Murder on K Street Read online

  Alexandra called for Neil from upstairs. “I’m on the phone with Rick,” he shouted.

  “Neil?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I’ll call you later.”

  “I’ll be waiting, ciao! And I am really sorry about your mom, Neil. We’re all in shock.”

  He next called the Hotel George, a small, chic hotel where he had a close friend in management. “Harry, it’s Neil Simmons…yes, I know…thank you…it’s devastated all of us…my dad?…holding up as well as can be expected…my sister, Polly, is flying in today from California, I need a quiet suite for her…sure, that would be fine…let’s keep it under wraps, okay? She doesn’t need a bunch of reporters camping out there…oh, right, you don’t need that, either…thanks, Harry, I really appreciate this.”

  He dialed McTeague’s cell. “We’re doing okay, Walter,” he said in response to the question. “Look, there’s been a change of plan. Polly’s not coming here to the house. I’ve got her a suite at the Hotel George on Fifteenth Street, Northwest. Take her there. She’ll probably complain, but ignore her. Tell her I’ll explain when I see her. I’d call now but she’s in the air. Thanks, Walter.”

  He considered telling Alexandra that she wouldn’t have to play hostess to Polly after all, but decided not to. Let her stew. He also didn’t bother to tell her he was leaving. He didn’t need another rant on his way out the door.

  The press had been quiet as they maintained their stakeout. At the sight of him exiting the house, they sprang into action, shouting questions, cameramen and still photographers scrambling to get their equipment into place and rolling. He waved them off with a forced smile, clicked open the overhead garage door, climbed into his red Lexus, and carefully backed out to the street, mindful that to run over a member of the Fourth Estate would be efficient but not prudent. One female reporter screamed at him through the window, her face distorted with anger at his refusal to engage her. He managed another smile, thought of Alexandra, and pulled away, tempted to extend his middle finger but thinking better of it. That’s all Dad needs, he thought, a front-page picture in The Washington Post of his son, president of a leading lobbying firm, flipping the bird at a female reporter just hours after his mother’s murder.

  As a young child, he’d been infatuated with the big, strong, sweaty men who picked up the family’s garbage each week, and aspired to one day join their ranks.

  Maybe I should have, he thought as he headed for the highway leading to downtown D.C.

  FIVE

  “Well, well, well, look who’s here. The crusading prosecutor.”

  Morris Crimley, chief of the Washington MPD’s detective division, looked up as Rotondi entered his cluttered office. During his years as an assistant U.S. attorney in Baltimore, Rotondi had served with Crimley on committees looking into crime prevention, and they’d forged a friendship outside those confabs, becoming fierce racquetball opponents and equally committed handball competitors. The physical aspect of their relationship ended, of course, after Rotondi’s injury.

  “Hello, Morrie,” Rotondi said. “I’m still crusading, only now it’s against irresponsible dog owners who don’t pick up after their pooches.” There was no hypocrisy involved in the comment. He’d picked up after Homer that morning. “Mind if I push stuff off a chair and sit down, or will that foul up your filing system?”

  “I never argue with a man with a cane. Push away. How’s the leg?”

  “Lousy.” Rotondi picked up a pile of file folders from a chair, plopped them on top of another pile on another chair, removed his blazer and added that to the mound, and sat. Although he knew he didn’t have to wear a jacket and tie, he usually did when visiting Simmons’s office, which he intended to do after leaving police headquarters. When in Rome…

  “I hear there’s a crime wave in D.C.,” Rotondi said.

  “It’s the heat, Phil. The crime rate always goes up along with the temperature. Hell, you know that. “

  “Simple solution. AC the city.”

  “I’ll pass that along. You’re here because your friend the senator is suddenly a widower.”

  Rotondi nodded. “Any progress?” he asked.

  “Sure. That’s for public consumption. For you, not much, but it’s only been twelve hours for Christ’s sake. Half the department is assigned to the case. Once the bad guys figure that out, the crime rate will go up even higher.”

  Rotondi’s cocked head and raised eyebrows said he wanted to hear more.

