Murder on K Street (17 page)

“All work and no play…”

Rotondi grinned and stood. “You think I’m a dull boy, Lyle?”

“Hell, no,” Lyle responded. “You’re the most interesting guy I’ve ever known. I’m just saying that—”

Jeannette sat up abruptly. “I have to get back,” she said, rising to her feet and gathering her belongings.

Lyle and Phil looked at each other, knowing what the other was thinking. She’d been in what could only be termed a foul mood lately, not finding things as funny as she would have a month or two earlier, and exhibiting an uncharacteristic short temper.

That night, Rotondi sat in his room boning up for an upcoming exam.

“Need the car tonight, Phil?” Simmons asked.

“No, thanks, Lyle. I’m in for the duration. You’re not using it?”

“No. I’m going out with some of the guys to do a little barhopping.”

Usually, he would have invited Phil to join them. He didn’t.

“Have fun,” Phil said. “Drive safe.”

Simmons slapped Rotondi on the back and started to leave the room. He stopped, turned, and said, “Maybe you ought to give Jeannette a call.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. She’s uptight lately.”

“Not tonight,” Rotondi said. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Simmons had been gone less than ten minutes when the hall phone rang. It was Jeannette.

“Hi,” he said.

“I know you said you were going to spend the night studying, Phil, but I really need to talk to you.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“No, it can’t wait, Phil. Please. Pick me up in an hour. I know you have Lyle’s car.”

Why did she assume that?
he wondered.

“Okay, Phil? I just need to see you.”

“All right. I’ll be there in an hour.”

He parked in front of the Alpha Phi sorority house and rang the bell. One of Jeannette’s sorority sisters answered. “I’ll get Jeannette, Phil,” she said. “Come on in.”

He waited in the small foyer until Jeannette came down the stairs. “Hi,” she said, smiling.

“Hi. Ready?”

“Sure.”

“Where to?” he asked once they were in the car.

“Let’s go someplace where we can talk. The Lane?” She was referring to a secluded dirt road on the outskirts of the campus, a popular lovers’ lane for college couples looking for privacy.

“Want some coffee?” he asked.

“No, thanks. I need to talk, not coffee.”

They drove in silence until reaching their destination. Phil maneuvered the Thunderbird into a spot between two other cars with steamed-up windows. He turned off the ignition and faced her. “I have a feeling I’m not going to like what you’re about to say.”

She looked straight ahead, saying nothing. He reached for her but she deflected his hand.

“I’m pregnant, Phil.”

He sat back and exhaled loudly. Although hearing it from her was shocking, the silent truth behind it wasn’t. It was one of the two things he expected: that she wanted to break off their relationship, or that she was pregnant.

“Are you sure?” he asked, not sure of what else to say at that moment.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, then quickly added in case it had been the wrong thing to say, “I mean, I’m sure it’s not what you want.”

“I don’t know what I want, Phil.” She looked at him, and tears streamed down her cheeks. He pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her, his chest muffling her sobs. Eventually, she pulled away and placed a hand against his cheek. “I love you, Phil Rotondi. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, no, it’s okay, Jeannette. I always used protection, but maybe there was a problem with one. It’s fine. I’m surprised, of course, but it’s all right. We’ll just have to work this out.”

His mind raced, his thoughts pragmatic. What would this mean to his immediate future? He certainly hadn’t planned to be married while attending law school, but that could be managed. He thought back to what Lyle had said about Jeannette’s rich father supporting them. He didn’t want that, but maybe—

“We don’t have to work it out, Phil. I’ve made a decision.”

An abortion?

“No, Jeannette,” he said. “I don’t want you to—”

“Please listen to me, Phil.”

He silently waited for her to continue.

“The baby isn’t yours.”

Again, he sat back, this time as though having been shoved physically against the seat back.

“It’s Lyle’s,” she said softly.

“Lyle’s? How can that be?” He recognized immediately that it was a ridiculous question.

“We—you and I—haven’t been together much lately, Phil.”

“You and Lyle have been seeing each other?” His voice was hoarse.

She nodded. “Not a lot, just a few times when you weren’t available.”

“And you…?”

