A group of them were planning on extending the night, going to some bar.”
“There’ll be a few hangovers at Marshalk in the morning.”
“Afraid so. What time are you leaving for Chicago tomorrow?”
“Eleven. I’ll walk Homer. Then let’s watch something dumb and unchallenging on TV. I’m in the mood for dumb and unchallenging.”
• • •
Rotondi hadn’t detailed what was discussed at lunch that day with Emma, but Mac Smith was more forthcoming with Annabel. They’d had dinner out, and now sat on their balcony. He told her what Rotondi had revealed to him over lunch, and Annabel listened without comment. When he was finished, she said, “He sounds as though he’s determined to resolve this himself.”
“I suggested he confront Neil and the senator with what he knows. He said he’d think about that.”
She was silent, the brandy snifter pressed to her lips.
“I know what you’re thinking, Annie, that Phil is wading in deep waters.”
“Maybe over his head.”
“He’s a tough guy, a straight shooter. I think he’ll do the right thing. At least I hope he does.”
• • •
Some of the Marshalk partygoers had moved the festivities to the Fly Lounge, a relatively new club on Jefferson Place, NW, arguably the city’s most expensive and exclusive new watering hole. Marshalk had frequently hosted politicians there who enjoyed the atmosphere—including occasional bursts of liquid nitrogen blasting from the ceiling to create the sound of a jet engine’s roar—and the bosomy young waitresses known as “Fly Attendants,” dressed in tight black costumes and knee-high boots. The money Marshalk routinely dropped there—eighteen hundred dollars for the corner VIP section with its own volume control for the music, and a secret code assuring access to a private bathroom—ensured that his party was never made to wait in line outside where a bouncer ascertained whether those awaiting entrance “looked right” and had the “right attitude.”
A dozen holdovers from the party sat in the VIP section and drank Black Cherry Martinis, which one of the Fly Attendants assured was a house specialty. Marbury was next to Camelia Watson, who should have declined the last drink offered. She was tipsy, enough for others to notice. Spirits were high, but the evening’s alcohol intake had taken its toll on everyone. Fatigue trumped the determination to party well into the night, and the gathering broke up at eleven.
“You okay?” Marbury asked Camelia as they exited the club.
“Oh, sure, I’m fine,” she said, tripping on a raised portion of the sidewalk and falling into his arms.
“How did you get to the party?” he asked.
“I took a cab with Sid and Marshall.”
“I’ll drive you home.”
“No, that’s okay, Jonell. Get me a cab and—”
“Absolutely not,” he said, putting his arm around her and heading to where he’d parked his silver Lexus a few blocks away.
“I never should have had another drink,” she said.
“Happens to the best of us,” he assured, enjoying the feel of her hip against his.
He opened the passenger’s door, and she slid onto the seat. He came around and got behind the wheel. “Seat belts,” he ordered. She fumbled to find hers and he reached across to help, his elbow nuzzling into her bosom. He drew the belt across her lap, inserted the tongue into the sleeve, clicked it closed, and turned the ignition key. High humidity had fogged the windows. He turned on the defroster, and lowered and raised both front windows to wipe them clean. There was little traffic that time of night, and he reached the apartment building in which she lived in less than ten minutes. He pulled up a few spaces from the entrance, turned off the engine, and looked over at her. She hadn’t said anything during the drive; she looked sad.
“How you doing?” he