THIRTY-ONE

Jack Michael Albert Parish was named after his mother’s brother. That was before Uncle Jack was sent away for thirty years for aggravated assault with the intent to kill. Young Jack’s mother once confided in a neighbor and close friend—as well as their local Catholic priest, who advised that exorcism probably wouldn’t work—that her son, then fifteen years old, had inherited Uncle Jack’s genes. She’d arrived at the conclusion after Jack had been picked up by the police again for vandalism. Previous brushes with the law had involved assault on a classmate, a girl, and breaking into a local soda fountain. Jack’s father, who was fairly well connected in town, managed to negotiate with the victims and their families to drop charges in return for restitution, and none of Jack’s transgressions appeared on any police record.

He graduated from high school near the bottom of his class and worked a few menial jobs until hearing that the Washington police were actively seeking recruits in the face of rising crime in the nation’s capital. He applied, and to everyone’s surprise was accepted. He became a cop.

His twenty-year-stint on the force was not without incident. Parish was known as a hothead who too often took it upon himself to mete out his own brand of justice. He wasn’t unique within the department. There were a number of rogue cops who crossed the line, particularly with low-level drug dealers and other public nuisances, who tended to find themselves with bruises and broken bones after being confronted by Parish and those sharing his views. He’d been brought up on charges a few times, but nothing stuck. There were also rumors—and nothing more than that—that he’d killed a drug dealer during a confrontation in a deserted alley. Parish had called dispatch to report that he’d come across the body of an unidentified male. Why Parish had been in that alley raised all sorts of speculation, although there was no physical evidence to point to him as the one who’d crushed the dealer’s head. Those beat cops who worked closely with Parish over the years were convinced that he’d avoided the revolving-door justice system and rid the city of one of its less desirable citizens. Parish denied any involvement, of course, but when kidded about it by fellow officers, he’d smile his crooked smile and wink.

The truth was, Jack Michael Albert Parish enjoyed hurting people, and after twenty years on the force, his superiors were glad to see him gone.

He’d hooked up with Rick Marshalk two years ago through Senator Simmons’s driver, Walter McTeague, also a former D.C. cop. There had developed in Washington a club of sorts, its “members” retired police officers offering their services as private drivers and bodyguards. McTeague knew little of Parish’s reputation as a cop, just a few vague rumors that faded with time. When the senator made McTeague aware that Marshalk was looking for a driver who could also provide personal security, McTeague mentioned that Parish, who’d been doing part-time work in those capacities, might be available. He was, and he signed on. Six months into his employment, Marshalk called him into his office and announced that he was making him his vice president of security, with a salary to match the title. Parish’s grin had never been bigger, or more slanted, than on that day. As far as he was concerned, Rick Marshalk was the smartest, savviest, greatest guy in D.C. and beyond, and he pledged to him on that day that he would do anything Marshalk expected of him. “I’m yours, Rick,” he said as they shook hands on the deal. “Anything you need, just name it.”

This night, after leaving Rick Marshalk’s K Street offices, he took a cab to Foggy Bottom, where he instructed the driver to let him off two blocks from Emma Churchill’s home. He stood in the shadows of a boutique hotel until his cell phone rang.

“She just left,” he heard Marshalk say.

He walked the two blocks to the address on Emma’s card, stood in front of the house, and took in his surroundings. It was a quiet street. He saw no one. Satisfied that he wasn’t being observed, he took quick steps down the driveway, passing a Subaru Tribeca parked off to one side. He proceeded to a door at the rear of the house and peered through one of its windows into a small kitchen illuminated by lights beneath a microwave installed over the stove. The parked Subaru concerned him. Did it belong to this guy Rotondi? Was he inside?

He tried the door. Locked. He removed a set of jigs on a metal ring from his pocket. He chose one and used it. The door unlocked easily. He slowly pushed it open and focused his hearing. No sound. He quietly closed the door behind him and was about to move to another room when Homer appeared in the doorway.

“Well, what do we have here?” Parish muttered as he pulled his semi-automatic from its shoulder holster.

Homer barked twice.

“Calm down,” Parish said. “You want to go out, huh? Is that what you want?”

He took a few steps back and opened the door. “Come on, baby, go on out for a walk. Nice night out there.”

Homer limped toward the door. Parish stepped aside. The dog looked up at him, barked once more, and went outside. Parish quickly shut the door and drew a deep breath. He hadn’t expected to be confronted by a dog. He would have hated to shoot the animal. He liked dogs.

