Murder on K Street (12 page)

“Money,” said Marla.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Marbury said, defensively.

“I never said there was anything wrong with being paid more,” Marla said. “It’s just that—”

“Lobbyists have taken a beating lately,” Mac tossed in. “Refills anyone?”

“Sure,” said Rotondi, holding up his empty beer stein, which had been frosted in the freezer before use.

“They deserve to,” Marla opined.

“Oh, come on now,” Jonell said. “Lobbyists play an important role in the legislative process.”

Only in its purest sense
, Rotondi thought.

“Had you ever met Mrs. Simmons?” Mac asked Marbury.

“Yes. A few times. In fact, I saw her yesterday afternoon.”

His statement caused a hush to fall over the room.

Rotondi broke it. “How was she?” he asked.

“Fine. I mean, I was only there for a minute or two. I delivered something for the senator, an envelope. Rick Marshalk asked me to drop it off. I handed it to her at the door.”

The conversation veered from that to a discussion of a developing scandal with a member of the House of Representatives that had made the papers that day. From there, it was on to some amusing stories from Emma Churchill about unusual catering situations she’d recently experienced, and Marla weighed in with the tale of a politician who’d fallen asleep during an Urban League–sponsored roundtable discussion on the state of race relations in America. Although Marbury and his fiancée, and Rotondi and Emma Churchill had never met before, they quickly fell into the sort of easy conversation typical of old friends. When Rotondi got up to fetch a plate of hors d’oeuvres, Marla asked what had happened to his leg.

Rotondi shrugged. “It’s a long story,” he said.

“When you were a U.S. attorney in Baltimore?” Marbury asked.

“Yeah. A creep I put away decided to get even when he got out.”

He hadn’t wanted a retirement party, and had made his feelings known to his bosses and fellow U.S. attorneys. But they weren’t about to be deprived of putting on a grand farewell for their iconoclastic colleague, and so the night was chosen and the site reserved—Caesar’s Den, Rotondi’s favorite haunt, on South High Street in Baltimore’s Little Italy.

Ninety men and women showed up that evening. Spirits ran high, the liquor freely. Rotondi ordered his usual twenty-ounce veal chop, a house specialty. His wife, Kathleen, opted for mussels in a white wine sauce. In Rotondi’s eyes, she looked especially beautiful that night, although there had never been a day in their sixteen-year marriage when he hadn’t felt that way. Her long hair was naturally blond, and she wore it simple and straight. She had a surprisingly dusky complexion for an Irish girl from Annapolis; her grandmother had been French. All Rotondi knew was that she was as kind and gentle as she was attractive, coolly efficient in court, loving and playful when away from the black robes and stuffy decorum of the courtroom.

They’d met on the job. A new addition to the criminal section, she was assigned to work with Rotondi on some high-profile cases he’d taken on. At first, she found his personality to be off-putting. He attacked every day with the zeal of a man possessed; smiles and relaxed moments were few and far between. But as the weeks went by, she began to see something in him that he wasn’t totally successful in hiding from public view—at least not from her, though he tried hard. And while he never veered from his professional approach, she also sensed a growing flicker of male interest.

One night, after a particularly grueling all-day court session that lasted into the early evening, she suggested they grab a bite together.

“Sure,” he said without hesitation, which surprised her. She’d assumed she would have to cajole him into accepting. “I’ll take you to my favorite place,” he added.

That was the first of many nights at Caesar’s Den, where the owners greeted Phil with open arms and extended the same warm welcome to the lovely lady who now regularly accompanied him. Conversation on their first few evenings together consisted primarily of office talk—lawyer talk—hashing over cases in which they were involved. But as the days extended into weeks, his defenses slipped, and his more personal side peeked through.

“…I used to think I’d never marry,” he told her one night. “I was immersed in my studies at law school, and joined the office here right after graduation. What about you?”

“Me? I think marriage is wonderful, provided you meet the right person. I’ve seen some of my friends settle because they’re convinced they have to get married by a certain age. I think that’s dumb.”

“Dumb?” He laughed.

“Well, maybe
ill advised
is a better term.”