  “That’s it, Phil,” Crimley said. “We’re working the case hard, all stops pulled out.”

  “Suspects?”

  “Sure. This stays here?”

  “If you want.”

  “I want.”

  “The senator says he doesn’t like the detective who showed up the night of the murder,” Rotondi said. “Chan?”

  Crimley rolled his eyes up into his head. “It’s Chang, Phil. Charlie Chang. He gets testy when anybody calls him Charlie Chan.”

  “His mother should have thought of that when she named him. He’s lead on the case?”

  “A lead. He’s good, goes by the book, loves details. I wish more of my guys did. The problem with Charlie is that nobody wants to partner with him. The friendly gene wasn’t available when he was born.”

  “What’s he say about the murder?”

  A shrug. “He finds it strange that the senator was dressed like he was ready to give a state-of-the-union address. He had given a talk that night, but no sign that he got down on his knees and wrinkled his pants to see whether the missus was dead. No blood, either.”

  “Lyle Simmons is a prissy sort of guy when it comes to his clothes.”

  “Even when your wife has her head bashed in? You know them both, Phil. How’d they get along, the senator and Mrs. Simmons?”

  “Fine, considering their marriage was high-profile. Plenty of stress.”

  “I hear she wasn’t much involved with his political career.”

  “Jeannette hated politics, hated politicians.”

  “Including her husband?”

  Rotondi’s shaking of his head wasn’t convincing. He winced against a stabbing pain in his leg, shifted position, and asked, casually, “Is Senator Simmons a suspect?”

  Crimley, a barrel of a man with a shaved head and wearing trademark, vividly colored suspenders, laughed. “He’s the spouse, Phil. Always the first suspect. SOP.”

  “He was giving a speech in front of hundreds of people when it happened.”

  “He’s always calling for a lowering of the unemployment level.” Another laugh. “Maybe he hired somebody.”

  “Come on, Morrie. This has all the trappings of a stranger breaking in, or being invited in and killing her. No sign of a robbery?”

  “No. Nothing missing as far as we can tell. No forced entry. We’ve got a couple of the types you’re talking about. A handyman was working around the house yesterday, and there’re a couple of local whack jobs we’re looking at. Remember, Phil, what I say stays here.”

  “Sure. No alarm?”

  “Turned off. At least that’s what the senator says. According to him, his wife didn’t bother activating it most of the time.” Crimley came forward in his chair and pointed an index finger. “You working with the senator on this, Phil?”

  “Working?”

  “Poking your nose into it? Trying to take the heat off him? You’re his best buddy.”

  “That’s right. I don’t know about best, but we are friends. That’s why I’m here.”

  “What’s he like, Phil? I mean, really like?”

  “He’s a—”

  “Think he’ll run for president?”

  Rotondi laughed. “I feel like I’m on Meet the Press. I don’t know whether he’ll run, Morrie. If he does, I’ll—”

  “Think he killed his wife?”

  Rotondi exhaled loudly and grabbed his cane from where he’d hung it on the chair’s arm. “Do me a favor, Morrie.”

  “Sure.”

  “Keep me in
the loop. Unofficially. I’d appreciate it.”

  “To the extent that I can.”

  “Can’t ask for more than that. Thanks for letting me barge in. You can reach me at Emma’s house. You have her number.”

  “Washington’s Julia Child. How is she?”

  “She’s fine, Morrie, just fine.”

  Crimley got up and came around the desk. “Can’t they do anything for that leg of yours?”

  “They did all they could, Morrie. I’m lucky I still have it. Stay in touch.”

  A cluster of media that had begun to mill about outside police headquarters on Indiana Avenue when Rotondi arrived had swelled in size. They eyed him in the hope he might have something to offer about the Simmons murder, but decided he wasn’t worthy of pursuit—until a female reporter called his name. Rotondi turned to see a familiar face closing the gap.

  “Philip Rotondi,” she said. “Remember me? Sue Carnowski from The Baltimore Sun.”

