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

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.
    “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