Murder on K Street (19 page)

Rotondi listened patiently, something at which he’d always been good.

“She was having trouble with booze,” Simmons announced.

“How much trouble?” Rotondi asked, knowing the answer.

“It wasn’t always evident,” Simmons said. “It was being alone that contributed to it, that I know. That was one of the reasons I tried to convince her to join me in some of my travels. Showing up alone at fund-raisers always raised eyebrows with the press. I suppose the detectives who were here heard the rumors, too, and are making a big deal out of it.”

“You said the ME is releasing Jeannette’s body, and that you’re setting up a memorial service. Any idea when that will be?”

“After I get back from Chicago. That’s what I wanted to speak with you about, Phil. I’m due out there day after tomorrow to meet with an exploratory committee, and to attend a fund-raiser.”

“Exploratory committee?” Rotondi said. “For a run?”

Simmons nodded. “Strictly preliminary, Phil, and hush-hush. Surprised?”

Rotondi’s laugh was sardonic. “Why would I be surprised? You’ve been running for the White House since poly sci one.”

“What do you think?”

“About you running for president? Sure, why not?”

“That’s hardly a ringing endorsement.”

“I’m not into ringing endorsements these days—for anything.”

“You know the problem with you, Phil?”

“I have a leg that doesn’t work the way it should.”

“Besides that. Your problem is that you know me too well. That should make me uncomfortable.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No. You’re the only person in my life who won’t let me get away with anything, and that’s good. I need people who’ll be straight with me, tell it like it is. Want to work on my campaign?”

“No.”

Simmons laughed. “Maybe you’ll change your mind down the road. Come with me to Chicago.”

“Why?”

“Give you a chance to see our old stomping grounds. How long since you’ve been back?”

“Six months.”

“I’d love to have you with me, Phil. I’d really appreciate it. I’m staying at the Ambassador East. That’s where we’ll have the exploratory committee meetings. But it won’t be all work. There’ll be plenty of time to enjoy a drink in the Pump Room. Remember the nights we spent there downing a few?”

“Nice place.”

“So you’ll come?”

“What about your staff?”

“They’ll be with us, but that’s what they are—staff. I need a friend.”

While Simmons had been making his pitch for Rotondi to accompany him, Rotondi had been silently processing the request. He wasn’t interested in tagging along for the ride just to be Simmons’s listening post, but it occurred to him that there was another reason to spend time in Chicago.

“Sure, Lyle. Why not?”

“Great. Neil has arranged for a private jet through the Marshalk Group. Sure you can tear yourself away from your lady friend–chef for a few days?”

“I never see her anyway,” Rotondi said. “She feeds half of Washington.”

“Marriage on the horizon?”

Rotondi ignored the question. “I spent time this afternoon with Marlene,” he said.

Simmons screwed up his face. “Why?” he asked.

“What do you mean
why
? I always got along with Marlene and—”

“That doesn’t say much for you. She’s been nothing but trouble, always filling Jeannette with poisonous thoughts about me and our marriage.”

Rotondi was mute.

“Despite that, I’ve been damn good to her, Phil, damn good! If it weren’t for me, she’d be a bag lady out on the street.”

“She was Jeannette’s sister,” Rotondi said, stating the obvious.

“Yeah, I know, you marry into a family you take the good and the bad, the bitter with the sweet. Well, believe me, my friend, Marlene Boynton is the bad and the bitter all rolled into one. Hungry?”

“Not particularly.”

“Let’s grab something anyway and talk about more pleasant things. Charlie Palmer’s? I’m in the mood for red meat.”

While U.S. senator Lyle Simmons and former prosecutor Philip Rotondi, college roommates who loved the same woman, dined at one of Washington’s signature steak houses—a truffle-basted filet mignon for Simmons, salmon with corn ravioli and corn ragout for Rotondi—another Simmons was sitting down for a family dinner at home. Neil Simmons’s wife, Alexandra, had ordered in Chinese, which those reporters still stationed outside the house dutifully noted, and envied.