“No,” he said. “I like
dumb
.” He swished the red wine remaining in his glass. “Maybe it was the thought of having kids,” he said to the wine. “I don’t think I’d make much of a father.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Just knowing myself. You might have noticed that I’m a little self-obsessed.”

“I’ve seen hints of it now and then,” she said with a smile. “I suppose I’d like children someday. But like getting married, I don’t think it’s something you have to do. There are so many pressures on us to do what others expect. Marry by a certain age. Have two and a half children, one and a half dogs. You might have noticed that I’m somewhat self-obsessed, too.”

“I’ve seen hints,” he said, lightly. “So tell me about your family, Kathleen.”

She obliged. Her father was a carpenter at an Annapolis boatyard. “He works hard,” she said. “He’s my hero, no pretensions, no posturing, just hard work every day. My mom is a receptionist in a dentist’s office. Every cent she made went into a college fund for me and my brother.”

“What’s your brother do?”

“Bart’s two years older. He teaches earth science in a local high school. His wife’s a doll. She teaches, too. They have one and a half children, no dog. I grew up with a border collie named—ready?—Lassie. I love animals.”

“Why don’t you get one?”

“Too busy. Wouldn’t be fair to the dog. What about you, Phil? I showed you mine. Your turn to show me yours.”

“Not a lot to show, Kathleen, or to tell.” He talked about his sisters and wayward brother, and his deceased parents. He found it difficult to discuss such things, and there was a moment when Kathleen thought he might cry. But he didn’t, and eventually he even smiled when recounting a few intimate—intimate in his mind—details of family life. “Like I said, not much to tell.”

“Your father sounds like he was a wonderful man.”

“Yes, he was. His Old World views caused some tension between us now and then, but nothing major. I had a couple of fights with kids in school who made fun of the way he talked.” He laughed. “I won.”

“I don’t doubt that. Were you a religious family?”

“Not formal religion. We were brought up Catholic, and I was baptized and confirmed. So were my brother and sisters. My father, he believed in individual faith but was distrustful of organized religion. I suppose I feel the same way. He taught me a lot of things, Kathleen, including the importance of always standing for something, standing tall. I like to think I practice that advice.”

They closed the restaurant that night and went to his apartment, where they made love for the first time. The next morning, they both knew without saying it that they were in it for the long haul.

“We should take a weekend and visit my folks,” she said. “You’d like them. My dad is every bit as hard-ass as you are.”

His thoughts flew back to the University of Illinois and to Jeannette Boyton, but only for a moment.

“I’d like that,” he said.

They made that weekend trip two weeks later. Kathleen had been right. Rotondi liked her parents and brother, felt very much at home with them. The wedding took place three months later. Phil’s sisters and their families attended the small ceremony; his brother sent his regrets but wished him well. Their honeymoon consisted of a long weekend at the acclaimed Inn at Little Washington, in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Washington, Virginia, where they got to know each other even better. Four days later, they were back in the courtroom.

Kathleen had come directly to Phil’s retirement party dressed in her all-business tailored black suit and white blouse. Had she been able, she would have chosen a dressy outfit for this special occasion honoring her husband. But she’d spent the day in court arguing before a notoriously dim-witted judge who moved things along slowly in order to keep up with what was going on. Kathleen Moran-Rotondi was a highly respected assistant U.S. attorney, as much at home in a courtroom as she was in the kitchen of their high-rise apartment in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor development.

“Come on, Phil, ’fess up,” a colleague yelled from across the table. “You use some kind of superman drugs, right?” His comment caused others to laugh, and to follow up with the same accusation. Rotondi was the star player on a once-a-week recreational basketball team that pitted prosecutors against defense lawyers. His intensity on the court matched his concentration in the courtroom, and although some joked about how seriously he took the games, few failed to appreciate his talent, on the court and off.

“All right, all right,” Rotondi said, standing and holding up his hands for silence. “I admit it. I’ve been taking steroids every morning with my granola. But even if I hadn’t, I’d still outplay all of you clowns.”

Kathleen looked up him and beamed. He’d started the evening stiff and reserved, but the drinks, and the outpouring of goodwill from everyone in attendance, had loosened him up. He was thoroughly enjoying himself.

