Murder on K Street Page 29

  “And that someone here killed your mother,” Marshalk said, finishing Neil’s thought. “I suppose he’s accusing us of having something to do with Camelia’s death, too.”

  “That’s right,” said Simmons.

  “This guy is sick, Neil. He’s got a screw loose.”

  Simmons swallowed hard against a developing nausea.

  “Are you all right, Neil?” Marshalk asked.

  Simmons looked to where Parish had been sitting. “Where’s Jack?” he asked.

  “He’s on his way back to the party at the museum.”

  Simmons drew a deep, prolonged breath before saying, “I know you didn’t have anything to do with Mom’s death, or Camelia’s, but I have to hear you say it, Rick.”

  “If that will make you feel better, Neil, and put your mind at rest, I’ll be happy to say it. I had nothing to do with either of those unfortunate incidents. Absolutely nothing! Feel better?”

  Simmons nodded. “Thanks, Rick. I think you’re right. Rotondi has a mental problem. Dad has to get away from him, and fast! He’s a danger to him, and to us.”

  “You’re right,” Marshalk said, standing and coming around the desk, where he patted Simmons’s shoulder. “Look, I have to get back to the party, too.”

  “I’ll come,” Neil said.

  “Not on your life,” said Marshalk. “You have a lot on your mind, Neil, including the memorial service. You’ve been through a lot lately, and I need my president to be hale and hearty and rarin’ to go. We have some big things on the horizon. I need you with me all the way. You go on home now to that wonderful family of yours. We’ll touch base in the morning.”

  Marshalk watched Simmons slouch from the room. He turned out the lights and headed downstairs, wished the security guard at the lobby desk a pleasant evening, and stepped outside to K Street, where his car and driver waited.

  Emma Churchill had gone outside for some air; she’d just returned inside when Rick Marshalk came through the door.

  “How’s everything?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Wonderful party,” she replied.

  “It always is with you providing the food, libations, and your radiant personality,” he said, laughing.

  “Thank you,” she said. She glanced at her watch.

  “Looks like things are winding down,” he said. “You go ahead and take care of business. I have a few people to say good-bye to before this breaks up.”

  She watched him join a group and slip into the conversation they’d been having as smoothly as though he’d been there all along. She realized as she walked in the direction of the kitchen that she hadn’t seen him for a while, but chalked that up to the size of the party, and her attention being focused elsewhere. Forty-five minutes later, as she was leaving with some of her crew, Marshalk intercepted her.

  “Thanks again, Emma, for a splendid job.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. Marshalk. Anytime.”

  “Heading home?”

  “After I drop the van at the office. Then it’s home, shoes off, feet up, and a stiff drink.”

  “Enjoy it,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”

  He kept his eyes on her as she went through the door before walking to a secluded area of the large hall. He flipped open his cell phone, and pushed a rapid-dial number. “She just left,” he said.

  THIRTY

  It was Emma’s intention to follow her usual routine: Drive the van to the small industrial building in which she maintained her office, storeroom, and kitchen, refrigerate what perishables were left over, and leave the rest for the morning. But one of her servers, who’d been with her since Emma started the catering company, insisted on helping unload everything.

  “Okay,” said Emma. “Means I can sleep in tomorrow morning.”

  As they brought things in from the van, Emma thought of Phil. What was he doing at that moment? she wondered. She knew that although he’d shared a great deal with her about the envelope and its contents, he’d kept his most private feelings to himself. She’d grown certain that however things were resolved, his relationship with Lyle Simmons and the Simmons family would never be the same. On the one hand, she would be sorry to see that happen. The unraveling of friendships of such duration was always sad. On the other hand, she wondered what price Rotondi had been paying to maintain the relationship.

  “Thanks, Imelda,” she told her employee after they’d emptied the van. “Drop you home?”

  “No, thank you, Emma. I called my husband. He’s on his way. You go. Go on. Go home and rest.”

  Emma got in her car, started the engine, closed her eyes for a moment, opened them, and pulled away. She was exhausted, physically and mentally. Engaging in pleasant chitchat with Rick Marshalk had been a chore because of what she knew about the allegations raised by Rotondi.

  She turned on the radio, tuned to a classical music station, and played Beethoven’s Fifth loud, very loud, to drive those thoughts out of the car through the open windows.

  Would Phil be there when she reached home?

  She assumed he would, and that contemplation brought a smile to her face.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Jack Michael Albert Parish was named after his mother’s brother. That was before Uncle Jack was sent away for thirty years for aggravated assault with the intent to kill. Young Jack’s mother once confided in a neighbor and close friend—as well as their local Catholic priest, who advised that exorcism probably wouldn’t work—that her son, then fifteen years old, had inherited Uncle Jack’s genes. She’d arrived at the conclusion after Jack had been picked up by the police again for vandalism. Previous brushes with the law had involved assault on a classmate, a girl, and breaking into a local soda fountain. Jack’s father, who was fairly well connected in town, managed to negotiate with the victims and their families to drop charges in return for restitution, and none of Jack’s transgressions appeared on any police record.