“Yes, we slept together. Twice. You were away at the debate competition in Wisconsin. I was feeling lonely and pretty down. I know that’s not an excuse, but it’s the truth.”

“And you called Lyle?”

“No. He invited me out for a few drinks. He said he’d promised you he’d take good care of me while you were gone. I was angry, Phil, angry at you. It seemed I always came last on your schedule. Lyle and I went out and had some drinks, and then a few more. He provided a shoulder to cry on and I needed that. Then—oh, I don’t know—then one thing led to another and we ended up in a downtown hotel for one more drink and…”

“And you ended up in bed with him.”

Her silence confirmed it.

He was struck with simultaneous conflicting thoughts, as he’d been when learning of his father’s death. His father had been sick for a long time, and had suffered. Phil’s reaction to the news was both grief, and relief.

As he sat in a car on an Illinois lovers’ lane, his mind was again operating on multiple tracks. He was angry, of course, and felt all the emotions of someone having been betrayed by those he trusted. At the same time, it was as though a weight had been buoyed from his shoulders. These were not unexpected reactions to what he’d just been told. He understood them while feeling them. But a third response elbowed aside the first two. For the first time, he felt superior to Lyle Simmons and in control of that relationship.

“Let’s go back, Phil,” Jeannette said.

He started the engine but didn’t slip the shift into gear. “I want you to know, Jeannette, that I’m not angry with you. Surprised? Sure. Disappointed? That, too.”

“You have every right to hate me, Phil.”

He put the Thunderbird into reverse and backed out of the spot. As they drove to the sorority house, he mentally grappled with the question that had taken center stage—could he ever be comfortable being married to Jeannette and raising Lyle’s child? By the time they reached the house, he’d concluded that if that was what had to be, he’d do everything in his power to make it work.

“Thanks for being so understanding,” she said.

“There’s really not much of a choice, is there?”

“You could have exploded.”

“Which would accomplish nothing.” He forced a smile. “Tell you what, Jeannette. Let’s sleep on this and talk again tomorrow after we’ve had a chance to digest things. I somehow think that—”

“Phil! Lyle and I are getting married.”

The Cirilli Group sure as hell isn’t being suttle about going after X-M Shipping as a client. Let’s cut them off at the legs. Rick.

I
t wasn’t fair, of course, to judge a man’s character and personality by a misspelling in a memo. But in Rick Marshalk’s case, it seemed apt.
Subtle
wasn’t a word in his vocabulary, correctly spelled or not; nor was it a part of his makeup. He’d navigated the treacherous shoals of Hollywood, and although his years there could never be considered a success, he’d learned plenty. Subtlety! That was for losers. His full-frontal-attack philosophy had served him well since arriving in D.C., and he saw no reason to change or even question it.

He’d called a meeting that afternoon at his high-rise condo overlooking Washington Harbor. It was the largest unit in the building, with splendid views of the water and of the complex itself from its wraparound balconies. Present were two of his top lobbyists, as well as the Marshalk Group’s head of security, Jack Parish.

“I wanted to meet here,” Marshalk said, “because I’m getting paranoid about talking in the office.” He turned to Parish. “I want the place swept again, Jack.”

“I had it done only a couple of weeks ago.”

“Do it again, every day if you have to.”

“It might not be a bug,” one of the execs said. “Maybe somebody at the office is leaking information.”

“Any ideas who that might be?” Marshalk asked.

His colleagues looked at each other. Parish, who sat on a window seat in front of a floor-to-ceiling window, had been examining a discoloration on the back of his hand. He looked up and said, “You want it straight, Rick?”

“Of course I do.”

“I’ve got my suspicions about a lot of people in the firm.”

They waited for him to elaborate.

“Neil,” he announced flatly.

“Why do you say that?”

Parish shrugged and grimaced against an unseen kink. “He’s a weak sister, Rick. He’s got a flabby mind.”

“
Flabby mind
?” someone asked.

“No strength,” Parish explained. “I know he’s the president and all, but I just have this uneasy feeling about him.”

“Who else?” Marshalk asked.

“The one who’s leaving, Camelia. She’s gotten cozy, real cozy, with Jonell, and I’ve never trusted him, either.”

