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.
Rotondi thought of what Crimley had told him about Detective Chang’s reaction to the senator’s appearance the night of the murder, neat as a pin, very much together, no
“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.
Rotondi thought of what Crimley had told him about Detective Chang’s reaction to the senator’s appearance the night of the murder, neat as a pin, very much together, no
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