Murder on K Street

by Margaret Truman

  “You say Polly’s staying at the George. What time does she get in?”

  “Plane lands at Dulles a little after eleven. She always liked you, Phil. I think she’ll listen to you.”

  “All right,” Rotondi said. “I’ll head over to the hotel when I leave here.”

  Simmons walked him to the door, his arm over Rotondi’s shoulder. “I need you, pal. I need someone around who I can trust.” He looked down at Rotondi’s cane. “You think about that night a lot, Phil?”

  “Hard not to, Lyle. Nature has a way of reminding me. If I didn’t say it last night, I’m sorry about your loss.”

  Simmons grimaced. “My loss. There are so damn many euphemisms for death and dying. But thanks. I know I’ll get through this.”

  As Simmons opened the door and Rotondi stepped into the reception area, Neil Simmons arrived, accompanied by two well-dressed men, one white, one black. Neil greeted Rotondi.

  “I’m just leaving,” Rotondi said. “I’m going to the George to be there when Polly arrives.” He looked back at the closed door to the senator’s office. “Your father asked me to.”

  The younger Simmons nodded grimly. “Makes sense. I won’t have any time, with funeral arrangements and all. The police want me to come in for questioning. I told that detective everything I knew last night, but they want more.” He, too, checked his father’s office door before saying, “Has he mentioned anything about Aunt Marlene?”

  “No,” Rotondi answered, not wanting to repeat what the senator had said last night about Marlene being crazy. He looked over at the African American, who’d stepped away to let them have a private conversation. “Jonell Marbury,” Neil said. “I work with him at Marshalk.”

  Annabel Smith had mentioned that one of the dinner guests that evening was a Marshalk employee. One and the same? Probably not. The Marshalk Group, Rotondi knew, was one of D.C.’s largest lobbying organizations, with more than a hundred lobbyists and support staff.

  “I’ll call you after I hook up with Polly, Neil.”

  “Okay. I’m sure Dad appreciates everything you’re doing, Phil. Just having you here is a great comfort to him.”

  Rotondi had never stayed at the Hotel George before, although he knew people who had and who were universal in their praise. He and Emma had eaten at Bistro Bis, the hotel’s restaurant adjacent to the main building, and had enjoyed their visits. This morning, he entered the ultramodern entrance and paused in the lobby to allow the air-conditioning to wash over him. Dominating the space was a colorful Steve Kaufman portrait of George Washington, more a colorful collage against a blow-up background of a dollar bill. That Kaufman was a protégé of Andy Warhol surprised no one. At least it wasn’t a soup can, Rotondi mused. He took a comfortable chair and picked up that day’s paper. Looking back at him from the front page’s lead story was a photograph of Lyle and Jeannette Simmons. Rotondi knew that photo only too well. He’d taken it.

  Rotondi and his wife, Kathleen, had spent a long weekend with Lyle and Jeannette at a Delaware beach resort. The sight of them smiling as though at peace with themselves and the world caused their friend to close his eyes against what threatened to be tears, and to open them only after the threat had passed. Two additional photos accompanied the piece: one of the Simmons home cordoned off and draped with crime scene tape, another a more recent shot of the senator giving a speech sometime, somewhere. Rotondi read:

  Jeannette Simmons, wife of Senator Lyle Simmons, a potential presidential candidate, has been murdered…an anonymous source at MPD said that she was killed with a blunt instrument, a blow to the back of the head…her body was discovered by her husband when he returned from a speaking engagement…there are no suspects at this time, although the police are speaking with “persons of interest”…funeral plans have not been announced…

  The article jumped inside the paper to chronicle Senator Simmons’s career and point out that the couple had two grown children: Neil, president of the Marshalk Group; and Polly, a peace activist living in California.

  He returned to the front page and gazed at the photo of Lyle and Jeannette, which triggered thoughts of another time and place.

