Murder on K Street (18 page)

Love was different, he now knew. There were no referees to call foul, no umpires to set the rules. No one counted the number of times you stole the ball from an opponent, or how many seconds you shaved off your personal best in the quarter mile. Love was no game. It had to do with how lifetimes would be spent, and who would spend them together.

He returned the car a little before midnight. Simmons looked up as Rotondi walked in, laid the car keys on Simmons’s desk, stripped off his shirt, tossed it on a chair, and sat at his desk. “Thanks for the car,” he said.

“Anytime, pal.”

Rotondi opened a textbook.

“You know, right?” Simmons said.

Rotondi swung around in his chair. “Yeah, I know. Jeannette told me. You knew she planned to tonight. That’s why you gave me the car.”

Simmons shrugged. “I figured it was better coming from her than me.”

“You mean
safer
, Lyle?”

“No, of course not. She’s the one who’s pregnant, not me.” It was an ugly attempt at a laugh.

Rotondi turned away. Simmons rolled his desk chair across the floor to his roommate’s side. “Look, Phil, I know this comes as a hell of a blow to you, and I’m sorry. I truly am sorry for the way it worked out.”

“Drop it, Lyle.”

“I can’t drop it. You’re my best friend, damn it! You’re the last guy I’d ever want to hurt. You know that, don’t you?”

Rotondi faced him. “What I know is, Lyle, that you and Jeannette are getting married. I’m square with that. I wish she weren’t pregnant going into it, but that’s not my concern. You’re right. I am your best friend. I thought you were mine.”

“I am, I am, Phil, and this shouldn’t get in the way of that friendship. It’s not as though I planned it. It just—it just happened, like these things sometimes do. By the way, this is no shotgun wedding. Jeannette and I have really fallen for each other, and it’s because of you. You spotted her first. Man, you’ve got good taste.”

Rotondi sprung out of his chair, grabbed Simmons by the throat, and propelled him across the room and into the far wall, spilling chairs and knocking things from desks en route. He held him against the window, the venetian blinds falling and tangling Simmons in the slats and cords. Rotondi cocked his right fist and held it in front of his roommate’s face.

“Go ahead,” Simmons gasped. “Take a shot, pal. Beat me bloody. I deserve it.”

An animal growl came from Rotondi’s throat. His hand shook as though the nerves in it had short-circuited.

“Go ahead, Phil,” Simmons repeated. “Break my nose. Get it over with.”

Rotondi loosened his grip on Simmons’s throat. He lowered his hand and took a step back, hyperventilating. Simmons rubbed his neck and slumped to the floor. Rotondi backed away and fell into his chair.

“Lyle,” Rotondi said.

“What?”

“We have a month before graduation, and I don’t want to hear another word about this. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure, but I don’t want it to destroy a great friendship.”

“It won’t, Lyle, if you’ll just shut up. The best man won and—”

“Oh, no, my friend,
you
are definitely the best man. You will be, won’t you?”

Rotondi stared at him.

“Be my best man. You’re the brother I never had, Phil. Please. We’ll be planning a quick wedding in Connecticut. Kind of necessary, you know? I’ll pick up all the expenses for you to come. Bring a gal.”

Rotondi slowly shook his head and was unable to stifle a smile. “You know what, Lyle?”

“Tell me, brother.”

“You
will
be president of the United States some day. You’ve got the cojones to pull it off.”

The week after graduation, Rotondi drove one of his sisters’ cars from Batavia to Greenwich, where Lyle put him up in a suite at a local motel. He arrived two days before the wedding, in time to attend the bachelor party at a historic pub in the center of town, and the rehearsal dinner that was catered at Jeannette’s home, also the site of the wedding itself.

There were a dozen men at the bachelor party, including Lyle’s father, with whom Rotondi had spent time over the course of his four years at the university. The elder Simmons, a gruff, no-nonsense sort of man for whom laughing appeared to be painful, was overtly uncomfortable in the midst of the over-the-top, forced masculine gaiety. It was evident to Phil that the father was not pleased that his only son had opted to marry straight out of college. He confirmed that to Rotondi later in the evening when they found themselves apart from the others.

