Murder on K Street (10 page)

A slow tune came through the speakers, “Close to You” by the Carpenters. He was self-conscious not only because of his perceived shortcomings as a dancer, but also because he was in front of his fraternity brothers. He moved awkwardly to the strains of the music, enjoying the soft feel of her, her cheek against his, the sound of her humming along with the tune. When he developed the telltale sign that he’d become aroused, he pulled slightly away. She pulled him back, and he no longer fought the pleasure.

They left the party shortly after that dance, and he walked her home.

“Thanks for a nice evening, Philip,” she said.

“Thanks for coming with me,” he said.

“I really like you,” she said.

“I, ah—I really like you, too, Jeannette.”

She pulled him close and their kiss lasted for what seemed an eternity to him. When they disengaged, she asked, “When will I see you again?”

He caught his breath. “In class and—”

“I mean like this, silly, on a date.”

He grinned. He was in control of his senses again. “As soon as possible,” he said. “Next week?”

“Sure.”

“How about dinner? I think I can borrow a car.”

“Whatever you say.”

He floated back to the fraternity house. But once there, a set of conflicting emotions gripped him. There was euphoria. There was also a vague sense of dread. Jeannette Boynton was out of his league. She was from Greenwich, Connecticut, which a fraternity brother told him was one of the most expensive zip codes in America. Another classmate, also from Greenwich, knew of the Boynton family whose father, Charles Monroe Boynton, founded and was CEO of a New York City venture capital firm. Rotondi’s stomach tightened when hearing these things. This was never going to work, and he practiced what to say when telling her that it wasn’t a good idea for them to see each other again outside of class. He was certain that he’d come off the way he’d felt all evening, unworthy, bumbling,
old-fashioned
—yet she’d encouraged him to ask her out again. He was supremely confident on the basketball court and during track meets, and carried that confidence into his classes. But with her…

“I was wondering if tomorrow night would be good for you,” he told her when political science class ended on Monday.

“Sure.”

“I’ll see if I can borrow a car. Otherwise—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “If you can’t, we’ll grab a bite at the Union.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll call you tonight.”

At noon, he went to the fraternity house, where he found Lyle Simmons in their room hunkering down with a textbook.

“Nice sight, if rare,” Rotondi said. “Got a minute?”

“This is all gobbledygook,” Simmons said, closing the book.

“I was wondering whether I could borrow your car tomorrow night, Lyle.”

“Tomorrow night? Sorry, pal, but I’ll need it. I’ve got a date. Hey, are you taking out that beauty—what’s her name?—Benson?”

“Boynton,” Rotondi said. “Jeannette Boynton.”

“How about this?” Simmons said. “We’ll double-date.”

“I don’t know, Lyle, I—”

“Cynthia and I thought we’d catch dinner at that new Italian restaurant outside of town. We’ll make it a foursome.” Cynthia was a redhead he’d been dating for the past couple of weeks.

“I hear it’s expensive,” Rotondi said.

“Hey, pal, it’ll be my treat.” He held up his hand against the expected protest. “I insist. What’s a few bucks when I can play Cupid for my best buddy? We’re on?”

Rotondi smiled. “Yeah. Thanks, Lyle. We’re on.”

The restaurant was faux Venice with murals of gondolas plying the canals and statues of nymphs spouting water through their mouths. Simmons was in his usual gregarious mood during the drive there, and continued to dominate the conversation at the table as a succession of courses were delivered; wineglasses were never empty.

“What does your father do?” Jeannette asked Simmons at one point in the conversation.

“Real estate in Chicago. He owns half of Lake Shore Drive.”

“Will you be going into business with him when you graduate?” Cynthia asked.

“Not me. I’m off to law school, U of Chicago. I tried to get my buddy here to come along, but he’s heading for Maryland. After that, who knows? I like politics.”

“Law school?” Jeannette asked Rotondi.

“Yup.”

“What does your dad do, Phil?” Cynthia asked.

He deflected the question with one of his own. “What’s your goal after graduation?” he asked.

She laughed loudly. “To marry a rich guy, have a bunch of kids, and live happily ever after.”

“How about you, Jeannette?” Simmons asked. “Same goal?”

