Murder on K Street Read online

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY MARGARET TRUMAN

  COPYRIGHT

  For my son Thomas; my daughter-in-law Nina;

  and my grandchildren Olivia and Truman

  ONE

  Washington smells good in springtime. The air is fresh and pure. The sweet scent of cherry blossoms is carried by gentle breezes from the Potomac and Chesapeake Bay, lifting spirits and promising renewal. Until…

  Until spring fades to summer, turning the nation’s capital into a domed stadium that traps the heat and humidity—as well as the stench of whatever political scandal might linger from the winter—and releasing foul vapors from the swamp on which the city is built, stinging the nostrils and eyes and erasing memories of springtime.

  This was one of those summer nights in Washington, D.C.

  The greenish, putrid outside air could be seen through the windows of the Mayflower Hotel’s Colonial Room, where in air-conditioned comfort Illinois senior senator Lyle Simmons was winding up. Simmons was a speechwriter’s dream: He was comfortable using the humorous asides sprinkled throughout his prepared text, delivering them as though they were impromptu. He had Johnny Carson’s body language down to a T, and had mastered some of Jack Benny’s timing. Add to those techniques the widest, most engaging smile in the U.S. Senate, which he displayed with ruthless precision; his imposing height (two inches over six feet); a rich baritone voice; a full head of gray hair made less so with judicious use of darkening highlights; and a bespoke wardrobe, mostly from London, that draped nicely over his lean frame; and you had a potent package. His detractors and off-the-record colleagues felt that he talked too much, giving the impression that he was more comfortable speaking than listening—on-the-record journalists had occasionally used such terms as motormouth and blowhard—but most members of the press were kind: He worked hard at cultivating media approval, and reporters knew that for the most part, they would get the straight scoop from him. For the most part.

  He stepped down from the podium and was faced with dozens of outstretched hands and eager voices. “Great speech, Senator,” someone said. “Keep telling it like it is.”

  Simmons’s chief of staff, Alan McBride, flanked the senator on one side, his press secretary, Peter Markowicz, the other, as they slowly navigated through knots of the faithful toward the room’s exit. One of many lobbyists in attendance stopped Simmons, grabbed his hand, slapped him on the back lightly, and said into his ear, “You know what I’m waiting for, Senator?”

  “What’s that, Bruce?”

  “The day when I don’t have to call you Senator Simmons anymore.”

  “What?” Simmons said, adopting an exaggerated frown.

  “I’m looking forward to when I can call you President Simmons.”

  Simmons’s grin returned. “Not too loud, Bruce. Some blogger might think I’m running.”

  Bruce stayed close to the senator’s ear as they continued toward the door. “Truman declared his candidacy right here in this hotel,” he said. “Stayed here, too, for the first few months of his presidency.” Closer to the ear now, and sotto voce. “I need time with you about the prescription bill.”

  “Call Alan tomorrow,” Simmons said, breaking away from the lobbyist to greet others, his aides in lockstep.

  They reached the Grande Promenade, the expansive lobby through which a Who’s Who of political heavyweights had passed since the Mayflower opened in 1925: Truman; before that FDR, who lived there pre-inaugural and who wrote his famous “We have nothing to fear but fear itself” speech while in Suite 776; and the FBI’sJ. Edgar Hoover, who ate lunch at the hotel every day for more than twenty years, his daily menu choices never varying and considerably more bland than his personality—buttered toast, cottage cheese, grapefruit, salad, and chicken soup.

  Simmons’s final stop before reaching Connecticut Avenue was to greet a Senate colleague coming from the Café Promenade with his wife and daughter. “How did it go?” he was asked.

  “Couldn’t have gone better. Enjoy dinner?”

  “The seafood buffet was superb,” replied his wife.

  “You two take care,” Simmons said. “See you tomorrow.”

  Standing at the hotel’s doors was McTeague. He’d been Senator Simmons’s driver and bodyguard since Simmons had arrived in Washington years ago as a freshman member of the House of Representatives. A car and driver spoke of the family fortune that had been behind Simmons’s successful run for Congress. There would be no scrambling to find inexpensive temporary housing, as many members of the House needed to do. Simmons and his bride had immediately purchased a three-story town house on the outskirts of Georgetown, where they quickly established themselves as frequent, lavish party-givers when Congress was in session. During his fourth term, they sold the house at a handsome profit and bought a sprawling, hilltop Georgian colonial in the Foxhall section, with sweeping views of the city. After almost a million dollars in renovations and additions, it had become a proper home for the congressman who would become the senator from Illinois.

  Walter McTeague was a large man with a ruddy, puffy face and a nest of small gray curls atop his head. He wore what he always wore while on duty—black suit, black shoes, black tie, and white shirt. He saw Simmons and his aides approaching and pulled in his stomach and stood taller. Simmons dispatched McBride and Markowicz: “We’ve got that seven o’clock meeting on staffing. And don’t forget to tell Chris Matthews or his producer that I want a more comfortable chair the next time I’m on.”