  “Oh, sure. How’ve you been?”

  “Great! I’m with the Post now. You’re retired, right?”

  “Right. Good seeing you, I—”

  “You and Senator Simmons are friends. Right?”

  “A long time ago.”

  She narrowed her eyes, an all-knowing look. Don’t kid a kidder. “Come on, level with me, Mr. Rotondi. What do you know about what happened last night? The murder.”

  Rotondi forced a smile. “Congratulations on your new job, Sue. The Post’s gain, the Sun’s loss. See ya.”

  She followed him to the curb and remained at his side while he looked for a taxi.

  “You just happen to be in D.C. the day after the senator’s wife is killed?” she asked in a voice that said she would accept only the reply she wanted to hear.

  “That’s right,” Rotondi said, spotting a vacant cab and waving his cane at the driver.

  “Have you spoken with the senator since last night?” she asked.

  The turbaned driver pulled up, and Rotondi opened the rear door.

  “How can I reach you?” the reporter asked as Rotondi disappeared into the cab.

  “The Retired Prosecutors’ Home in Florida,” he yelled before closing the door.

  “The what?” she mouthed without sound reaching him.

  He grinned, blew her a kiss, and said to the driver, “The Dirksen Senate Office Building on First and C.”

  Another contingent of press was camped outside the Dirksen building when Rotondi arrived. Hopefully, it didn’t include a reporter who remembered him from his Baltimore days. He nestled into a sheltered area formed by the building’s façade and called Mac and Annabel Smith’s number at their Watergate condo complex. Annabel answered.

  “Phil Rotondi.”

  “Hello, Phil. I was just thinking about you. Emma stopped into the gallery and—”

  “She told me.”

  “And, of course, because of the dreadful thing that happened to Jeannette Simmons. Are you in town because of it?”

  “Afraid so. I thought we might find some time to get together. I don’t know your dinner plans this week, but—”

  “Free tonight?”

  “As a matter of fact, we are. I checked Emma’s calendar this morning. She’s okay for tonight but tied up for the next four days.”

  “Perfect, if you don’t mind a crowd. We’re having friends in for dinner tonight. You’ll like them. Ironically, he works for the Marshalk Group, the lobbying firm where Neil Simmons is president. I thought they might have to cancel because of what’s happened, but they confirmed just a few minutes ago. Love to have you and Emma join us.”

  “Count us in. How’s Mac?”

  “Good. He’s off playing tennis. I didn’t want him to because of this heat, but he tends to be—how shall I say it?—he tends to be stubborn about some things.”

  “Glad he hasn’t changed.”

  “So am I. Seven?”

  “On the dot.”

  A quick call caught Emma as she was about to leave the house. Rotondi told her of the evening’s plans.

  “Great,” she said.

  “Give Homer a fast walk before you leave, huh? I’ll be home by six.”

  He clicked off and thought of what he’d said—that he’d be “home” by six. Home away from home. Her home. His home was on the Maryland shore. Thoughts about their home were off-limits. They’d agreed soon after deciding they liked each other enough to share a bed that the subject of marriage was never to be mentioned, under threat of decapitation. They’d each been married once before. Rotondi’s wife was dead. Emma’s ex-husband was very much alive and living in New York, although there were times when the thought of attending his funeral was not unappealing.

  A uniformed security guard in the lobby of the Dirksen building called Senator Simmons’s office and was told to send the visitor up. Rotondi passed through a metal detector and rode the elevator to Simmons’s floor. He entered the outer office and encountered a receptionist who’d been with the senator for as long as Rotondi could remember. Because of his seniority, Simmons had one of the largest and more attractive office suites in the building. It was a beehive of activity that morning, and the receptionist greeted him with a nod of the head while juggling multiple phone lines. Rotondi smiled and took a chair. When the receptionist caught a break, she said, “Hi, Mr. Rotondi. Sorry.”

  “I expected to see that phone catch fire in your hand,” he said.

  There was an eruption of rings again. “The senator’s in a meeting. He should be back in a few minutes,” she said. “Urrggh! The press! I’m canceling my Post subscription and cable TV.”