“I’d like to teach English back home for a while,” she said. Her laugh was gentler. “So my dad doesn’t think he wasted money on my education. But sure, someday I’d like to be married and have a family.” She said to Simmons, “You want to go into politics?”

“I think so.”

“He’ll be president someday,” Rotondi said.

“Will you really?” Cynthia said with mock awe.

“Maybe,” Simmons replied. “Politics is where the action is. Everything that happens comes out of politics.”

“A lot of bad things,” said Cynthia.

“I like politics,” Jeannette said. “I worked back home in Connecticut on some local campaigns.”

“I bet you were good at campaigning,” Lyle said.

“I worked hard,” she said.

“The way I see it,” Lyle said, “I…”

The discussion of their respective goals went on for the rest of the meal. Rotondi, always a good listener, took in what they said without offering many comments of his own. His goals, he decided, weren’t worth discussing. He’d always been a tightly focused person, comfortable dealing with the here and now and convinced that overall success was achieved by a series of smaller successes, one upon another—excel on today’s exam, win today’s game, chase the next goal, and face the next challenge as each came, one at a time. The others at the table spoke in more sweeping terms about their futures than he preferred to contemplate. He recognized that his approach to life might be termed shortsighted by those with distant visions. Having money helped fuel grandiosity, he knew. For him, there hadn’t been the luxury of dreams beyond the day’s challenge. And that was all right. He was comfortable with it—and with himself.

Later, Rotondi and Simmons sat in their room.

“Thanks for treating us,” Phil said.

“My pleasure,” said Lyle.

“Cynthia’s very nice,” Phil said.

“She’s okay. She’s not the brightest bulb in the drawer but it’s not her brains that attract me. Speaking of brains, you’ve landed yourself a real winner, all that beauty—and brains, too.”

“I really like Jeannette.”

“That’s pretty obvious, Phil. I assume you’ll be seeing her again.”

“She’s—well, I’m not sure she’s for me.”

Simmons laughed. “You talk like you’re thinking of marrying her.”

Rotondi joined the laughter. “The last thing I’m thinking about is getting married, Lyle. I’ve got law school ahead of me and getting a career started before I marry anyone. I just like being with her.”

“She’s obviously money, Phil. Getting hitched to her could make getting through law school a breeze and set you up with a nice, fat law practice.”

Rotondi searched for something on his desk rather than responding. Lyle often viewed things from the perspective of money, which made Rotondi uncomfortable.

“Well, I’m glad you finally hooked up with a nice gal, Phil. I was getting worried about you.
Is my roommate queer?
I wondered.”

“Say you didn’t think that,” Rotondi said.

“Of course I didn’t. Just having some fun.” Simmons stood. “Time to hit the sack.”

“I’ve got a couple of hours with the books before I do that,” Rotondi said.

Simmons changed into pajamas and retired to the dormitory that took up the entire third floor of the house. Rotondi started to study but found his mind wandering, which bothered him. He’d meant what he’d said: Marriage was the last thing on his mind. But he couldn’t help envisioning being married to Jeannette Boynton. He fell to the floor and did a series of push-ups to clear such visions from his mind. Tomorrow’s exam took center stage, and he studied until three.

H
is cell phone rang as he was about to call a cab from Emma’s house.

“Mr. Rotondi, this is Walter McTeague.”

“Hello, Walter. How are you?”

“Just fine, sir. The senator thought you might like to be picked up. I know you’re meeting him at five.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Where shall I pick you up, sir?”

“I’m at my—at a friend’s house in Foggy Bottom.” He gave the address, and was standing at the window when the car arrived.

“Any idea when this heat wave is supposed to break, Walter?” he asked McTeague as they headed for First and C streets.

“Maybe tomorrow, according to the radio. But frankly, Mr. Rotondi, I don’t put much faith in the forecasts.”

“Neither do I,” Rotondi said.

“We’ll be picking up the senator away from his building,” McTeague said, “out back near the entrance to underground parking. Too many press people out front.”

“Smart move. Have you heard anything new about the investigation?”

“No, sir, I haven’t.”

“You knew Mrs. Simmons,” Rotondi said.

“Oh, yes, I certainly did. A nice woman, a really good person.”

