Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [87]
“But you didn’t.”
“No. Absolutely not. I mean, I knew that she was unhappy working at Marshalk and wanted to go back to her job at Justice. That’s what she decided to do, which would have made her happy, not depressed.”
“Well,” said Alexandra, “it’s too late for any psychiatrist to do anything for her now. Poor thing. I don’t think I could ever kill myself by jumping off a high place.” She grimaced and shook her head.
One of their sons came into the kitchen. “Is Daddy sick?” he asked Alex, noticing his father’s attire.
“Yes, Daddy’s sick,” she said.
“I’m not sick,” Neil said angrily. “I’m—I’m—I’m sad, that’s all. Why wouldn’t I be? Jesus, try and understand.”
The boy pouted and left the room. Alex got up from the table and rinsed out the coffee carafe, saying as she did, “I have girls’ day today, Neil. They’re coming for lunch. I really don’t want you hanging around all day in your pajamas.”
“All right,” he said. “I’ll be gone by then.”
He went to the bedroom, closed the door, and climbed into bed. The news of Camelia’s plunge to her death had short-circuited him that morning. Not that he wasn’t already in a fragile emotional state. As potent as the news of his mother’s murder had been initially, the reality and weight of it seemed to increase as the days passed; time was not healing all wounds, as some claimed. There were physical manifestations, too. His legs had become heavy and unsteady, like an old man who has lost muscle mass, or alcoholics who seem to search for the ground with each unsure step. His convictions were as unsteady as his gait. He couldn’t identify anything in which he believed. Nothing mattered. Whatever had become his most frequently used word since the murder of his mother. Want to watch something on TV? “Whatever.” Potatoes or rice with dinner? “Whatever.”
He’d tried to codify his feelings, to make sense of them. He’d even resorted to writing down his inner thoughts as a means of structuring them. A business writing class he’d taken at his father’s school, the University of Illinois, had stressed that often the act of writing helped clarify thinking, rather than thinking being a prerequisite for clear writing. Horse before cart? He’d been bored in that class, as he had been in most classes, his GPA reflecting it, mediocre at best but enough to graduate.
As he cowered in his king-size bed, legs drawn up in the fetal position, the covers pulled up to his chin, he tried to cry but couldn’t. His reservoir of tears was empty. He wanted to cry out but the energy wasn’t there.
He wanted to die, but didn’t have the will to bring about his death.
He hadn’t meant harm to come to anyone as a result of what he’d done.
It seemed so right at the time, so noble.
And it had turned out so wrong.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The taxi driver dropped Rotondi at the general aviation section of Reagan National Airport, where a sleek, twin-engine Gulfstream III jet aircraft stood waiting on the tarmac. Senator Simmons’s chief of staff, Alan McBride, and Press Secretary Peter Markowicz were already inside the operations building when Rotondi walked in.
“Where’s the senator?” Rotondi asked.
“On his way,” McBride said. “Should be here any minute.
“Is Polly coming?” McBride asked Markowicz.
“She begged off,” Markowicz replied. The men exchanged knowing glances.
“Polly was supposed to be with us?” Rotondi said.
“Yeah,” said Markowicz. “The senator thought she’d enjoy a day in Chicago. Didn’t work out.”
They looked through a window as Senator Simmons’s black Mercedes pulled up, Walter McTeague at the wheel. The senator got out, said something to McTeague, and strode into the building.
“Good morning,” Simmons said. “Looks like a nice day for a flight.”
“Couldn’t be better, Senator,” McBride agreed.
“How are you this morning?” Simmons asked Rotondi.
“Just fine. You?”
“Must have slept wrong,” Simmons said, rotating his head. “I’ve got a crick in my neck.”
The flight’s captain led them to the plane, where his first officer was conducting a last-minute walk-around visual check.
“That’s a