Murder on K Street (21 page)

She was waiting in the lobby when he arrived.

“You look rested,” he said as they embraced. “And beautiful.” He was being truthful. Jeannette was the sort of woman who would remain beautiful until her dying days. She had lost considerable weight, though, which concerned Rotondi. Had her drinking progressed to the point of not eating regularly?

“Hardly beautiful, Phil, but yes, I am rested.” She stepped back and took him in. “And you look—well, you look terrific.”

“Now that we’ve lavished compliments on each other, let’s go.”

“It’s so peaceful here away from Washington,” she said as they drove to the restaurant. She’d rolled down her window and leaned in its direction, allowing the breeze to whip her hair, which had grown darker with age but was lightened somewhat with streaks recently applied. It was a perfect day on the Eastern Shore, the sky cobalt blue, the air pleasantly warm. They entered the restaurant from the adjacent parking lot and were seated in a secluded booth Rotondi had requested when making the reservation. A young waitress asked if they’d like drinks.

“Extra-dry Beefeater martini, straight up, cold and dry, with a twist.” Jeannette rattled it off like those silly disclaimers at the end of commercials. Phil ordered a glass of house red.

“I’m a purist when it comes to martinis,” she said, laughing. “No vodka for me. Any martini not made with gin isn’t a martini.”

“So I’ve heard,” he said.

Their drinks arrived and they touched the rims of their glasses. “Here’s to you being here,” he said.

“Here’s to my being here,” she repeated. “I’m so glad I am. How’s Homer?”

“He’s good. He hurt his rear leg the other day racing up the stairs and is limping around a little, like me. We make a wonderful gimpy pair when I walk him. No broken bones, according to the vet.”

“What about your leg, Phil? The last time I saw you, you said you were considering another surgery.”

“Ruled it out. The surgeon said it might not do any good, but he’s willing to try. I’d just as soon not provide a practice session for him. How are Neil and Polly?”

Her mood darkened, but she took another sip and lightened up. “They’re okay. Polly said she spoke with you recently.”

He recounted the gist of Polly’s call.

“She’s so passionate about her causes,” Jeannette said. “I admire that.”

Rotondi nodded.

“I wish Neil had some of her passion for something—for anything.”

“Different personalities, Jeannette. Always amazes me how kids from the same parents and upbringing can end up so different.”

“What amazes me is how much Polly is like her father, yet they’re always at each other’s throats.”

“Their relationship still rocky?”

“Worse than that. It breaks my heart.”

“Maybe Polly ought to loosen up, accept Lyle for what he is.”

“Don’t you think I’ve lectured her about that? She’s so stubborn.”

“Like her father,” Rotondi said.

Jeannette finished her drink and motioned for the waitress to bring her another. Rotondi was about to suggest that they skip a second drink and order, but she reached across the table, placed her hand on his, and said, “I lied to you, Phil.”

“Oh?”

“I didn’t come here to see Josie Williams. I came here to see you. I didn’t want to tell Lyle that. And I didn’t come just to enjoy a pleasant dinner.”

Their second round was delivered and she drank. “I need your advice, Phil. I need your help.”

“About what?”

“About what’s happening with Lyle and Neil.”

“I’m not sure my advice is worth much, Jeannette, but I’m a good listener.”

The waitress returned to the table “Care to order?” she asked.

“Maybe we’d better,” Rotondi said. “The place is filling up.”

As Rotondi ate, he watched Jeannette push food around on her plate, taking an occasional nibble between sips of the wine she’d insisted on having with dinner. Aside from a slight thickening to her speech, she showed little effect from the alcohol. Whatever it was that she needed to discuss with him had been forgotten, at least for the moment, and their conversation centered on pleasant topics, nothing weighty. Rotondi proved his claim of being a good listener, going with the flow and reacting to things she said, humorous comments about Washington and how much she disliked living there, a few reminiscences about their college days—without getting into their tangled relationship—and other areas that didn’t demand advice. It was over a rice pudding to share and cappuccinos that she brought the conversation back to something meatier.

“Phil,” she said softly, “Lyle and Neil are in serious trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?”

She started to explain, but he took note of tables in their vicinity that were now occupied. “Maybe we’d better have this conversation someplace more private, Jeannette,” he suggested, motioning for a check.

