Murder on K Street (28 page)

“Not Marshalk. Simmons? Yeah, I care about him.”

“Are you trying to protect him?”

Rotondi shook his head and sipped his Scotch. “I’m not out to protect anybody, Kala. I just need to know the truth. Simmons’s murdered wife, Jeannette, and I were close.”

“Oooh,” she said with a deep, provocative laugh. “Tell me all about it.”

“Another time, Kala. Get back to the story. Who sent this material to Simmons’s wife? This weasel, Silva?”

“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.”

“H
ow did your meetings go this afternoon?” Rotondi asked Simmons when they met in the Pump Room.

“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 squeeze his hand, slap his back, and whisper in his ear. The senator treated each one as though he or she were the only person in the room, a gift unto itself. Some women were openly and inappropriately flirtatious, which Simmons handled with characteristic aplomb. It wasn’t his good looks that invited such behavior, Rotondi knew. It was the power he exuded. Kissinger had been right. Power was, indeed, a mighty aphrodisiac.

Like everyone else in the room, Rotondi found himself at times swept up in his friend’s oratory. But now and again he would remember the file of destructive information sitting in a drawer in his suite, concealed beneath shorts and socks. His conversation with Kala Whitson had put things in better perspective for him. According to her, the Justice Department was poised to come down on the Marshalk Group, and by extension his friend the Illinois senator. There was nothing he could do to head that off; nor was he sure he would if he could. Obviously, he could share what he had with Simmons and at least give him a heads-up, providing him some time to plan a counteroffensive. But there was more than a few people’s political future at stake.

There was Jeannette’s murder.

What part did the package of material Jeannette received from Joey Silva, “the weasel,” play in her murder? Rotondi had been grappling with that question since the day she was killed. Who would be hurt the most should that information become public? The choices were easy. Her husband, certainly. Rick Marshalk and his lobbying firm. Neil Simmons.

The next question was: Who knew Jeannette had come into possession of the photos and documents? According to her, she hadn’t told her husband, but had intended to talk with Neil about it. Which didn’t mean that the senator didn’t know. It was conceivable that his son had brought it up with him, or that Jeannette had done the same but chose to not tell him, Rotondi, that she had. Too, mobsters behind the laundering of money through Marshalk and one of its eventual recipients, Senator Lyle Simmons, had executed Joey Silva because of his double-dealing. They certainly had reason to make sure Jeannette never had a chance to reveal the material about their connection with her husband and the Marshalk Group. Had they dispatched someone to silence her? The more Rotondi thought about it, the more plausible it became.

He joined Simmons and his two staff members in the limo for the ride back to the Ambassador East. McBride and Markowicz were, of course, generous in their praise of the boss’s performance that night.

“What did you think, Phil?” Simmons asked.

Rotondi smiled. “You were great, Senator. Not good but great.”

Simmons suggested getting together for a nightcap but Rotondi declined. They were scheduled to fly back at seven in the morning, and his leg had been particularly bothersome that night. He stripped down to his shorts and turned on the TV. After a few local stories, the anchor shifted to Washington:

“We’ve just learned that the police investigating the murder of the wife of senior Illinois senator Lyle Simmons have come up with what an anonymous source says is a ‘major development in the case.’ Senator Simmons was here in Chicago tonight addressing a fund-raising dinner. In an unrelated story, we have learned that Simmons spent this afternoon huddled with political advisers about his expected candidacy for president. A spokesman for the senator, his press secretary Peter Markowicz, denied that the meeting was for that purpose. In other news—”

Rotondi called Emma, who’d just returned from that evening’s job.

“How’s it going?” she asked before he could pose a question.

“Here? Fine. Hey, I just heard on TV that the police are announcing some sort of news about Jeannette’s murder.”

“I heard that, too, but I don’t know any more than you do. Hold on a sec. There’s a message on my machine.”

Her answering machine sat next to the phone, and he could hear the incoming voice: “This is Mac Smith, Emma. I know that Phil is in Chicago with the senator, but it’s important that I speak with him. If you are in touch with him, please have him call me. I’ll be up until midnight, and here all day tomorrow.” He left his number slowly, and repeated it. Among many life’s annoyances for Mackensie Smith were people who rattled off their phone numbers when leaving messages.

“I’ll call him when we get off,” Rotondi said.

And he did.

M
ac Smith had spent that afternoon grilling Jonell Marbury. His fiancée, Marla, tried to not interject but failed enough times to prompt Smith to ask her to leave the room on one occasion. They were joined later in the day by Annabel, who’d been at her gallery in Georgetown processing recent purchases of several pre-Columbian artifacts.

“Go over it again,” Mac said to Marbury. “I know, I know, you don’t feel there’s anything left to tell. But sometimes repetition generates information that was forgotten in previous versions.”

Marbury sighed.

“More coffee?” Annabel asked.

“Please.”

Marla, who’d returned, paced the room as a substitute for intervention into the conversation.

“I’ll start from the beginning again,” said Marbury. He recounted his visit to the Simmons house to deliver the envelope given him by his boss, Rick Marshalk.