Neil had spent most of the day at his office at the Marshalk Group, trying to focus on business while fending off calls from the media. He’d almost lost it while approaching his driveway when a TV cameraman stood in his way to videotape him through the windshield. For a split second, he considered taking his foot off the brake and jamming the accelerator to the floor. But discretion overcame temptation, and he waited until the cameraman finally stepped out of the way.

“I can’t take this anymore,” Alexandra said as she and Neil emptied plastic containers into serving dishes.

“It’ll be over soon,” Neil said, giving a salad he’d made a final toss. “Once the memorial service is behind us, the vultures will go away.”

His assurances didn’t appease her. She fairly snarled as she touched the toaster oven in which she’d heated up General Tsao’s chicken, and burned her finger. “This is so harmful to the boys’ psyches,” she said, running cold water over her burn. Alex Simmons had read virtually every book ever written on the psychology of raising children.

“They’ll survive,” he said.

“You don’t care, do you, Neil?”

“Care about what, that some bastard murdered my mother?”

“I’m not talking about that. I am talking about getting the ghouls outside to go away. Jesus, Neil, your father is a United States senator. Why doesn’t
he
do something?”

“What’s he supposed to do, Alex, call out the National Guard to arrest them? Drop it. Like I said—”

“Your sister called today.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m telling you now.”

“What did she say?”

“The usual.”

He stopped portioning out the salad and asked, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“She has that phony accent and—”

“What accent? Polly doesn’t have an accent.”

“She puts it on, as though she’s somebody special.”

“Look, Alex—”

“You know what, Neil? Maybe she’s the smart one, putting as much distance as possible between herself and your father.”

Neil shouted, “Damn it, Alex, why do you always have to—?”

“Are you and Daddy fighting again,” their older son asked from where he’d been watching and listening in the doorway.

Alex wrapped her arms about the boy. “No, darling, Daddy and I are having a discussion, that’s all. A grown-up discussion.” She glared at Neil and angrily carried plates of food to the dining room.

Later that night, after the dishes had been cleared and they had gone their separate ways within the house, Neil carried a snifter of brandy to a small room he used as a home office, closed the door, put on a CD of hits from the 1980s, raised the footrest in the recliner, and closed his eyes. He wasn’t sleepy. Closing his eyes was like bringing down a curtain on a particularly unpleasant and distasteful stage play in which he’d recently starred.

His father’s anger at him for having told the police that his parents’ marriage had ups and downs was misdirected. He, Neil, had actually been kind in his gentle evaluation to the police of how Mom and Dad got along. In truth, their relationship had deteriorated dramatically in recent years, and their only son had a front-row seat.

His mother’s increasing isolation and drinking had been of great concern to him. He hadn’t confronted her directly about it, afraid that it would provoke anger. But he found himself dropping by the house more than usual, casual visits during which he observed her behavior. He considered bringing his concerns to his father, but opted not to do that, either. While his mother could demonstrate anger when provoked, it was a mild breeze compared with his father’s tsunamis.

The chats he’d had with his mom over the past six months had been cursory, nothing substantive, passing-the-time sort of conversations. But two weeks before her murder, that had changed.

He’d called ahead and said he wanted to swing by to pick up a gardening tool from the shed at the back of the property. They’d talked on the phone for a few minutes, and he sensed, as he often had, that she’d been drinking, not enough to cloud her mind but sufficient to affect her speech. He parked on the drive in front of the house and let himself in with a key he always carried.

“Mom?” he called.

He didn’t receive an answer, which concerned him. He walked through rooms on the first floor but didn’t find her. He went upstairs and looked into the master bedroom. The door to a small room off the bedroom that she used as her office was slightly ajar. He approached and opened it more fully. She was seated in a wing chair, her back to him. No lights were on. The only illumination came through a window whose yellow drapes had been parted.

“Mom?”

“Oh, Neil,” she said, turning.

“Are you okay?” he asked, coming to her and sitting on a hassock that matched the chair’s upholstery. He reached out, took her hand, and looked into her eyes. They were moist; some of her makeup had run.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She straightened as though a steel rod had been rammed into her back. Her eyes opened wide. She said in a strong voice, “Neil, I want you to listen to me.”