  Rotondi watched as she went back to handling calls. A succession of people, primarily young, passed through the outer office, moving with conviction and purpose. He’d always been interested in the allure of working for a member of Congress or other government bigwig. Rubbing shoulders on a daily basis with Washington’s power brokers was obviously an aphrodisiac to the many young men and women who flocked to Washington in search of reflected importance. Rotondi had known plenty of them during his career, and decided early on that he preferred orgasms of the old-fashioned variety. His disdain for politics hadn’t helped him advance in the Baltimore prosecutor’s office, and he didn’t care. His passion was going head-to-head with the best defense lawyers in the area, and successfully putting most bad guys behind bars. Philip Rotondi’s conviction rate was the highest in the history of the Violent Crimes Section of the Baltimore U.S. attorney’s office.

  He picked up that day’s copy of Roll Call, the publication covering congressional news—Monday through Thursday when Congress was in session, Monday only otherwise—and was into an article on the backstage machinations behind a contentious bit of legislation when Simmons burst through the door, followed by Press Secretary Markowicz, Chief of Staff Alan McBride, and three other staffers. Simmons stopped and said to Rotondi, “Philip, good to see you. Give me ten minutes. We need to talk.”

  Ten minutes later, Rotondi had finished the article he was reading. Simmons’s personal secretary opened the door to his private office and motioned for Rotondi to come in. Simmons was in shirtsleeves and on the phone, his feet up on his immense, custom-crafted teak desk. The walls were filled with autographed photographs of him with a Who’s Who of political heavyweights, top business leaders, and Hollywood, sports, and television celebrities. He motioned for Rotondi to sit, and ended the conversation he was having with “I’ll be damned if I’ll let that amendment sneak its way into the bill. Got that? Good!” He slammed down the receiver, withdrew his feet from the desk, and asked his secretary to leave. When she had, he asked, “What do you hear, Phil?”

  “Nothing you haven’t heard, Lyle. The investigation is barely twelve hours old. I stopped in to see my friend Morrie Crimley at MPD. He says the detective you mentioned, Charlie Chang, is good, a real stickler for details.”

  “I want him off the case.”

  “That’s not your call.”

  “Don’t count on
it. I want back in my house. They tell me maybe this afternoon.”

  “That’d be good. Are funeral plans under way?”

  “I suppose so. I’m leaving that up to McBride and Neil. Polly’s due in today. I wanted her to stay with Neil, but he’s got her at the Hotel George. I suppose that wife of his put the kibosh on Polly staying there. I never will understand what Neil saw in her.”

  Rotondi suppressed a smile. This was vintage Lyle Simmons, blustery in one situation, buttery smooth and conciliatory in others. It often occurred to Rotondi that he should be flattered that one of the Senate’s most powerful members, and a potential future president, would be so open and candid with him, a mark of how close they were. But each time that notion crossed his mind, he reminded himself of Jonathan Swift’s characterization of flattery, terming it “the food of fools.” That his former college roommate was now a national leader meant nothing to him. They were friends, that was all, two men with wildly different views of most things, but with a bond born of time and shared experiences.

  And there was Jeannette.

  “Look, Phil, I’ve got my hands full with Senate business.” Simmons sensed that Rotondi was about to comment, and quickly added, “I know what you’re about to say, Phil, that this isn’t the time for me to worry about things on Capitol Hill. But when is there a good time to put everything else aside and focus on grieving? You knew Jeannette. She was a no-nonsense lady who would have wanted us to forge ahead with our lives.”

  “What do you want me to do, Lyle?”

  “Keep Polly on an even keel while she’s here. I don’t need her using Jeannette’s death as a platform for one of her causes. Stay close to her and—”

  Press Secretary Markowicz knocked, entered, and handed Simmons a sheet of paper. Simmons read it and handed it back. “Sounds fine, Pete.

  “A statement from me thanking everyone who’s shown kindness and understanding,” Simmons told Rotondi, as though seeking approval.