“Lyle’s got himself a great wife,” Rotondi said.

“She’s nice,” Mr. Simmons said. “I like her. But I would have preferred for them to wait until Lyle’s established in his career.”

“Well,” Rotondi started to say, “there’s—”

“I know, I know. There’s a kid coming. Four years of college and he’s never heard of condoms.” He laid a large hand on Rotondi’s shoulder. “You ever need anything, Phil, you come to me. I consider you and Lyle brothers. Call anytime. Got that?” He walked away, his posture less erect than when Rotondi had last seen him.

The number of toasts Lyle made during the party increased with the consumption of drinks. He directed a few at Phil, which made him uncomfortable. At one point, he announced, “When I’m president of the United States, you’re looking at my attorney general, Mr. Philip Rotondi, my best friend.” Glasses were raised to Phil, which he halfheartedly acknowledged.

When everyone spilled out of the pub and into the street, Lyle tried to coax Phil back to Jeannette’s house to continue the evening.

“Not tonight, Lyle,” Rotondi said. “See you at the rehearsal dinner.”

He sat in his suite and watched a made-for-TV movie,
River of Gold
, with Ray Milland and Suzanne Pleshette. His attention kept shifting from the screen—
Why would someone like Ray Milland get involved in such a stupid film?
he asked himself—to his thoughts about the wedding and his being there. Jeannette’s parents seemed like nice people, wealthy but not ostentatious. He wondered whether things would have turned out differently if he’d agreed to accompany her home over the Christmas break. Probably not. They’d turned out the way they had because deep down, it was what he wanted.

He felt awkward during the rehearsal dinner. Jeannette had mentioned earlier in the year that she’d told her parents all about him, and had showed them a photograph of the two of them taken at a school function. Were they comparing him with Lyle during the dinner? He felt they were—and wished they wouldn’t. He left as soon after dessert as proper etiquette allowed and went back to the hotel.
One more day
, he thought.

The following afternoon, he fulfilled his assignment as Lyle’s best man. The ceremony was held on the Boynton family’s sprawling estate on a picture-perfect June day. Jeannette looked, of course, radiant in her gown; the dressmaker had artfully arranged the layers of silk and satin to camouflage the beginning of a bulge in her belly. At the appropriate time, Rotondi dutifully handed the ring to Lyle; he joined the applause after the minister had pronounced Lyle and Jeannette man and wife, and suggested that the groom could now kiss the bride.

A wooden dance floor had been set up on the grounds by the caterers, and an offshoot eight-piece band from a leading society orchestra provided nonstop music. Rotondi hung around one of the bars and took in the festivities. The newlyweds would leave that evening for the British Virgin Islands on their honeymoon. Bride and groom danced with others, and with each other. When the band changed tempo to something slower and more easily navigated, Jeannette came to Phil and asked him to dance.

“You know I’m not very good at that,” he said.

“Oh, come on, Phil. Please?”

They took to the floor and moved stiffly. The feel of her against him was exquisite, and his thoughts raced back to those times when they’d been intimate.

“Thank you, Phil,” she said into his ear.

“For what?”

“For being here. I know it’s not easy.”

“It’s not hard, Jeannette. Your folks and friends are nice people. I’m having a good time.”

“That may be,” she said, “but I’m sure that if I—”

“I’m happy for you and Lyle,” he said, cutting off what he knew she was about to say. “I just hope we can stay in touch.”

“You bet we will, Phil. Count on it.”

She kissed him lightly on the lips as Lyle cut in and swept her away.

They did stay in touch. Rotondi graduated at the top of his class from Maryland’s law school, and Simmons received his law degree from the University of Chicago. The announcement of the birth of Lyle and Jeannette’s first child, a baby boy they named Neil, arrived in the mail, followed by a phone call. And there were other announcements from the Simmons household, most having to do with Lyle’s rise through the Chicago and state political ranks, as well as news of the birth of their second child, a girl named Polly.

