Murder on K Street by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online

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.