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that friendship to this day.
    “I stopped in Annabel’s gallery the other day,” Emma said. “I’m catering an affair at the Mexican embassy and needed some advice on decorations.”
    “I’ll set up a dinner.”
    “Great, only check my schedule. It’s a busy month.”
     
•  •  •
     
    As Rotondi got himself ready to leave Emma’s home, Neil Simmons was in the midst of a domestic tornado. He hadn’t slept all night. Both phone lines had rung nonstop and continued into the morning. His wife, Alexandra, had pleaded with him to turn off the ringers, but he was afraid he’d miss an important call from his father, or from someone else not associated with the media. Now showered and dressed, he sat with Alexandra in their kitchen.
    Their two sons, ages nine and six, were excited about the large press encampment outside their front windows and repeatedly parted the drapes to peek, provoking an exasperated father to send them to their rooms.
    Alexandra tended to be high-strung even when surrounded by calm, and chastised Neil for being so harsh with the children. He, in turn, reminded her that his mother had just been brutally slain, and that she should show some compassion.
    “Maybe you should show some compassion for your own family.” She was approaching the screaming threshold. “You’re always so damn understanding of everybody else.”
    The muscles in his jaw gave away the anger he felt, but he avoided responding. Instead, he said, “I have to call McTeague about picking up Polly at the airport. He’ll bring her directly here.”
    “Why here?”
    “Please, Alex, let’s not start on—”
    “She’s staying
here
? With
us
?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Put her in a hotel, for God’s sake. It’s a circus here already. She’ll—”
    “She wants to stay here.”
    “So tell her it would be better if she stayed in a hotel.”
    Polly Simmons and Alexandra Simmons had never been loving sisters-in-law.
    “You’re putting me in the middle again, Alex,” Neil whined.
    The nine-year-old snuck down the stairs and pulled aside a drape.
    “Damn it!” Neil exploded. “I told you to—”
    Alexandra rushed to the crying boy, wrapped her arms about him, and said everything was fine and that everything would soon be normal again and that Daddy didn’t mean what he said and…
    Neil picked up the ringing phone and shouted, “Hello?”
    “Neil. It’s Rick. I’ve been calling half the night.”
    “I’m avoiding the press. I don’t know why I picked up this time.”
    “I’m sorry, man. About your mom.”
    “Yeah, thanks.”
    “That’s all anybody’s talking about. It’s all over the news.”
    “I know. Jesus, do I know.”
    “I talked to Karl this morning. We’re going to put up a reward for finding your mom’s killer. We’ll do it through CMJ.”
CMJ
stood for “Center for American Justice,” one of many front organizations controlled by the Marshalk Group, a leading Washington lobbying firm. The caller, Rick Marshalk, was the founder and force behind the firm despite Neil Simmons’s title of president.
    “Okay,” Neil said.
    “Can you get in here today?”
    “I don’t see how I can, Rick. I—”
    “Look, buddy, no need to explain. It’s just that we’ve got to put the finishing touches on the proposal for Betzcon. I’ll call and tell them you won’t be with us at the presentation. They’ll understand. I mean, with what’s happened to your mom and all. Hell, they’d better understand. This one’s big, pal. I know you’re under the gun, but if you could get in here for even an hour this afternoon, we could—”
    Alexandra called for Neil from upstairs. “I’m on the phone with Rick,” he shouted.
    “Neil?”
    “Yeah, sorry. I’ll call you later.”
    “I’ll be waiting,
ciao
! And I am really sorry about your mom, Neil. We’re all in shock.”
    He next called the Hotel George, a small, chic hotel where he had a close friend in management. “Harry, it’s Neil