Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [91]
“Looks like it.” Another cigarette was lighted. By now, a gray haze had engulfed the room, stinging Rotondi’s eyes. “After you called,” Kala said between drags, “I checked with the FedEx office in the neighborhood where Silva lives. They pulled the records for me—I have a friend there—and she comes up with the shipping forms that coincided with the dates you gave me. Sure enough, Silva sent a package to Mrs. Simmons. The stupid bastard didn’t even bother to use a phony name.”
“He was working both sides of the street,” Rotondi said.
“That’s right. Where’s the honor, Philip? He wasn’t satisfied getting paid by us, he has to try and extort money out of the senator’s wife, too.”
Rotondi remembered what she’d said when he first arrived—that she’d wanted to kill Silva but someone had beaten her to it. He asked about it.
“It would have been my pleasure to waste Silva myself,” she said, “but one of his spaghetti-bender friends must have gotten wind of his deal with us and shut him up for good. Slit throat, tongue pulled through the slit, classic.”
“The pictures, Kala,” Rotondi said. “They set Simmons up?”
“They sure did. He’d been bedding down this broad here in Chicago for a while now. We all knew it, and we didn’t care. No crime in shacking up, although I’m sure his wife wouldn’t have been as understanding. This lady is cozy with some of the mobsters here in Chicago. When they knew she was warming the sheets with a United States senator, they went high-tech and videotaped them in the throes of passion, with her permission, of course.”
“Did anyone from the mob tell the senator about the photos?”
“Not according to the weasel. He said they were holding on to them in the event the senator decided to not play ball with them any longer. An insurance policy. So tell me, Philip, how close you and the deceased Mrs. Simmons really were. Must have been damn close for her to entrust you with what’s in that folder.”
“Close enough that she trusted me, Kala. I guess I have a trustworthy face or something.”
“Probably the something you have was most important. Speaking of that, how’s your love life?”
“Good. She’s a D.C. caterer.”
“Smart move. You never have to worry about a meal. She own a liquor store, too?”
“Not yet.”
“What about the senator’s son?” she asked. “You close with him, too?”
“I know him.”
“Who back in D.C. knows about the stuff you have in that envelope?”
“No one. Jeannette Simmons was going to talk to her son about it, but I’m not sure she ever did prior to her murder.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“I don’t know. What are you going to do with what you have?”
“The way it looks at this juncture, nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“The long reach of Senator Lyle Simmons and the Marshalk gang extends beyond Washington, Phil.”
“The fix is in?”
“Sure is. The powers that be in the AG’s office here are sitting on the information about Simmons and Marshalk. Ask them why and they say they don’t have enough to go forward with indictments. You know what I say? Bull! Simmons was instrumental in getting them their jobs here, and they’re not about to lose what they have. They’ll keep it under wraps until he makes the White House and they need something from him. Business as usual. Sweet, huh?”
“Sour is more like it.”
“Want a tip, Philip?”
“Sure.”
“You might as well do what my esteemed leaders are doing, buy a good shredder and get rid of that stuff. You might end up hurt by hanging on to it. The senator and his friends at Marshalk play rough.”
“Thanks. How’s yours?”
“How’s my what?”
“Your love life.”
“Boring. I’m thinking of the convent.”
“You’d hate it. They have vows of silence and a no-smoking policy.”
“I suppose you’re right. I have to get back to the office. Any other questions?”
“No. I really appreciate this, Kala.”
“The leg’s bad, huh?” she said as they said good-bye in front of the building.
“There are moments.”
She kissed him on the mouth and said, “Take care of yourself, Philip. You’re one of the white hats.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“How did your meetings go this afternoon?” Rotondi asked Simmons