Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [92]
“Good, Phil. The brain trust feels that the time is right for me to announce my candidacy.”
“Will you?”
“I still haven’t made up my mind. Jeannette’s murder has muddied things.” A thoughtful expression crossed his face as he finished what was left of his bourbon. “What do you think?”
“About announcing your candidacy?”
“About running at all.”
“My opinion about something like that is irrelevant, Lyle. I’m illiterate when it comes to politics.”
“That’s a cop-out, Phil. You know me better than any other person in this world now that Jeannette is gone. Has her murder tainted me?”
Rotondi looked quizzically at him.
“You know what I mean, Phil, the rumors that are swirling around that the marriage was on the rocks, that I had a mistress in Chicago, trash like that. The situation with Polly doesn’t help, that’s for sure. I asked her to come with me to Chicago this trip and join me at the fund-raiser. Naturally, she refused. I don’t know how to get through to her. I love her, Phil. I’m sure you know that.”
What Rotondi knew was that Jeannette had told her husband that she wanted a divorce.
“Running for president won’t help the situation,” Rotondi said.
“I suppose not. I hate to bring this up, Phil, but I’m curious about that trip Jeannette took to the Eastern Shore not long before she was killed. She was a different person when she came back.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know, more distant, uncommunicative. There was already a gap between us that was growing. I admit that. But she was—” His laugh was rueful. “I’ve always wondered whether you’d get even with me one day for stealing her from you at school, you know, try and bed her down.”
Simmons’s comment was, at once, hurtful, infuriating, and sad. Rotondi thought before responding. “I’m going to let that pass, Lyle.”
“Hey, no offense,” Simmons said, placing his hand on Rotondi’s shoulder. “To be honest, I’d deserve it for what I did back at old U of Illinois. That you chose to remain friends with me after it says something wonderful about you. I’m not sure I could have done the same.”
“That’s old news, Lyle. And no, Jeannette and I didn’t sleep together that weekend.”
“You’re a quality guy, Phil.”
“Shouldn’t we be heading for your fund-raiser?”
Simmons looked at his watch. “I suppose so. Meet you in the lobby in half an hour.”
Rotondi watched Simmons exit the bar and chewed on the conversation they’d just had. He knew that if he’d ever wanted to “get even” with his college roommate for wooing Jeannette away from him, sleeping with her would have been minor compared with what he could do with the information upstairs in his room.
• • •
The fund-raiser was held in a ballroom at the Hyatt Regency Hotel in downtown Chicago, just off the Magnificent Mile. A few hundred well-heeled supporters laid out three hundred dollars apiece for a meal, a chance to hear their senior senator opine about his vision of the future for Illinois and the nation, and a moment’s press of his flesh.
Seeing Simmons deliver his after-dinner speech brought back memories for Rotondi of their college days together. Lyle had always been good on his feet, a natural performer, confident and comfortable in front of a microphone. Rotondi had come to appreciate the power and potency of a gifted public speaker, someone who could set agendas and garner support through words and the smooth delivery of them, particularly when the audience was already in his corner, or dissatisfied with the status quo and seeking answers. Hitler came to mind, for one.
Simmons had the party faithful in the palm of his hand as he spun his tales for the evening, self-effacing at times, boastful at others, his engaging smile brought to bear like a laser pointer, softening the hard messages and cuing the audience when it was time to smile or laugh. It was a masterly performance from a man whose wife had only recently been violently murdered, and who would return to Washington to lead a memorial to her.
The handshaking ritual followed, one person after the other jockeying for position to