Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [89]
He glanced over at Simmons, who’d slipped into his lecture mode, with McBride and Markowicz his eager students.
If Lyle Simmons had nothing to do with his wife’s death—and Rotondi fervently hoped that was the case—what kind of president would he make? Rotondi had abandoned interest in the political scene since leaving the U.S. attorney’s office in Baltimore. Not that he’d ever been a keen observer of it, or participant in it, even back then. He didn’t trust politicians. As far as he was concerned, their only interest was retaining power, loftier societal needs be damned. He realized that his disdain for elected officials represented a level of cynicism that was probably uncalled for, and sometimes wondered whether he should change his tune. It hadn’t happened, and he remained content to be an onlooker, regular voting serving as his conscience salve.
The Gulfstream landed smoothly at Chicago’s Midway Airport, where a stretch limo awaited them. They were whisked to the Ambassador East Hotel, home of the famed Pump Room bar and restaurant. Rotondi had been treated to evenings there by Lyle’s father and mother when the two college students visited the Simmons home on the city’s Near North Side. On many occasions, they were seated in the famed Booth One on the east wall, mirroring the elder Simmons’s stature in Chicago. Myriad high-profile celebrities had enjoyed the vantage point of that booth; Bogart and Bacall celebrated their wedding in Booth One, as did Robert Wagner and Natalie Wood. Sinatra held court there on many nights, John Barrymore roared for more champagne, and noted Chicago columnist Irv Kupcinet used Booth One as his office away from the office. It was a heady, albeit uncomfortable experience for the college-age Phil Rotondi to be seated there as part of the Simmons family.
“Afraid you’re on your own, Phil,” Simmons told Rotondi as they headed for their rooms. “I’ll be tied up in these meetings all afternoon. Meet you in the Pump Room at five for a drink before the fund-raiser.”
“Sounds good to me,” Rotondi said, meaning it.
After being shown to the small suite to which he’d been assigned, Rotondi sat at the desk and placed a phone call. Kala Whitson answered on the first ring.
“Hi, Kala. It’s Phil.”
“My gimpy friend made it,” she said in a husky voice. “Nice flight?”
“Fancy private jet, all the comforts of home. No, better than home.”
She laughed. “Sounds like you’re selling out, Phil. Private jets were never your style.”
“They still aren’t, but when in Rome—”
“Don’t go getting literary on me, pal. Are we on for this afternoon?”
“I hope so. I have to be back at the hotel by five. I’m free until then. Where and when?”
“My apartment. I don’t think it’s bugged, although everyplace else seems to be. The war on terrorism and all…or is it the war on the Constitution?”
Rotondi smiled. His friend from the Baltimore U.S. attorney’s office hadn’t changed a bit since being transferred to the Chicago office ten years ago. They’d worked closely in Baltimore on some of the toughest prosecutions, and he valued her no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners attitude. They’d stayed in touch after her transfer and his retirement, sending amusing e-mails back and forth, making fairly regular phone calls, and swapping books they knew would interest each other. Kala was an avowed, prideful, unabashed lesbian, as comfortable in her skin as any heterosexual. She looked mannish. She wore her hair in what could only be described as a designer-styled crew cut, and was fond of tailored black suits that tended to slim down her square body. She talked tough and had a raspy voice, enhanced by chain smoking. She also possessed the most beautiful green eyes Rotondi had ever seen—and his deceased wife, Kathleen, had a pretty spectacular set of green eyes herself.
Kala Whitson was one of his favorite people.
“I assume you’ve come up with what I need,” he said.
“Of course I have, Philip. What the hell did you think I was doing, inviting you to my apartment to seduce you?”
“I was hoping.”
“Hope on, my friend. Maybe you noticed you’re not