  It was 1970, his senior year at the University of Illinois. Homecoming Weekend was in full swing. The football team had defeated Michigan State, a cause for celebrations on the Urbana-Champaign campus and in student hangouts in town. He had a second reason to celebrate. Earlier that week, he’d been named All Big Ten, second team. He’d called his father with the news.

  “That’s good, Philip, very good,” his father said in his Italian-tinged English, “but remember, your studies are the most important thing.”

  Phil smiled at his father’s admonition. Their conversations always ended with those words.

  His father had come to America from Milan and set up a shoe repair shop in his adopted town, Batavia, New York, outside Buffalo. The shop generated enough money to support the family—two sons and two daughters—but left little for anything other than necessities. Phil and his siblings appreciated their father’s hard work and helped out in the store whenever possible, pitching in with household chores. Unlike the father, their mother resisted assimilating into her new culture. She’d learned little English and kept to herself, limiting her social life to the small Italian American community that had sprung up in Batavia. She was a stern woman who ran the household with precision and an iron hand; the kids said—muttered, really—that she’d taught Mussolini how to keep the trains running on time. She always seemed to be cooking; memories of growing up in that modest home invariably included the smell of simmering tomato sauce and baking bread.

  Philip was twelve when his mother died of a burst aneurysm, a congenital defect according to the doctor at the hospital. Philip’s father, never a gregarious man except after consuming too much cheap wine, went into even more of a shell, spending virtually all his waking moments at the shop. Philip’s two older sisters took over most of the household duties with help from their brothers. It was a difficult, challenging time, but the Rotondi children faced it head-on and made it work.

  College was out of the question unless scholarships and student-aid packages were involved. The oldest sister felt it was her obligation to help support the family and took a job following graduation as a secretary in an accounting firm. She eventually married a boy she’d dated in high school who worked in his father’s insurance agency. They’d had two sons and appeared happy.

  The middle sister, only a year younger than the eldest, enrolled in a community college, supporting herself as a waitress. She excelled in school, and prior to graduating was offered a full scholarship to a New York State university. After a stellar career in college, she went on to law school and was now a corporate attorney in Cleveland.

  Philip’s brother, two years younger, floundered during and after high school, to everyone’s disappointment, and ended up drifting through a succession of menial jobs. He eventually moved to Los Angeles, where he thought he might find work as an actor. The last Phil heard, he’d ended up in Las Vegas managing a pawnshop. Married and divorced three times, he’d virtually severed all relations with his family. Out of guilt or embarrassment? Phil and his sisters didn’t know the answer, nor did they try very hard to come up with one.

  It was no secret among the children that the father favored Phil, and viewed him as the bright and shining light that would make worthwhile all his years bent over stitching machines and rubbing polish into other people’s shoes. His favoritism didn’t cause resentment among the kids. They understood that their father was from the Old World where men succeeded in business, and women married and had babies. Phil was an outstanding high school student, both academically and athletically. He was energetically recruited in his senior year by a number of top colleges and universities, and chose the University of Illinois, whose aid package covered virtually everything apart from spending money. His father had never seen his son play basketball or run track in high school; nor did he ever ventur
e west to see him at the university. After many attempts to coax the man to Urbana-Champaign, Phil gave up. He thought he knew why the old man wouldn’t come. He was embarrassed at what he’d become, stooped, bald, his hands grotesquely swollen with arthritis, his breathing labored and voice hoarse from years of smoking. And so Phil contented himself with a weekly phone call to bring his father up to date—to make him proud.

  This day in 1970, a Saturday, he sat drinking beer at a favorite student watering hole with his roommate. Earlier, he and Lyle had been to a party at their fraternity, Kappa Phi Kappa, and had driven to the bar in Simmons’s new, fire-engine-red Ford Thunderbird. Rotondi had balked at joining a fraternity. He considered it an extravagance, one that neither he nor his father could afford. But the fraternity recruited him aggressively in his sophomore year the way all fraternities rushed star athletes. When he told them he couldn’t afford the difference in cost between the dormitory and the frat house, they assured him they could work something out. It wasn’t until he graduated that he found out that his dorm roommate, Lyle Simmons, who’d also pledged Kappa Phi Kappa, had agreed to pay the difference in order to have his new friend as a fraternity brother. It was too late to resent it. Nothing was to be gained. Lyle was his best friend.