  He watched them greet McTeague and disappear through the outer doors.

  “Hello, Walter,” Simmons told his driver. “Sorry to have kept you. It ran longer than I anticipated.”

  “No problem, Senator,” McTeague replied in a husky voice. Simmons knew that the former D.C. cop was a heavy smoker, which was all right as long as he didn’t foul the air in the four-door black Mercedes, or in the house while waiting for him.

  McTeague had left the Mercedes running to keep the interior cool.

  “Hot as Hades,” Simmons muttered as they stepped out onto Connecticut Avenue. “Washington should have thought of that when he decided to plop the nation’s capital here.”

  McTeague laughed as he opened one of the rear doors and the senator climbed in.

  “Home?” McTeague asked after he’d settled behind the wheel.

  “As fast as possible. Put on the news.”

  Simmons leaned back against the leather seat, closed his eyes, and took in what the WTOP radio guy said. News but no news. Nothing earth shattering, nothing directly affecting him. But he silently reminded himself that if he did seek his party’s nomination for pr
esident, everything would affect him, every niggling little incident across the nation and the world. Was it worth it? He was too tired at the moment to try answering that question.

  They pulled into the long, circular driveway and came to a stop by the front door. Sensors picking up their arrival had activated a battery of halogen outdoor fixtures that bathed the front of the house in harsh white light.

  “What’s the schedule for tomorrow?” McTeague asked, turning on an interior light and twisting to face the senator.

  “I have to be at the Capitol by ten to seven.”

  “Mind a personal comment, sir?”

  “When have I ever minded a personal comment from you, Walter? Shoot.”

  “You’re looking tired these days, sir. So is Mrs. Simmons. I saw her today when I delivered the dry cleaning. You and the wife ought to get away for a while. Rest up.”

  Simmons smiled, leaned forward, and patted McTeague’s arm. “I’m sure Jeannette would agree with you wholeheartedly. I’ll mention it to her.”

  McTeague came around, opened the rear door, and escorted Simmons up a set of wide marble steps. Simmons had given up trying to dissuade him from doing that; the former cop took his job seriously, both as driver and as protector. He was armed, his Glock nestled in a holster beneath his left armpit.

  “Go on home,” Simmons said. “Best to your wife. Sorry for the early start these mornings.”

  “Not a problem, Senator. You have a good night.”

  Simmons watched the burly McTeague drive off. He was happy to have the man. Wealthy members of Congress, such as himself, were able to provide and pay for their own personal security and transportation. Others were on their own.

  He looked up at thousands of gnats and other nocturnal insects swarming around the halogens. Constituents looking for favors, he thought. Staring directly at the lights blinded him momentarily, and he shifted his gaze to the massive set of doors leading into the house.

  He drew a breath, inserted his key, and pushed open one of the doors. The marble foyer, larger than the first floor of most people’s tract houses, was dark; a chandelier at the top of a winding staircase cast a modicum of yellow light. He closed the door behind him. He didn’t bother looking at the alarm system’s keypad because he knew the alarm hadn’t been activated. Jeannette seldom had it on when she was home, especially at night.

  “What good is a security system if you don’t use it?” he’d asked her repeatedly.

  “Let the bogeyman in,” she had said defiantly. It was the alcohol talking, he knew. Too many alcohol-fueled words lately.

  He thought he heard something. “Jeannette?”

  There was no reply.

  He reached for a switch that operated the foyer lights, and flipped it up. The explosion of light from wall sconces and recessed fixtures and two chandeliers came to life so suddenly that it was almost audible.

  He turned to go to the kitchen at the rear of the house where, if she’d remembered, she would have put the day’s mail on a large island in the center of the room. He looked to his left. At first, it didn’t register. He narrowed his eyes to bring it into focus, then took tentative steps in its direction. He closed his eyes and rubbed them. Opened them. Another few steps, his shoes sounding unnaturally loud on the marble floor.

  He said nothing as he approached the body. He stopped a few feet from it, lowered his head and bit his lip. The air-conditioning provided what seemed to be an arctic blast of frigid air.

  “Jeannette?” he said softly, leaning closer. He extended his fingertips in the direction of her face and neck, but withdrew before making contact.

  “Good God,” he muttered as he turned his back on it and went into a library off the foyer to his right, where he slumped behind the handsomely inlaid cherry desk. The outdoor lights poured through a window behind him. He switched on a desk lamp and stared at the phone. After drawing several deep breaths, he slowly removed the cordless unit from its cradle, dialed, and waited. He broke off, then entered another phone number. The ringing phone assaulted his ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Neil? It’s Dad.”

  “Oh. Hi. How’d the speech go?”

  “It went fine. Neil, there’s been an accident here at the house.”

  “An accident? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. It’s Mother.”

  “What happened?”

  “She’s—she’s dead.”

