“Yeah, sure,” Simmons muttered. He opened one of many walk-in closet doors and turned on the light. As he stepped into it, Chang was two feet behind. “The suitcases are in here,” said Simmons. Chang watched as Simmons chose a small leather carry-on case and matching leather hang-up bag. The senator turned and was face-to-face with the shorter, expressionless detective. “Excuse me.”
Chang stepped back from the closet, allowing Simmons into the room. The senator moved to another closet, again followed by Chang, in which his suits were hung with precision on a long rack. He put one into the hang-up bag, added two ties from among hundreds on a battery-powered tie rack, and laid the bag on the bed.
“No, sir, not on the bed,” Chang said. The detective picked up the bag and folded it over his arm.
“Don’t you think you’re taking your duties a little too far?” Simmons said.
Chang’s response was, “Please, sir, finish what you are doing.”
Simmons drew a deep breath of frustration, opened a dresser drawer, and removed items of clothing. “I need things from the bathroom,” he said.
Chang preceded him into the immense master bath. Everything was white marble and ornate gold fixtures. Simmons filled a toiletries kit with what he needed. “Satisfied?” he asked. “I didn’t touch anything except what I’m taking.”
Chang said nothing as he stepped aside to allow Simmons to leave the bathroom and reenter the bedroom. “I will need a formal statement from you,” Chang said. “You are going to the Willard Hotel?”
“That’s right, but I’ll tell you this. I’m in no shape to be giving you a statement, formal or otherwise. My wife has just been murdered, and I suggest you focus your investigation where it might do the most good. That doesn’t include me.”
Chang replied, “You said you were driven home by your driver. His name, please, and phone number.” Before Simmons could respond, Chang added, “And names of those who were with you tonight at the fund-raiser you say you attended.”
Simmons guffawed. “I can give you a hundred names,” he said. “My driver is Walter McTeague.” He rattled off McTeague’s number so fast that the detective had to ask him to repeat it. “He’s a former cop,” Simmons added.
“Do you have everything?” Chang asked.
“I think so.”
“Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill your wife?”
“No. She was loved by everyone.”
“Not everyone, sir.”
B
y the time Phil Rotondi reached Washington, he’d learned what everyone else had learned about the death of Jeannette Simmons. The story led each newscast on his car radio. Details were sparse; rumors—“unconfirmed,” or “according to reliable sources”—ran rampant. “Breaking news.” On TV, breathless male and female anchors spoke. “The city was shaken tonight by the murder of…” “The police are treating the death of Jeannette Simmons as a homicide, according to information provided exclusively to this station…”
On one, dramatic music worthy of a DeMille epic preceded each report. “More on this developing story after these commercial messages.”
Rotondi’s left leg ached.
His mind ached, too.
He’d quickly packed a small overnight bag after Simmons’s call. He let Homer, the fourteen-year-old mixed-breed dog—half German shepherd, half pit bull—whom he’d rescued as a pup from the streets, out into the fenced yard for a quick leg-lift, put the bag and the dog into the back of his Subaru Tribeca SUV, and was on his way within fifteen minutes. Packing to go to Washington was easy. He’d kept a portion of his wardrobe at Emma Churchill’s Foggy Bottom town house for the past three years, adding to it on each visit; he now had more clothing there than in his condo on the Eastern Maryland shore.
He parked in front of Emma’s town house and—stiffly—got out of the car. Although he’d made the trip in less than two hours, thanks to it being midweek and night, his skeleton had tightened up, especially his gimpy left leg. Opening the passenger’s-side door, he pulled out his cane and bag, closed the door, and led Homer on his leash from the rear seat. Emma wouldn’t be home, he knew. Her catering service had taken off in the past year, and she was out most nights overseeing her staff at multiple social or government functions, making sure the crab cakes were hot and the shrimp were cold, and reminding female servers to smile despite the hammy male paw on the rear end. Rotondi didn’t know how Emma did it, being nice to guests who weren’t—complainers with the taste buds of a mole, the D.C. posturing-and-maneuvering game in full sway night after night. He, Philip Rotondi, former Baltimore prosecutor with the bad leg, would have lasted just one evening, he knew, before wrapping his cane around someone’s wattled neck, or over the head of a bastion of government or industry.