  He graduated from high school near the bottom of his class and worked a few menial jobs until hearing that the Washington police were actively seeking recruits in the face of rising crime in the nation’s capital. He applied, and to everyone’s surprise was accepted. He became a cop.

  His twenty-year-stint on the force was not without incident. Parish was known as a hothead who too often took it upon himself to mete out his own brand of justice. He wasn’t unique within the department. There were a number of rogue cops who crossed the line, particularly with low-level drug dealers and other public nuisances, who tended to find themselves with bruises and broken bones after being confronted by Parish and those sharing his views. He’d been brought up on charges a few times, but nothing stuck. There were also rumors—and nothing more than that—that he’d killed a drug dealer during a confrontation in a deserted alley. Parish had called dispatch to report that he’d come across the body of an unidentified male. Why Parish had been in that alley raised all sorts of speculation, although there was no physical evidence to point to him as the one who’d crushed the dealer’s head. Those beat cops who worked closely with Parish over the years were convinced that he’d avoided the revolving-door justice system and rid the city of one of its less desirable citizens. Parish denied any involvement, of course, but when kidded about it by fellow officers, he’d smile his crooked smile and wink.

  The truth was, Jack Michael Albert Parish enjoyed hurting people, and after twenty years on the force, his superiors were glad to see him gone.

  He’d hooked up with Rick Marshalk two years ago through Senator Simmons’s driver, Walter McTeague, also a former D.C. cop. There had developed in Washington a club of sorts, its “members” retired police officers offering their services as private drivers and bodyguards. McTeague knew little of Parish’s reputation as a cop, just a few vague rumors that faded with time. When the senator made McTeague aware that Marshalk was looking for a driver who could also provide personal security, McTeague mentioned that Parish, who’d been doing part-time work in those capacities, might be available. He was
, and he signed on. Six months into his employment, Marshalk called him into his office and announced that he was making him his vice president of security, with a salary to match the title. Parish’s grin had never been bigger, or more slanted, than on that day. As far as he was concerned, Rick Marshalk was the smartest, savviest, greatest guy in D.C. and beyond, and he pledged to him on that day that he would do anything Marshalk expected of him. “I’m yours, Rick,” he said as they shook hands on the deal. “Anything you need, just name it.”

  This night, after leaving Rick Marshalk’s K Street offices, he took a cab to Foggy Bottom, where he instructed the driver to let him off two blocks from Emma Churchill’s home. He stood in the shadows of a boutique hotel until his cell phone rang.

  “She just left,” he heard Marshalk say.

  He walked the two blocks to the address on Emma’s card, stood in front of the house, and took in his surroundings. It was a quiet street. He saw no one. Satisfied that he wasn’t being observed, he took quick steps down the driveway, passing a Subaru Tribeca parked off to one side. He proceeded to a door at the rear of the house and peered through one of its windows into a small kitchen illuminated by lights beneath a microwave installed over the stove. The parked Subaru concerned him. Did it belong to this guy Rotondi? Was he inside?

  He tried the door. Locked. He removed a set of jigs on a metal ring from his pocket. He chose one and used it. The door unlocked easily. He slowly pushed it open and focused his hearing. No sound. He quietly closed the door behind him and was about to move to another room when Homer appeared in the doorway.

  “Well, what do we have here?” Parish muttered as he pulled his semi-automatic from its shoulder holster.

  Homer barked twice.

  “Calm down,” Parish said. “You want to go out, huh? Is that what you want?”

  He took a few steps back and opened the door. “Come on, baby, go on out for a walk. Nice night out there.”

  Homer limped toward the door. Parish stepped aside. The dog looked up at him, barked once more, and went outside. Parish quickly shut the door and drew a deep breath. He hadn’t expected to be confronted by a dog. He would have hated to shoot the animal. He liked dogs.

  He found the room off the kitchen to be empty. He explored other rooms. The house was his alone. All he had to do now was wait.

  Emma turned down the radio’s volume as she turned onto her street. She noticed as she pulled into the driveway that no lights other than what she’d left on glowed through the windows. Rotondi wasn’t there yet.

  She parked next to his car, turned off the ignition, and went to the back door. She inserted her key but saw that the door was already unlocked. She shook her head at her failure to lock up before leaving, and entered the kitchen. It didn’t surprise her that Homer didn’t greet her. His hearing had been failing; it took louder noises and voices to rouse him these days.

  She tossed her handbag on the counter and flipped on the overhead lights. Leaving her shoes in the kitchen, she went to the living room and turned on lights there, then headed upstairs to change into pajamas and a robe.

  As she stepped into the bedroom, she paused. She hadn’t seen Homer downstairs and wondered where he’d elected to sleep that night. She was about to retrace her steps down to the living room when a strong hand from behind clamped over her mouth. The sound she emitted was a combination of fright and pain. Parish’s fingers dug into the flesh around her mouth as he used his other hand to grasp her left arm and yank it behind her.

  She struggled, but he was stronger. He brought her down to the floor on her stomach, his knee rammed into her lower back. “You gonna calm down, lady, or do I have to snap your neck?”