  Lyle had had considerably more to drink than Phil that day, and Rotondi became concerned about his driving. But they’d made it safely and were now ensconced in a booth in the noisy bar, B. J. Thomas singing “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head” through the sound system.

  “So, buddy, ’fess up to Uncle Lyle.”

  “About what?” Rotondi said.

  “That delicious female creature you were with last night at the house.”

  Rotondi dismissed the question with a shrug and a slow grin, and sipped his beer.

  Simmons reached across the table and grabbed his roommate’s wrist. “Come on, pal, come on. You really scored. She’s a knockout. An absolute knockout. Who is she?”

  “Name’s Jeannette.”

  “Jeannette what?”

  “Boynton.”

  “Irish?”

  “Alpha Phi. She’s from Connecticut.”

  “So?”

  Rotondi’s expression asked a question.

  “Did you score, do the deed?”

  “Come on, Lyle. I only met her a week ago. She’s in my political science class.”

  Simmons’s leer was exaggerated, as though mugging for a camera.

  Rotondi changed the subject. “You’re definitely going to Chicago for law school?”

  “Yup. And I’ll never understand why you won’t be coming with me.”

  “Money, Lyle. Just that simple. Maryland Law is giving me a free ride. The U of Chicago won’t.”

  Simmons shook his head. “I told you I’d pay your tuition if you came with me.”

  “Yeah, I know, Lyle, but buying me a cheeseburger when I’m short of pocket money is one thing. Paying for law school is another.”

  “That’s false pride, Phil.”

  “Call it what you will. I’m just not comfortable taking a big handout from a friend—from anyone for that matter.”

  Simmons sat back in the booth and flicked a piece of lint from the front of his argyle sweater. “You resent me, don’t you, Phil?”

  Rotondi had just taken a swig of beer and laughed, causing some to dribble down his chin. He wiped it with the back of his hand and said, “Why would I resent you, Lyle? You’re my best friend.”

  “My money,” Simmons said. “That I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, as they like to say. I didn’t choose that, Phil, and I’m not about to go to confession to ask for forgiveness.”

  “Cut it out, Lyle. You know I don’t feel that way.”

  “Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. But I want you to know, Phil, that I really admire you. I admire what you’ve achieved despite some pretty high hurdles.”

  “Thanks,” Rotondi said. “I admire you, too.” He laughed. “You say you want to be president of the United States some day, and I wouldn’t bet against that happening.”

  “When I am, buddy, you’ll be my attorney general.”

  “The hell I will. Politics turns me off, always have.”

  “We’ll see,” Simmons said, tossing bills on the table. “Let’s go. I’ve got a date, a freshman, looks hot as hell.”

  As Rotondi was getting out of the Thunderbird in front of the Kappa Phi fraternity house, Simmons asked, “What did you say her name was?”

  “Who?”

  “The chick you were with last night. Jeannette something?”

  “Jeannette Boynton.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Have a good night, buddy. Hit the books for me.”

  SIX

  “Hi, Phil,” Polly Simmons chirped as she crossed the lobby in Rotondi’s direction. “No, don’t get up,” she said, seeing him struggle to extricate himself from the chair’s soft cushions. He stood and they embraced.

  “I’m sorry about your mom,” he said.

  “Thanks. I’m still in shock.”

  “Good flight?” he asked.

  “Of course not. There aren’t any good flights anymore unless you’re a fat cat who flies first class. Pretzels and soft drinks. Ugh!”

  Rotondi laughed. McTeague joined them carrying a small overnight bag.

  “That’s it?” Rotondi asked.

  “She flies light,” Walter McTeague said.

  “Only way to fly,” Rotondi said.

  Polly looked around the lobby. “Fancy digs,” she said.