He opened the front door with his key and turned on lights—some were already on because of timers he’d purchased and installed. Let the bad guys think someone was home.
“Okay, buddy,” he told Homer, who sat with his head cocked as though waiting for instructions. “Remember what I taught you about being a good houseguest. No barking, and no rummaging for food in the kitchen. Take a nap before Emma or I get back.
Capisce?
”
Homer whined, which Rotondi took as affirmation. After writing a note for Emma, he got back in his car and drove to Pennsylvania Avenue and Fourteenth Street, where he handed over the vehicle to a valet parker. He knew he wasn’t dressed for the Willard—he’d left home wearing jeans, a maroon T-shirt, a blue chambray shirt, and deck shoes sans socks—but he’d decided that his presence was more important than his outfit.
“My name is Rotondi. Senator Lyle Simmons is staying here,” he told a woman at the desk. “He’s expecting me.”
She’d obviously been well trained. Any doubt she had about him because of what he wore, and his five o’clock shadow, wasn’t reflected on her pretty face. “One moment, please,” she said with practiced pleasantness.
Rotondi grimaced against a shooting pain in his leg, and leaned against the counter to take some of his weight off it.
“Sir, the senator is staying here but hasn’t arrived yet.”
“Oh?”
“If you’d like to wait in the lobby, or in the bar, I’ll see that you’re paged when he arrives.”
“Let’s make it the bar.”
Before entering the hotel’s venerable Round Robin Bar, Rotondi called Simmons. No answer.
“A perfect Rob Roy,” Rotondi told the bartender after taking a stool beneath a portrait of Calvin Coolidge, who’d lived at the Willard in 1923 while serving as Warren Harding’s vice president. When Harding died in office, the hotel became the official presidential residence, and the official presidential flag flew from its rooftop until Mrs. Harding moved out of the White House.
The bartender placed his drink in front of him. Rotondi had no sooner picked it up for his first taste when a female staff member, pert and pleasant, entered the bar and asked for Mr. Rotondi.
“That’s me.”
She stepped close and said softly, “Sir, Senator Simmons has arrived and asks that you join him in his suite.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll have your drink sent up.”
“Really? That’d be nice. Put it on the senator’s bill.”
He threw a tip down on the bar and followed the staffer. “We heard about the terrible thing that happened tonight,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Are you—?”
“Just a friend. And slow down.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, now noticing his cane.
She escorted him up in the elevator to the suite, gave him a final look that said she was sympathetic, and left as Alan McBride answered his knock.
“Hello, Phil.”
“’Lo, Alan.”
Rotondi followed McBride into the Willard’s fifteen-hundred-square-foot Oval Suite. To his right was the elliptical-shaped parlor, its sunburst carpet inspired by design motifs in the White House.
“The senator is on the phone in the bedroom,” McBride said. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Rotondi stepped into the parlor and stood by large windows that afforded stunning views of the U.S. Capitol. McBride joined him. “He’ll be out in a minute, Phil. Drink?”
“I have one being sent up, but thanks. I heard news reports on the way here. Anything new?”
McBride shook his head. He was shorter than Rotondi, and stockier, more a linebacker than a fleet wide receiver. His neck was thick, his features broad. Rotondi had always liked him, found him to be a straight-shooter with admirable loyalty to his boss that didn’t preclude delivering bad news or contrary advice. He’d removed his jacket and tie; a tuft of reddish brown chest hair poked through the open neck.
“How’s he holding up?” Rotondi asked, referring to the senator.
“Okay. He—”
Press Secretary Markowicz entered the room.
“Phil, this is Peter Markowicz,” McBride said, “the senator’s press secretary.”
“Phil Rotondi,” Markowicz said, shaking Rotondi’s hand. “The senator talks about you a lot.”
“We go back a little way,” said Rotondi. He’d known Markowicz’s predecessor but hadn’t met this relatively new addition to the staff. “I suppose the press is all over this tonight.”
“We thought we’d buy some time by coming here to the Willard,” Markowicz said, “but they’ve tracked us down. The desk is holding all calls.”
Simmons emerged from the bedroom wearing a hotel robe over shirt and pants. He crossed the parlor and gave Rotondi a quick embrace. “I am so glad you’re here, Phil. So glad. Sorry to have disturbed your idyllic evening on the shore.”