  “What? Dead? How? What?”

  “Get over here, Neil.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure about what? That Mother is dead? Of course I’m sure.”

  “You—?”

  “Yes, I confirmed it.”

  “It’ll take me a few minutes. I’m in my pajamas and—”

  “I don’t give a damn about pajamas. Be here!”

  His second call was to his chief of staff, who’d just walked through the door of his own home. There was no talk of pajamas with Alan McBride. Simmons instructed him to summon Press Secretary Markowicz and get him rolling.

  He paused before making his third call, inhaling as though sucking in much-needed oxygen. He tapped his fingers on the phone before dialing a two-number direct-dial code.

  “Phil. It’s Lyle.”

  “This is a pleasant surprise,” Phil said.

  “But with unpleasant news. Jeannette is dead.”

  “Say again.”

  “It’s Jeannette. She’s dead.”

  “My God, Lyle,” Rotondi said. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. She may have fallen and hit her head. There’s blood. Or someone might have bludgeoned her. I don’t know. Can you come?”

  “Of course. Have you called nine-one-one?”

  He paused. “Yes,” he said, fully aware that he hadn’t. “They’re on their way. Neil has been notified, and some of my staff. I need a friend, Phil.”

  “I’m leaving now.”

  Simmons returned to the foyer and cast a quick, sideways glance at his wife’s body. He stepped outside and called 911. “This is Senator Lyle Simmons. I’m calling from my home.” He gave the address. “My wife has died.”

  “Have you checked for vital signs?” the dispatcher asked.

  “Yes. There’s no sign of life.”

  “Do you know the cause of her death?”

  “No. She’s on the floor of our foyer. There’s blood around her head. She might have fallen, or—or she’s the victim of a homicide.”

  “I’m dispatching police and medical personnel immediately, sir. Please don’t disturb anything at the scene and—”

  Simmons disconnected the call. He returned inside, went into a powder room off the foyer, and checked his appearance in the mirror. Satisfied, he went outside again and awaited everyone’s arrival.

  TWO

  Markowicz’s arrival coincided with police and medical vehicles, six of the former, two of the latter, sirens wailing, lights flashing, tossing a garish red-white-and-blue kaleidoscope into the heavy, sullen night air. The official vehicles parked in the circular driveway, engines running; so did the press secretary’s. Two officers jumped out and took up positions at either end to keep the uninvited from pulling in behind them. Two other uniformed officers were first up the steps to where Simmons stood, followed by white-coated EMTs.

  “Where is she?” an officer asked.

  “In there,” Simmons said, nodding toward the door.

  “It’s the senator,” one of the emergency medical technicians said to his partner, as though he’d spotted a rock star.

  “I can’t believe this,” Markowicz said on reaching his boss.

  “I know.”

  “I heard the call on my car monitor,” Markowicz said. “The press will be here any minute.”

  “I’ll need to make a statement,” said Simmons.

  “Negative, Senator. No one will expect a statement from you so soon.”

  “Still, come up with something.”

  A short, slender As
ian American man approached; he was wearing a lightweight green suit, dark green shirt, and unfashionably narrow lighter green tie. “Senator Simmons?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Detective Chang, MPD.”

  Simmons nodded and extended his hand; the detective didn’t offer his in return.

  “Is there anyone in the house besides the victim?” Chang asked.

  Simmons’s expression was puzzled. “No, of course not. Who would be there?”

  “Staff? A housekeeper?”

  “She’s away. What does this have to do with anything?”

  Chang ignored the comment. “The victim is your wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excuse me,” Chang said and entered the house, where the first two officers on the scene had secured the foyer.

  “There’s Alan,” Markowicz said, pointing to the chief of staff’s car that had just arrived. Other vehicles, including a TV remote news truck, roared up behind. “I’ll head them off,” the press secretary added, bounding down the steps in their direction.

  McBride replaced him at the senator’s side. “I’m so sorry, Senator.”

  “It’s quite a shock, Alan. Quite a shock.”

  “She was murdered?”

  “I don’t know. There’s a lot of blood. The police are inside now.”

  McBride looked down at other cops in uniform, who had fanned out to maintain a security line between the house and those arriving on the road below. Markowicz, with the aid of an officer, had corralled the press.

  “She was—she was dead when you got home?” McBride asked.

  Simmons nodded, his lips tight.

  “Someone broke in?”

  “I don’t know, Alan.” Simmons’s annoyance at being asked a question for which he had no answer was palpable.

  McBride had worked for the senator since his first six-year term, and read his boss. No more questions.

  “I called Neil,” Simmons said. “He’s on his way.”

  “Good. What about Polly?” He knew that asking about Simmons’s daughter was a mistake the moment the words left his mouth. She and her father had been noisily estranged for years.

  “There’s time for that,” Simmons muttered.

  Detective Chang emerged from the house as Neil Simmons arrived and joined his father and chief of staff. Chang looked at the two newcomers.