“Had you seen her lately? I mean, in the days leading up to her murder?”

McTeague maintained eye contact with Rotondi in his rearview mirror. “Yesterday, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh?”

“The senator asked me to pick up some dry cleaning and deliver it to her.”

“What time was that?”

“A little after two, I think. I’m sure the police will want to know about it. They’re questioning me tonight after I get off work.”

“You were MPD. You’ll probably know who’s doing the questioning.”

“I’m sure I will. A waste of time on their part. I would never harm that woman, not for a second.”

“Just routine.”

“I know, but it bothers me that anyone might even think I would.”

“What frame of mind was she in when you last saw her, Walter?”

“Oh, I don’t know. She was tired, that’s for sure. I suggested to the senator when I dropped him home last night that they get away for a while, take a little vacation.”

“What did he say?”

“He agreed, and said Mrs. Simmons would probably agree with me.”

“Was she depressed, as well as tired?” Rotondi asked.

“I wouldn’t know, Mr. Rotondi. I don’t know how you can tell that sort of thing about another person.”

Rotondi wanted to extend the conversation about Jeannette, but McTeague changed the subject. They parked on the street in the back of Dirksen and talked about things other than murder until Simmons, accompanied by his press aide, Peter Markowicz, joined them.

“We’re going to the house, Walter,” Simmons told McTeague.

He pulled away and joined the flow of traffic.

“Nice of the police to allow me to enter my own house,” Simmons grumbled.

“I’ve seen investigations where family members were kept away for months,” Rotondi said.

“I’m sure the press will still be camped at the front door,” Simmons said.

“I’ll handle them, Senator,” Markowicz said.

“There ought to be a law against them hounding people in a time of personal tragedy,” said the senator.

There ought to be a law against a lot of things,
was Rotondi’s thought.

Simmons turned to Markowicz. “Phil Rotondi and I go back to our college days, Peter. We were roommates at Illinois.”

“I know that, Senator. It’s great that you’ve retained your friendship over so many years.”

“He was second-team All Big Ten. Basketball.”

“
That
I didn’t know,” the press secretary said. “You didn’t try for the pros?”

“No,” Rotondi responded. “I was good enough to make the team at Illinois. The NBA was beyond any ability I had. Besides, it didn’t interest me.”

Simmons sighed, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. He opened them and said to Rotondi, “God, that was a long time ago, Phil, wasn’t it? You knew Jeannette before I did. You introduced me to her.”

Don’t go there
, Rotondi thought.

“When was the last time you saw her?” Simmons asked.

“A month or so ago. When she came down to the shore for a long weekend. We had dinner.”

“That’s right, you did. She needed a break. She’d been acting, well, strange, under the gun, unhappy. She seemed a little happier when she came home. She needed to get away, touch base with her girlfriends there.”

“It was good seeing her,” Rotondi said, glad that they’d reached the house.

“There they are,” Markowicz said, referring to the press corps still camped on the road. As they pulled into the long driveway, they saw that a few reporters were also sitting on the front steps of the house.

“What the hell are they doing there?” Simmons demanded as McTeague came to a stop halfway up the drive.

“I’ll handle them,” Markowicz said, getting out of the car and sprinting toward the reporters.

“What’s that other car?” Simmons asked, pointing to a green four-door sedan parked near the front.

“Looks like an unmarked police vehicle to me,” Rotondi offered.

Markowicz herded the reporters away from the front door and back to where their colleagues waited on the road, then waved for McTeague to continue. Simmons and Rotondi got out of the Mercedes and walked to the front door. Simmons tried it. It swung open. “They didn’t even bother to lock it,” he complained as he stepped inside, followed by Rotondi. The air-conditioning was going full-blast; the foyer felt like a walk-in meat locker. The house was still, the only sound the whoosh of air coming from vents in the ceiling. Rotondi closed the door and waited for his friend of many years to make the next move.

“She was right there,” Simmons said, pointing to the faint chalk outline of Jeannette’s body. Whoever had tried to remove it from the floor hadn’t done a good job. “Right there,” Simmons repeated. “It was horrible, Phil.” They’d done a better job of cleaning up Jeannette’s blood; all that remained was a shadow.