“You disturbed nothing, Lyle. Homer’s not happy, though. He was watching his favorite show on Animal Planet.”
“I owe him a dog treat.”
A room-service employee delivered Rotondi’s Rob Roy, along with an array of finger food ordered up by McBride and an assortment of liquor bottles.
“Is Neil here?” Rotondi asked.
“No,” the senator said. “I told him to get home to his family. There’s nothing he could do here.”
Except to partner with his father in their grief
, Rotondi thought.
“Have something to eat, Phil,” Simmons said. “I have to return more calls, some of my Senate colleagues. But I do want to huddle with you later.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Rotondi watched TV along with McBride and Markowicz, who popped in and out of the parlor, leaving Rotondi to bring them up to date on what they’d missed. It was no surprise that the murder of Jeannette Simmons dominated every newscast, the competing stations pulling in anyone with even a tangential connection to Simmons for interviews and comments. A TV crew was camped outside Neil Simmons’s home in Bethesda, as well as maintaining a vigil at the senator’s house. The MPD issued a nonstatement: “We have no comment at this time.” File photos and footage of Simmons with his wife, and some with his son and daughter, flooded the screen. Seeing Jeannette’s face caused Rotondi discomfort. At times, he looked away from the screen. Other times, he swallowed against a lump in his throat that seemed permanently lodged there. He kept adjusting his position in a chair to try to mitigate the pain in his leg, and massaged his thigh.
It was almost an hour later that the senator emerged from the bedroom and sat in a chair next to Rotondi.
“Have the police interviewed you, Lyle?” Rotondi asked.
“I suppose you could call it an interview. Some Asian American detective showed up and asked about my activities tonight. I don’t think he knew what he was doing, Phil. Christ, I hope they put some better people on the case.”
“I’ll check in with friends over there,” Rotondi said.
“Good. I suppose murder isn’t as shocking to you as it is to me.”
“Murder is always shocking,” Rotondi replied, “especially when it’s someone you know and love. Had Jeannette had any conflicts with anyone lately? A workman at the house? Someone in town? Had she mentioned anyone she’d had a run-in with?”
Simmons shook his head.
“What about you, Lyle? Any death threats lately?”
“No. There’s always some nut who writes and says he’ll kill me because of a vote I cast, or a speech I made taking a stand on a contentious issue. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“What about her sister?”
“Marlene? As crazy as ever.”
“Even with the medication?”
“Not when she remembers to take it.”
The latest report about the murder came on the screen: “According to sources within the MPD, an autopsy is being performed on Jeannette Simmons, wife of Senator Lyle Simmons, as we speak.”
“Couldn’t they wait?” Simmons said under his breath.
Rotondi said nothing. He was thinking of countless autopsies he’d attended while a prosecutor in Baltimore, and the vision of Jeannette’s lovely body being unzipped from head to torso was grotesque: all blood drained from her; organs examined one by one, weighed, and bagged; muscles severed in order to reach less accessible parts; nails clipped to see whether material from her assailant was on them; tissue samples snipped from a dozen places; stomach contents saved to be analyzed; and myriad other violations of her dignity, albeit necessary in the pursuit of justice.
He popped a Tum in his mouth.
Markowicz walked over. “Senator,” he said, “I’ve had some calls asking about your schedule tomorrow. I assume—”
“I’ll want to go to the house first, assuming that officious detective has finished his so-called investigation. If he hasn’t, I’ll make the staffing meeting and go to the house later. Call Walter and tell him to pick me up here at six. Find out when I can get in the house. Put out a written statement saying something like I intend to carry on the business of the American people in the midst of this tragedy—Jeannette would have wanted that—I hope her killer is brought to justice soon—maybe, or, I don’t know, Peter, say that I’m cooperating with the authorities every step of the way, that I appreciate all the support and love I’ve been receiving and—”
McBride joined the conversation. He leaned close to Simmons and said just loud enough for Markowicz and Rotondi to hear, “Neil just called, Senator. Polly heard it on the news and called him. Maybe you should—”
“Call Neil and tell him to coordinate things with his sister. She’ll want to get here, I’m sure. I’ll pay any expenses.”