Rotondi settled into the U.S. attorney’s office in Baltimore and eventually sent out a personal announcement of his own, of his marriage to Kathleen. Simmons’s election to the U.S. House of Representatives brought the family to Washington, close to Baltimore where Phil and Kathleen lived, affording the couples time to get together on a regular basis, parties at Simmons’s D.C. home, occasional weekends away, and dinners at favored restaurants. Phil had never told Kathleen about his college romance with Jeannette Boynton and how it ended, concerned that it might taint her view of Lyle and Jeannette. His continuing friendship with the rising political star and his family was important to him. But his reluctance to share with his wife that portion of his life also had to do, he knew, with not wanting to have to answer what would undoubtedly be her first question:
Why would you want to remain friends with someone who did that to you
? Although he didn’t have to answer that question for her, he silently knew the truth. His friendship with Lyle Simmons was based, in large part, on his fascination with the man. He enjoyed being close to an increasingly powerful figure without having been sucked into his vortex, able to stand aside and observe, offer advice and not give a damn whether it was taken or not. All of this was selfish, of course, including the reflected importance he felt as the one to whom members of the powerful man’s family frequently turned.

Better that Kathleen not have reason to raise that question than have to honestly admit to those weaknesses.

“A refill?” the bartender asked Rotondi.

“What? Oh, no, thanks. Time I was going.”

He’d paid his tab and was on his way out the door when his cell phone rang. It was Lyle.

“Phil. Glad I reached you. I’m on my way to the Willard to meet with the detectives. I arranged for a suite.”

They won’t be impressed
, Rotondi thought.

“Can you meet me there, Phil?”

“They won’t want me in on the interview, Lyle.”

“After they’re done. The medical examiner is releasing Jeannette’s body. We need to plan a memorial service. I told Neil to call Saint John’s Episcopal on Lafayette Park.”

St. John’s Episcopal
, Rotondi thought. The Church of the Presidents. Every U.S. president since James Madison had attended services there; Pew 54 was reserved as the “President’s Pew.” Jeannette was never particularly religious, but when she did attend church services, Rotondi knew, it was at All Souls Unitarian, which she liked. Not enough cachet for a potential future president.

“I’m sure you’ll want to confer with Polly, too,” Rotondi said.

“Of course. I’ll get hold of her. Can you come by at six? We’ll have dinner.”

Had Emma not had a catering assignment that evening, he would have declined. “All right,” he said.

He clicked off the phone and left the restaurant. It had clouded up during the time he’d been at the bar, and the humidity level had risen. There was a moment while standing on the sidewalk that he considered going to Emma’s house, packing up Homer, and heading home.

But he knew he couldn’t do that. There were things he knew about Jeannette and Lyle Simmons that he’d been suppressing since heeding Lyle’s call the night of the murder. It was time he took the lid off them and followed where they led.

A
fter taking Homer for a walk and feeding him, Rotondi changed clothes, left Emma’s house, and drove to the Willard hotel, where he passed the time by sitting in the opulent lobby and watching the parade of well-dressed humanity passing through. His vantage point gave him a view of the elevators. At a few minutes before six, two people emerged from one and walked his way. The man, of Asian descent, was dressed in a suit and carried a small briefcase. The woman wore a black pantsuit.
The detectives
, Rotondi reasoned as they disappeared from view. The interview was over. He called Simmons’s suite on a house phone and was told to come up.

He expected to see the senator surrounded by his usual entourage, but the man was alone in the suite. He looked tired, and older than a day ago.

“Sit down, Phil. Drink? There’s a minibar and—”

“Nothing, thanks. How did the interview go?”

Simmons, who was in shirtsleeves, the knot of his tie pulled down, plopped in a chair across from Rotondi. “Insulting, that’s how it went. You’d think I was a serial killer the way that obnoxious little Chinese detective talks. I have a call in to the police chief. I refuse to be treated this way. The detective made a lot out of what Neil told him, that Jeannette and I had a rocky marriage. Why the hell Neil would have offered such nonsense is beyond me. It was a good marriage, Phil, no better or worse than any other. Maybe being a senator put an extra strain on it at times. You know, me being away a lot and Jeannette rattling around alone in the house. I tried to get her involved in my activities, but she just kept retreating into a shell. I suppose I can’t blame her for wanting to stay clear of politics. It can be a rough business, Phil, a nasty business.”