He found the room off the kitchen to be empty. He explored other rooms. The house was his alone. All he had to do now was wait.


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Emma turned down the radio’s volume as she turned onto her street. She noticed as she pulled into the driveway that no lights other than what she’d left on glowed through the windows. Rotondi wasn’t there yet.

She parked next to his car, turned off the ignition, and went to the back door. She inserted her key but saw that the door was already unlocked. She shook her head at her failure to lock up before leaving, and entered the kitchen. It didn’t surprise her that Homer didn’t greet her. His hearing had been failing; it took louder noises and voices to rouse him these days.

She tossed her handbag on the counter and flipped on the overhead lights. Leaving her shoes in the kitchen, she went to the living room and turned on lights there, then headed upstairs to change into pajamas and a robe.

As she stepped into the bedroom, she paused. She hadn’t seen Homer downstairs and wondered where he’d elected to sleep that night. She was about to retrace her steps down to the living room when a strong hand from behind clamped over her mouth. The sound she emitted was a combination of fright and pain. Parish’s fingers dug into the flesh around her mouth as he used his other hand to grasp her left arm and yank it behind her.

She struggled, but he was stronger. He brought her down to the floor on her stomach, his knee rammed into her lower back. “You gonna calm down, lady, or do I have to snap your neck?”

Up until that point, she’d thought only of fighting him off. Now reason replaced valor. She forced herself to relax, which prompted him to loosen his grip. He placed the muzzle of his weapon against her temple, slid off, and turned her onto her back.

“What do you want?” she managed, fighting to inject calm into her voice. “You want money. You can have it. Just don’t hurt me.”

“I don’t want your money,” he said. “Your boyfriend has something I need. He’s got an envelope that he shouldn’t have. You tell me where it is and I go on my way. You don’t—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

He slapped the side of the automatic against her face, cutting her cheek.

“Where is Rotondi?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

He threatened to strike her again.

“I don’t know where he went tonight. I swear it. And I don’t know about any envelope.”

The weapon’s barrel was pushed into her temple again. She squeezed her eyes shut in anticipation of having her brains blown out. As she did, the sound of a car door being slammed shut in front of the house reached them.

“Sounds like your boyfriend’s home,” Parish said.

Emma looked up into Parish’s face. His mouth was a slash, a cruel smile that at the moment was more frightening to her than the gun.

Parish got up, the weapon still pointed at her. “Come on,” he said. “Time to greet your honey.”

Emma slowly pulled herself to a sitting position. She touched her cheek and observed the blood on her fingertips.

“Don’t hurt him,” she said, standing unsteadily.

He came around behind her and again jabbed the gun into her temple. “Let’s go downstairs,” he said. “It’s showtime.”


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Rotondi walked up the driveway toward the rear of the house. He saw Emma’s car and was pleased she was home. He had a lot to tell her.


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The extended time spent with Lyle Simmons in his suite at the Willard had been a roller coaster of emotions and debate. It was as though Simmons had crashed against a wall that he’d always previously managed to circumvent. Over steak dinners delivered to the room, he and Rotondi talked of many things, of their years in college, the situation with Jeannette, Rotondi’s steadfast determination to go his own way, Kathleen Rotondi’s tragic slaying, Polly’s estrangement from her father, and Neil’s meandering adult life. Simmons ricocheted from one extreme to the other. He was, at times, maudlin and filled with remorse about certain aspects of his personal life. Then, without warning or smooth transition, he became belligerent and critical of Rotondi’s life choices, of his rigidity and deep convictions. Rotondi did little talking. His role was as it often was when alone with Simmons—foil, audience, superego.

There came a time when Rotondi brought the dialogue around to Jeannette’s murder.

“Marshalk arranged for her killing, Lyle, and framed Jonell Marbury,” he said bluntly.

“I don’t know this Marbury fellow,” Simmons retorted, “and I have serious trouble believing that anyone at the Marshalk Group would have murdered Jeannette.” When Rotondi started to follow up, Simmons said, “But if what you say is true, whoever was behind it should pay.”

“What about Neil?” Rotondi asked.

“Are you suggesting that he was a part of it?”

“No, I’m not, Lyle, but he is the president of the firm. It will impact him, too.”

“And you intend to take that information Jeannette got from Chicago, including those disgusting photos, to the police?”

“I’ve thought a lot about that, Lyle. I don’t see how the photos are relevant to the murder case, unless they provide a motive for you to have had Jeannette killed. I don’t believe that you did.”