  Rotondi didn’t bother replying. He knew that much of any conversation with her would involve swipes at the privileged class. He basically agreed with her on that issue, only he wasn’t nearly as vocal or committed.

  McTeague excused himself. Rotondi said to her, “Come on, let’s get you checked in.”

  As she provided the desk clerk with the necessary information, Rotondi used the moment to take in the daughter of his friend, the senator from Illinois. He knew she was a dedicated vegetarian and exerciser; nothing other than “Certified Organic” passed her lips. Her figure reflected her healthy lifestyle. Her jeans were skintight, her blouse a little too small, which caused her breasts to strain against the silky blue fabric. She wasn’t wearing a bra. One day, she might have to struggle with weight gain, but for now she was female perfection. Rotondi had always found the game of deciding which parent a child looks like, especially infants, to be, well, infantile. But he silently played the game anyway. Polly Simmons didn’t look very much like either of her parents. She had her father’s height, and there was something about her eyes that testified to being his daughter. Her nose and cheekbones were like Jeannette’s, although not quite as refined. It was her hair that said she might have been adopted, which wasn’t true. While Jeannette’s brunette hair had had a hint of copper in it, Polly’s was the color of cinnamon, and curly. Where did that come from?

  They rode the elevator to her floor and entered the suite.

  “Wow!” she said, doing a pirouette. “What does this go for a night?”

  “Not your concern,” Rotondi said as he opened the drapes and turned down the thermostat to make the room cooler.

  “On Daddy’s tab,” she said absently. “Or some lobbyist’s.”

  “He’s trying to clean up some pressing business in the Senate, Polly, so he’ll be free to—”

  “Free to spend time with me in my moment of grief?”

  “Yes.”

  She sat heavily on the couch and stared at Rotondi, who leaned on his cane in the middle of the room. Her mouth opened and she started to say something, but instead of words there was a torrent of tears. Rotondi put his arm around her.

  “She’s dead?” Polly said over and over. “Some bastard killed her?”

  His answer was to pull her closer. He said nothing, allowing this outpouring of pain to run its course.

  “I’m sorry,” she said once the tears had subsided. Rotondi pulled a tissue from a small pack in his jacke
t pocket and handed it to her.

  “I guess now that I’m here in D.C.,” she said, “the reality has set in. Is there anything new? Have they found Mom’s killer? Do they have leads? Anything?”

  “It’s too early in the investigation, Polly. I’ve been in touch with the police and they’ve promised to keep me informed. When was the last time you spoke to your mother?”

  “Just yesterday.” She shuddered. “The day she was murdered. In the afternoon, about four.”

  “Did everything seem all right? Normal?”

  “Uh-huh. She…”

  Rotondi waited.

  “She sounded like she’d been drinking.” Polly turned to Rotondi. “She had that problem, you know, Phil. I mean, not always, just the last couple of years. Don’t misunderstand. Not falling-down drunk or anything like that. But I could always tell when I called.”

  Rotondi’s silent nod said that he wasn’t hearing anything he didn’t already know.

  “She’s been so unhappy,” Polly said.

  “Do you know why?” he asked, already knowing but wanting her input.

  “Everything. Getting older, I guess. She’s been so disappointed in him.”

  “Disappointed in whom?”

  “Dad, of course.” She said it with a fleeting smile. “And Neil, too, for that matter.”

  “Disappointed in what?”

  “What they’ve done with their lives.”

  “I’d say they’ve done quite well with their lives,” Rotondi said. He got up and approached the minibar. “Like something, Polly? Soft drink, something stronger? Bloody Mary?”

  “Bloody Mary mix, no booze.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “I know what you mean,” she said as she unlaced her sneakers and kicked them off. “Dad’s a United States senator, a really big guy, huh? Neil’s a lobbyist. Tell me, Phil, what does either of them do to make this a better world?”

  “Well,” he said as he handed her the drink—he poured one for himself from a can of lemonade—“your father has been behind some important legislation over the years that has made a difference in some people’s lives.”