“Of course I’ll listen to you,” he said. “I always do.”

“You’ve got to get away from the Marshalk Group. Resign. Do it now!”

If he’d conjured a dozen things she might be poised to say to him, this would not have been on the list. He’d known since accepting the presidency of the Marshalk Group that she didn’t approve, although she’d never said it directly. The scandals surrounding K Street’s lobbyists, with disgraced lobbyist Jack Abramoff leading the way, had dominated the media and Washington conversation for many months. Pictures of corrupt members of Congress delivering staunch resignation speeches, or being photographed leaving courthouses in which they’d been convicted of crimes, aided and abetted by smarmy lobbyists, had brought them unwelcome fame. Neil’s father vigorously defended his son’s decision to abandon a good management job at a bank for the presidency of the Marshalk Group, citing lobbyists as valuable contributors to the legislative process. Unstated, but blatantly obvious to Jeannette, was the fact that the senator, her husband, had choreographed Neil’s move to Marshalk for his own self-interest. She cursed both men in her life, her husband for manipulating his son for personal gain, and Neil for not having the backbone to stand up to his father and make his own decisions.

“I don’t understand,” Neil said.

“I know that, Neil,” she said. “That’s the problem. You don’t understand what’s likely to happen to you if you stay there.”

His carefully blank expression told his mother that he still didn’t understand, although that didn’t necessarily reflect the entire truth. While he was kept out of the loop on many issues within the Marshalk Group—and resented it at times—he couldn’t help but be aware of mounting tensions. The lobbying scandals that had rocked K Street had caused Rick Marshalk and his trusted lieutenants to become more secretive than usual. Jack Parish, the former MPD detective who headed up Marshalk’s security operations, had ratcheted up internal security procedures, including frequent sweeps of the offices in search of electronic listening devices. A new set of rules had been enacted regarding the safeguarding of documents and e-mails. Everything was to be secured at night in new safes Parish had purchased and installed. There had also been a memo circulated in which the importance of not talking about Marshalk business outside the offices was stressed. World War II’s “Loose lips sink ships” and the Las Vegas tagline “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” were quoted.

Jeannette Simmons slid forward in her chair and grasped Neil’s hand in both of hers. Her expression and tone cried out for his attention. “I’ve learned things about your father and what he’s been doing that upset me terribly.” She sat back again and waved her hands in front of her. “I know, I know,” she said. “Politics and politicians have to cut deals now and then to get legislation through and win elections. But your father has crossed the line, Neil, and he’s using the Marshalk Group to do it.”

“What are you talking about, Mom? Are you saying he’s doing something illegal?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“What?”

“He’s involved with some very bad people, Neil. So is Marshalk.”

“Who? What bad people?”

“It doesn’t matter. What
does
matter is that you leave Marshalk as quickly as possible before you become tainted by it—or worse.”

He stood, went to the window, and stared outside, his fingers kneading the drape’s heavy fabric. Hearing that his father might be involved in something unlawful, and with unsavory people, was nothing new to him. Those rumors came and went with regularity in Washington, a city driven by such speculation. His father’s legislative deals cut with fellow senators often raised eyebrows. His end runs around the ever-shifting Senate ethics and campaign contribution rules and regulations elicited cynicism, in some cases outright scorn, from those on the other sides of the aisle and like-minded press. And there was the salacious rumor about his having had an affair with a Chicago woman with reputed ties to organized crime, and allegations that as a result he’d gotten into bed not only with her but with
them
, too.

Until that moment, however, Neil had never been directly confronted with his father’s transgressions, by anyone, let alone his mother. He turned and said, “I wish you’d be more specific.”

“I will be if I have to. I have the proof, Neil. I know what I’m talking about. Believe me. Someone has given me documents that prove what I’m saying.”

He cocked his head but didn’t voice his next question.
What would prompt her to do that? When would she feel it was necessary?