“Then I’d like you to give me those photos, Phil.”

Rotondi didn’t commit.

“Neil thinks you intend to blackmail me about them, along with the other accusations about Marshalk funneling dirty money into my campaigns.”

“Neil is wrong.”

“Then give the pictures to me. I think I can ride out the laundering charges. Hell, I don’t know where most of my campaign money comes from. I leave that to other people. If someone connected with my campaign knowingly took mob money from Marshalk, I’ll have his head.”

There he was, Rotondi thought, playing the politician to the hilt. As long as there was someone else to blame, politicians could always feign ignorance and faulty recall to get off the hook. Sadly, there was never a shortage of lackeys willing to take the rap to protect their superiors, good soldiers with skewed senses of duty.

“I intend to go to the police in the morning,” Rotondi said, “and lay out for them what I believe. I may need that envelope and what’s in it to help make my point.”

Simmons finished his drink, patted his mouth with a napkin, got up from the table, and walked to the door. “You do whatever you think you have to, Phil. Not that you need my permission. I just ask that you remember how much we’ve meant to each other over the years.”

Rotondi left, his mind filled with nothing but.


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He reached the end of the rear of Emma’s house and turned in the direction of the kitchen door.

“Homer?” he said. The dog sat on the steps wagging his tail at seeing his master.

“What are you doing out here?”

Emma’s car was there. She was home. She never would have let Homer out without having him on a leash. Rotondi was adamant about that, obsessive when it came to protecting Homer from harm.

What was going on?

A long wire lead used to tie Homer outside was attached to a tree ten feet from the door. Rotondi quickly clipped the dog’s collar to the lead and returned to the driveway, this time staying close to the house as he moved toward the street. He stopped. A pretty fabric shade Emma had purchased just that week was raised a few inches off the sill. Rotondi peered through the opening into the living room. At first, he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Emma was standing in a corner of the room. With her was a man—holding a gun to her head. Rotondi blinked to clear his eyes. He looked again. He wasn’t seeing things.

He backed away from the window, went behind one of the trees that lined the driveway, and dialed 911: “There’s a woman being held at gunpoint in a house in Foggy Bottom.” He gave the address. The 911 operator tried to ask for additional information, but Rotondi had clicked the phone closed. He opened it again, dialed Emma’s home number, and returned to the window, the phone to his ear.

He could see from his vantage point that Emma said something to the man holding her hostage. He couldn’t tell what she was saying but assumed it had to do with the ringing phone. The man with the weapon shoved Emma across the room, and she fell on the couch. Rotondi ducked away as the man came to the window and lifted the shade. Rotondi was inches from his face. Parish’s eyes darted back and forth before he allowed the shade to fall again. Rotondi raised his head at the distant sound of a siren. He moved as quickly as his lame leg would allow to the street and was standing there when the marked squad car came to a screeching halt. Two uniformed officers jumped out, leaving their doors open.

“What’s going on?” one of them asked Rotondi.

He gave the officer a fifteen-second précis.

“Who’s the woman?” the cop asked.

“My fiancée,” Rotondi said, a word he’d not used before when describing Emma. “I’m going in,” he added as two more cars arrived, each occupied by a pair of officers.

Rotondi didn’t wait for a response. As the cops fanned out around the house, Rotondi went to the rear door, opened it, and stepped into the kitchen. “Hey,” he shouted, moving to the doorway to the living room. Emma cowered on the couch while Parish stood over her, the gun pointed at her head.

“I don’t know who you are,” Rotondi said, “but the house is surrounded. There are cops everywhere. Drop the gun and—”

Parish’s face mirrored his genuine puzzlement. He lowered the gun. Rotondi reacted instantly. He lunged at Parish, his cane extended in front of him to shorten the distance between them. The point of the cane caught Parish in the eye and sent him sprawling on top of Emma on the couch. Rotondi closed the gap between them and twisted Parish’s wrist violently, sending the weapon to the floor. Phil kicked it across the room and pounced on Parish, his hands closing around his neck, guttural, animal sounds erupting from his throat.

The kitchen door was flung open and police rushed in. They’d watched the fracas through the same window Rotondi had peered through. Parish was jerked to his feet, pushed to the floor, and cuffed.

“Are you okay?” Rotondi asked Emma as they got to their feet.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” she said. “You?”

“Fine. I’m fine.”

She looked at the six uniformed officers who now crowded the room. “How did they know?” she asked. “How did you know?”

“A four-legged friend named Homer.”