Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [9]
Rotondi said nothing. He was thinking of countless autopsies he’d attended while a prosecutor in Baltimore, and the vision of Jeannette’s lovely body being unzipped from head to torso was grotesque: all blood drained from her; organs examined one by one, weighed, and bagged; muscles severed in order to reach less accessible parts; nails clipped to see whether material from her assailant was on them; tissue samples snipped from a dozen places; stomach contents saved to be analyzed; and myriad other violations of her dignity, albeit necessary in the pursuit of justice.
He popped a Tum in his mouth.
Markowicz walked over. “Senator,” he said, “I’ve had some calls asking about your schedule tomorrow. I assume—”
“I’ll want to go to the house first, assuming that officious detective has finished his so-called investigation. If he hasn’t, I’ll make the staffing meeting and go to the house later. Call Walter and tell him to pick me up here at six. Find out when I can get in the house. Put out a written statement saying something like I intend to carry on the business of the American people in the midst of this tragedy—Jeannette would have wanted that—I hope her killer is brought to justice soon—maybe, or, I don’t know, Peter, say that I’m cooperating with the authorities every step of the way, that I appreciate all the support and love I’ve been receiving and—”
McBride joined the conversation. He leaned close to Simmons and said just loud enough for Markowicz and Rotondi to hear, “Neil just called, Senator. Polly heard it on the news and called him. Maybe you should—”
“Call Neil and tell him to coordinate things with his sister. She’ll want to get here, I’m sure. I’ll pay any expenses.”
Rotondi had sat silently during the exchange. Now he stood, grabbed his cane from where he’d hooked it over the arm of his chair, and limped to the window.
“That leg’s really bothering you, isn’t it?” the senator said.
“Sometimes worse than others.”
“Let’s go in the bedroom, Phil. We have some talking to do.”
Simmons leaned back against the king-size bed’s ornate headboard. Rotondi took a small club chair he pulled out from a French cherry desk.
“Why do I get the feeling that you’re judging me, Phil?”
“Paranoia, probably. I don’t judge anybody these days. I did plenty of judging people when I was putting away Baltimore’s garbage, but that was then. Still…”
“Still what?”
Rotondi shrugged and smiled. “I think you ought to pull Neil and Polly in closer, Lyle, especially at a time like this. You need them.”
Simmons chewed his cheek. His expression was unfriendly.
“The situation with Polly really tore Jeannette up,” Rotondi said.
“I don’t need to be told that, Phil. I heard it damn near every day for the past four years.”
“Yeah, I know. Not my problemo. Look, I’m here to help in any way I can. I won’t get in the way, but tell me what you need and I’ll do it.”
Simmons’s face softened. He gave forth a small smile. “I’m sorry about Homer’s TV show,” he said.
“Maybe he taped it before we left.” Rotondi came forward and leaned with both hands on the cane. “Mind a suggestion?”
“My driver, Walter, gave me one when he dropped me home tonight.”
“McTeague? Good man. You have a lot of good people around you.”
“Maybe Walter had a premonition. He said Jeannette and I should get away for a while, we both looked tired. If only.”
“My suggestion is that you go with the flow of this tragedy, Lyle, and stop playing United States senator, at least until the right people get their arms around it. The so-called business of the people can wait.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re retired.”
“Happily so, but that’s irrelevant. I—” His cell phone rang. “Sorry.”
Simmons got off the bed and walked out of the room.
“Hi.”
“Phil, I just heard,” Emma Churchill said. “Jeannette Simmons? Good God.”
“I’m with him now, at the Willard. Where are you?”
“Supervising the cleanup. I should be home in an hour.”
“Homer’s at your house. I swung by there on my way here.”
“You’ll stay with him at the hotel?”
“No. I’ll meet you at the house. Frankly,