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.
“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 venture 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.”