The husband-owner intercepted them on their way out. “Was everything all right, Mr. Rotondi?” he asked.

“Everything was great,” Rotondi said, slapping him on the shoulder.

“It was delicious,” Jeannette said.

The owner beamed. “That is always good to hear. Come back soon.”

Rotondi drove directly to his condo. Homer greeted them enthusiastically, one hind paw held slightly off the ground. “Poor baby,” Jeannette said, roughing up the hair on his head and neck.

“I’ll put coffee on,” Rotondi said.

“I’d love a drink,” she said.

“Maybe later.”

He left her in the living room while he puttered in the kitchen. When he returned, she was perusing a series of photographs hanging on a wall above a desk, some of them with Kathleen.

“It’s so tragic what happened to her,” Jeannette said.

“I still sometimes have trouble believing it,” he said, setting down on a coffee table in front of a couch two steaming mugs of black coffee, along with a small bowl containing packets of sugar and Sweet’N Low, and a pitcher of half-and-half. “Come, sit,” he said, patting the cushion next to him.

“How is Emma?” she asked when she joined him.

“She’s fine. Busy. Now, you said that Lyle and Neil are in trouble. What do you mean?”

She sat back, leaned her head against the back cushion, closed her eyes, and said, “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Political trouble?”

She came forward. “There’s always political trouble for Lyle, but he seems able to handle that. I’m afraid the sort of mess he’s in goes beyond politics, Phil.”

“Go on,” Rotondi said, sipping his coffee. Jeannette’s remained untouched.

“I received a call a week ago from someone in Chicago.”

“Who in Chicago?”

“It was a man. I don’t know his name. He sounded old.”

“Old?”

“His voice was weak, raspy. Maybe he wasn’t old. Maybe he had a sore throat. I don’t know.”

“What did he say? How did he introduce himself?”

“He didn’t. I mean, he asked if I was Senator Simmons’s wife.”

“
Senator
Simmons wife? That’s the way he put it?”

“Yes. He asked that, and I said I was.”

“What happened next?”

She sighed and reached for her coffee, then withdrew her hand. “I really would love something to drink besides coffee, Phil. I know you think I drink too much, but—”

“Cognac?”

“That will be fine.”

He brought her a small cordial glass one-third filled with Cognac.

“Thanks,” she said, tasting it.

“Let’s get back to what this man from Chicago said to you.”

“He apologized for calling me. He spoke with a strange kind of formality, as if he wasn’t an educated person but was trying to sound as though he was. He apologized to me for—oh, yes, for calling with such bad news.”

“Was it bad news?”

She guffawed and finished the Cognac in a swallow. “It certainly was, Phil. This gentleman—and I’m being generous in labeling him that—this guy threatened me.”

“Physically?”

“Blackmail.”

“Over what?”

“Over what he claimed to know about Lyle and his dealings with the underworld.”

“Whoa, wait a minute. He claimed that Lyle is tied in with organized crime?”

“That’s right. But Phil, he didn’t just claim that. He said he could prove it. He told me I would be receiving a package within a few days with the proof.”

“And?”

“It arrived a day later. FedEx, overnight delivery.”

“What was in it?”

“Damaging evidence backing up what the caller claimed. Copies of checks and e-mails between these people in Chicago and Marshalk, transcripts of recorded conversations, all sorts of damning evidence. Good God, Phil, organized crime has been laundering money through the Marshalk Group, and a lot of that money has ended up with front groups that use it to fund Lyle’s run for the White House.”

“You say the package contained evidence. Can you trust it? Can you trust this man who sent it to you?”

“I don’t know. I want you to see it.”

Rotondi asked, “Why would Lyle get involved with this sort of thing, Jeannette? For money? He doesn’t need money.”

“To run for president of the United States? Come on, Phil. No one has
that
kind of money. It takes hundreds of millions to even have a chance. Besides, you know Lyle isn’t as rich as he was when his father was alive. Before he died, his father made some dreadfully bad real estate investments that almost broke him.”

Rotondi did know. Lyle had confided in him throughout the period of his father’s failing fortunes, and he had attended the senior Simmons’s Chicago funeral, where his bad investments dominated the conversation.