Marshalk, who’d been standing behind an elaborate bar in the living room, moved around it and approached Parish where he sat. “I agree about Camelia Watson,” he said. “She’s been warned. But Neil has been loyal, at least as far as I can tell. Hell, he knows what side his bread is buttered on.”

Parish looked up at his boss and smiled crookedly. “It wouldn’t take much to get him to say anything, Rick. Believe me, I know his type. I dealt with lots of them when I was MPD. He’s weak.”

Marshalk knew that his security chief was right. Bringing Neil Simmons on board hadn’t been motivated by wanting a strong presence in the firm’s presidency. It had been more pragmatic than that. Neil assured Marshalk of a strong pipeline to his father, one of the most powerful men in the U.S. Senate. Neil’s weakness was a plus as far as Marshalk was concerned. He was easily manipulated, not one to stir the pot and cause trouble. Potential clients responded favorably, even enthusiastically to having Lyle Simmons’s son working on their behalf in the halls of Congress, and in offices of top people in every government agency.

Marshalk turned to the others. “We tighten things up from now on. We bring people into the loop on a strictly need-to-know basis.”

“Right,” affirmed the two-man chorus.

“Okay, let’s get down to what we have to do to land the X-M Shipping account. Cirilli’s been telling X-M that we’re under investigation by Justice. That’s all they’ve got to offer, crap like that. We’ve got the people in Congress who can kill that new legislation requiring shipping companies to set up their own port security procedures. It’ll cost them a fortune. Homeland Security’s pushing it on the basis of national security. So what else is new? I want an all-out blitz on X-M and Cirilli. Get our writers to start grinding out op-ed pieces, and make sure they emphasize our experience in lobbying for shipping company interests. Feed info to the columnists and bloggers we’ve got in our pocket about a pending congressional hearing into Cirilli and its paying off of lawmakers. Get some of our House members to put it in the
Congressional Record
, tip off the press. Put Kelman from the National Security Committee together with X-M’s execs. Tell Kelman we’ll bankroll another fund-raiser for him if he’ll lean on X-M to come with us. He owes us plenty.” He turned to Jack Parish. “You’ve got the goods on Cirilli’s number one guy, Clauson. Right?”

“About the bimbo he’s got stashed away in Georgetown? Yeah, I’ve got it.”

“Leak it! X-M’s people won’t want to get in bed with a potential scandal.”

Marshalk’s minions took notes.

“Questions?” Marshalk asked.

There were none.

“Okay, let’s move.” He asked Parish to stay behind.

“Look, Jack,” Marshalk said when they were alone. “I had a conversation with Jonell about his being at the Simmons house the day of the murder. He’s wavering about going to the police. I think I convinced him to cool it for a few days, but he may need a stronger message than that.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Parish said.

When Rotondi left Marlene Boynton, he intended to go straight to Emma’s Foggy Bottom home to walk Homer. But he stopped on the way at Kinkead’s and nursed a drink at the sparsely populated downstairs bar.

His visit with Marlene, and her parting comments, had opened a torrent of memories of that senior year at the University of Illinois, memories he was almost always successful at blotting out. He recalled the conversation with Jeannette in Lyle’s Thunderbird as though it had happened the night before, and the knot in his gut was equally as fresh—and painful.

After dropping Jeannette at the sorority house, he’d driven aimlessly, the windows open, the radio loud as a local station spun the day’s hits. “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart?” by the Bee Gees was on at the moment, and the lyrics had meaning to him for the first time. He knew he should be feeling a litany of emotions—rage at Lyle, extreme disappointment in Jeannette, a sense of betrayal to rival Caesar’s, hatred, disgust, maybe pity. But he was unsuccessful in summoning any of those feelings. He wanted to cry; wasn’t that the appropriate reaction? But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Mitigating all those human emotions was what had nagged at him ever since he first saw Jeannette Boynton and fell in love with her easy laugh, her beautiful face, her stunning body, and all the other good womanly things.

He wasn’t right for her.

And wished he were.

Where was his competitive spirit? He attacked every basketball game as though it would be the last one he ever played, tenacious, focused, eyes set on winning above all else. Or those track meets in which he viewed each opponent as a threat to his very existence, summoning up every last ounce of energy and fire to finish first. Always finish first.