  Up until that point, she’d thought only of fighting him off. Now reason replaced valor. She forced herself to relax, which prompted him to loosen his grip. He placed the muzzle of his weapon against her temple, slid off, and turned her onto her back.

  “What do you want?” she managed, fighting to inject calm into her voice. “You want money. You can have it. Just don’t hurt me.”

  “I don’t want your money,” he said. “Your boyfriend has something I need. He’s got an envelope that he shouldn’t have. You tell me where it is and I go on my way. You don’t—”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  He slapped the side of the automatic against her face, cutting her cheek.

  “Where is Rotondi?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  He threatened to strike her again.

  “I don’t know where he went tonight. I swear it. And I don’t know about any envelope.”

  The weapon’s barrel was pushed into her temple again. She squeezed her eyes shut in anticipation of having her brains blown out. As she did, the sound of a car door being slammed shut in front of the house reached them.

  “Sounds like your boyfriend’s home,” Parish said.

  Emma looked up into Parish’s face. His mouth was a slash, a cruel smile that at the moment was more frightening to her than the gun.

  Parish got up, the weapon still pointed at her. “Come on,” he said. “Time to greet your honey.”

  Emma slowly pulled herself to a sitting position. She touched her cheek and observed the blood on her fingertips.

  “Don’t hurt him,” she said, standing unsteadily.

  He came around behind her and again jabbed the gun into her temple. “Let’s go downstairs,” he said. “It’s showtime.”

  Rotondi walked up the driveway toward the rear of the house. He saw Emma’s car and was pleased she was home. He had a lot to tell her.

  The extended time spent with Lyle Simmons in his suite at the Willard had been a roller coaster of emotions and debate. It was as though Simmons had crashed against a wall that he’d always previously managed to circumvent. Over steak dinners delivered to the room, he and Rotondi talked of many things, of their years in college, the situation with Jeannette, Rotondi’s steadfast determination to go his own way, Kathleen Rotondi’s tragic slaying, Polly’s estrangement from her father, and Neil’s meandering adult life. Simmons ricocheted from one extreme to the other. He was, at times, maudlin and filled with remorse about certain aspects of his personal life. Then, without warning or smooth transition, he became belligerent and critical of Rotondi’s life choices, of his rigidity and deep convictions. Rotondi did little talking. His role was as it often was when alone with Simmons—foil, audience, superego.

  There came a time when Rotondi brought the dialogue around to Jeannette’s murder.

  “Marshalk arranged for her killing, Lyle, and framed Jonell Marbury,” he said bluntly.

  “I don’t know this Marbury fellow,” Simmons retorted, “and I have serious trouble believing that anyone at the Marshalk Group would have murdered Jeannette.” When Rotondi started to follow up, Simmons said, “But if what you say is true, whoever was behind it should pay.”

  “What about Neil?” Rotondi asked.

  “Are you suggesting that he was a part of it?”

  “No, I’m not, Lyle, but he is the president of the firm. It will impact him, too.”

  “And you intend to take that information Jeannette got from Chicago, including those disgusting photos, to the police?”

  “I’ve thought a lot about that, Lyle. I don’t see how the photos are relevant to the murder case, unless they provide a motive for you to have had Jeannette killed. I don’t believe that you did.”

  “Then I’d like you to give me those photos, Phil.”

  Rotondi didn’t commit.

  “Neil thinks you intend to blackmail me about them, along with the other accusations about Marshalk funneling dirty money into my campaigns.”

  “Neil is wrong.”

  “Then give the pictures to me. I think I can ride out the laundering charges. Hell, I don’t know where most of my campaign money comes from. I leave that to other people. If someone connected with my campaign knowingly took mob money from Marshalk, I’ll
have his head.”

  There he was, Rotondi thought, playing the politician to the hilt. As long as there was someone else to blame, politicians could always feign ignorance and faulty recall to get off the hook. Sadly, there was never a shortage of lackeys willing to take the rap to protect their superiors, good soldiers with skewed senses of duty.

  “I intend to go to the police in the morning,” Rotondi said, “and lay out for them what I believe. I may need that envelope and what’s in it to help make my point.”

  Simmons finished his drink, patted his mouth with a napkin, got up from the table, and walked to the door. “You do whatever you think you have to, Phil. Not that you need my permission. I just ask that you remember how much we’ve meant to each other over the years.”

  Rotondi left, his mind filled with nothing but.

  He reached the end of the rear of Emma’s house and turned in the direction of the kitchen door.

  “Homer?” he said. The dog sat on the steps wagging his tail at seeing his master.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  Emma’s car was there. She was home. She never would have let Homer out without having him on a leash. Rotondi was adamant about that, obsessive when it came to protecting Homer from harm.

  What was going on?

  A long wire lead used to tie Homer outside was attached to a tree ten feet from the door. Rotondi quickly clipped the dog’s collar to the lead and returned to the driveway, this time staying close to the house as he moved toward the street. He stopped. A pretty fabric shade Emma had purchased just that week was raised a few inches off the sill. Rotondi peered through the opening into the living room. At first, he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Emma was standing in a corner of the room. With her was a man—holding a gun to her head. Rotondi blinked to clear his eyes. He looked again. He wasn’t seeing things.