“Excuse me,” Rotondi said. He returned from the kitchen carrying a glass of beer.

“Please,” Jeannette said, indicating her empty glass.

“You sure?” he asked. He was torn. Still, withholding another taste of Cognac wasn’t going to send her straight to AA. He obliged.

“There’s more, Phil,” she said. She put her lips to her glass, made a face, and put it down on the table. “Photographs.”

“In the package?”

“Yes.”

He knew what was coming.

“Pictures of Lyle with a woman. I’ve known about her for a long time, not her name or anything, but I’ve been aware that he was seeing someone in Chicago. The photos are—oh, God, they’re so disgusting. She’s not the only one. I know that for certain. I can’t stand the thought of living with him any longer, Phil. I’m divorcing him.”

“He knows?”

“Oh, I’ve told him, which sends him into a rage. Do you know what he suggested? He suggested that we live separate lives but stay married. He gave me permission to see other men, as long as I was discreet about it and didn’t do anything to reflect poorly on him and his political future.”

The pragmatic Lyle Simmons in full flower.

“Did you show him the package you received from this guy in Chicago?”

“No. I was afraid of how he might react. I wanted to talk to you first.”

She’d been relatively calm up to this point, considering the subject matter. Now, suddenly, as though struck by lightning, she swung around on the couch to face him. Her face was a fright mask. “It’s Neil,” she said. “I’ve got to get him away from Marshalk. He’ll be destroyed along with the rest of them.”

“Do you think Neil knows?” Rotondi asked.

“I haven’t told him any of this, but I intend to.”

“I mean about the Marshalk connections with the mob. He’s there every day. Hell, he’s the president of the firm.”

“He’s a figurehead, Phil, that’s all. Lyle put Neil at Marshalk the way he puts other people at lobbying firms around the city. I don’t know, maybe Neil does know about the money laundering. I’ve got to convince him to sever his ties there, run as fast as he can.” She wrapped her arms about herself and shuddered. “He—the man who called—said that if I didn’t arrange to pay him money, he’d destroy the family.”

Now tears came. Rotondi pulled her close and held tight until the sobbing had ebbed. “I’m sorry,” she said, accepting a tissue from him. “I must look a wreck.”

“You look just fine. How much money does this guy want?” he asked.

“He didn’t say. He told me he’d be in touch after I received the package. I haven’t heard from him again.”

They sat in silence. It was now dusk; without lights on, the living room had grown dim, as though an emotional thermostat had sensed the mood and made adjustments.

“Where’s the package?” Rotondi finally asked.

“In the trunk of my car. I hid it under a lot of stuff.”

“I’ll look at it, Jeannette. I don’t know what good that will do, but maybe I’ll think of something.”

“It’s all so evil,” she said quietly.

Rotondi tended to view evil as having a religious basis, which he eschewed. He’d put away plenty of bad people during his career as a prosecutor, men, and some women, for whom human life was irrelevant. In many of those cases, defense lawyers brought in psychiatrists and psychologists to testify that the accused were mentally ill and therefore not responsible for the heinous acts they’d committed. Rotondi frequently brought in his own shrinks to counteract their testimony, including one in particular with whom he’d forged a close relationship. She’d been a practicing psychiatrist for many years, and possessed what Rotondi considered a healthy disdain for much psychiatric theory, including the definition of insanity. As she often told him, “We’re too quick to label people who do bad things ‘sick.’ The truth is, there are plenty of people who aren’t sick at all. They’re just bad people, and labeling them as sick gives legitimate mental illness a bad name.”

As Jeannette had spun her tale of the call from a man with a raspy voice, and the threat he’d issued, Rotondi couldn’t help but focus on the genesis of the problem, his college roommate, Lyle Simmons. Had Simmons’s lust for power carried him over that line separating unbridled levels of ambition from unlawful behavior—a descent into evil?

“Look,” Rotondi said to Jeannette, “I’m sure this will work out. I’ll take a look at what this guy sent you and figure out where to go with it.”

“I have to talk to Neil.”

“And you should.”

“I don’t know if he’ll listen to me, Phil. If he doesn’t, will you try to get him to see the light? He’s always admired you.”