Murder on K Street by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online Page A

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