Over dessert, Rotondi was roasted. It became raunchy as the evening wore on, but it was all in good fun, and the room roiled with laughter, Phil and Kathleen leading the charge.

Farewells took forever. Everyone wanted to shake Phil’s hand on the way out of the restaurant, and hug him, tell him how sorely he’d be missed, and warn Kathleen that having a retired husband was a recipe for marital disaster, wishing him many happy years of leisure and warning him to drive home safely lest he end up with a DUI and sully the department’s reputation.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Phil told them. “I’ve got the Jensen case on the docket tomorrow. My retirement doesn’t kick in for another month.”

“Know what I’d love?” he told Kathleen after everyone was gone and they stood alone on the sidewalk in front of Caesar’s Den.

“What’s that?”

“A cigarette. Can you imagine that? I’ve never smoked in my life but I have this urge to puff on a cigarette.”

“Well, get over it, my dear,” she said.

“Maybe you’d be willing to substitute another vice when we get home,” he suggested.

She gave forth with a wicked laugh. “I’ve been planning that all evening,” she said. “Come on. I parked around the corner.” She’d dropped him off at the office that morning and driven to the courthouse for her appearance.

He put his arm around her and held tight as they walked down the street, their gait a little rocky from all the wine, their spirits equally as intoxicated. They turned the corner, waited for passing traffic to clear, crossed, and proceeded down a deserted, dimly lit street.

“It’s down there,” she said, indicating the cream-colored Toyota Camry parked at the end of the block. When they’d almost reached it, Kathleen pulled keys from her purse. “You okay to drive?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

They were within a few feet of the car when a man’s voice said, “Hey, Rotondi!”

Phil and Kathleen turned in the direction of the voice, which came from behind a tree. Its owner stepped out of the shadows. “Hey, Rotondi,” he repeated. “Remember me?”

Phil ignored him and moved Kathleen closer to the car.

“You bastard!” the man said.

“Look, fella, I suggest that—” Rotondi said.

The man moved quickly to cut off their path to the Toyota. Now the handgun he wielded was visible.

Rotondi squinted to better see his face.

“You put me away six years ago, Rotondi. Remember? Paulie Sims?”

“Get in the car,” Rotondi said to Kathleen. He said to the gunman, “Yeah, I remember you, Paulie. What the hell do you think you’re doing with the gun? Put it down before you end up in bigger trouble.”

“You and your cop buddies planted that evidence on me and used it to put me away.”

“The hell we did,” Rotondi said. “You did the crime and you did the time. Now wise up and get out of our way.”

Sims raised the weapon and pointed it at Rotondi’s head. Rotondi growled at Kathleen, “Get in the car, Kathleen.”

She didn’t move.

He turned to Sims. “You’ve got a beef with me, Paulie, fair enough, but this is my wife. She had nothing to do with your case, so let her get in the car. You and I can talk this out.” Rotondi extended his hand. “Give me the gun, Paulie. Give it to me!”

The tranquil silence of the side road exploded with gunshots, one after the other, a staccato barrage of bullets, the smoke and smell of cordite drifting up into the still night air. The
pop-pop-pop
of the gun was replaced by an anguished scream from Kathleen and a tortured groan from Rotondi as pain pulsated through his leg, causing it to collapse beneath him. He hit the sidewalk face-first, breaking his nose and taking the skin off his cheek. He twisted his head to see their assailant run out of sight. Rotondi turned in Kathleen’s direction. She was sprawled on the sidewalk six feet from him, on her back, legs akimbo, hands crossed defensively over her face.

“Kathleen,” Phil said. He tried to stand but his one leg was useless. He crawled toward her, a hand outstretched, saying her name over and over. He hauled himself on top of her body and pushed her hands away from her face. “Kathleen, say something. Say something, damn it!”

No words came, nor would they ever come from her again.

“…and so I spent two months in rehab for my leg,” Rotondi told those gathered in Mac and Annabel Smith’s apartment. “They arrested the punk the next morning. He’s doing life without parole. My sentence? They almost had to take the leg off, but the surgeons were great.”