Murder at Ford's Theatre Page 20

  “Evidently.”

  “Just a week before he was killed, he was walking down a main street in Richmond, Virginia, without any protection at all.” Klayman laughed. “He’s reported to have said that since nobody took a shot at him there, he didn’t have to worry for his safety in Washington.”

  “He was obviously wrong. How are things with you?”

  Did he mean with the investigation? “Good,” he said. “How’s the senator holding up?”

  “Senator Lerner? Quite well, but that’s to be expected. Well, Detective Klayman, it was good seeing you. I assume it won’t be the last time.”

  “Oh, no, Professor, I’ll be back next Saturday.”

  “I didn’t mean that. Enjoy the weekend.”

  Klayman left the law building and went to headquarters, where Johnson sat with Hathaway in the chief’s office. With them was Wally Wick, an MPD forensic specialist.

  “Bingo!” Hathaway proclaimed as Klayman took a seat. “Catch what Wally’s come up with.”

  Wick handed Klayman a written analysis of the comparison he’d made between latent footprints found at the murder scene, and color photographs of the soles of Jeremiah Lerner’s Ecco shoes.

  “Look at the left shoe, Rick,” Wick said. “The class characteristics match perfectly, sole design, size, everything. But the individual characteristics are even more telling. See the wear pattern on the outside of the sole?” Klayman examined the photo carefully and saw what Wick meant. “Same as the latent print. And there’s that nick on the toe. See?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Perfect match,” said Wick. “That shoe was behind the theatre. No question about it. Whether the Lerner kid was wearing it is conjecture.”

  “Conjecture, hell,” Hathaway said. “What do you think he did, lend his left shoe to somebody that night?”

  Wick chuckled. “I just match ’em, Herman. You and the lawyers decide who was wearing ’em. Always a pleasure to do business with you.”

  “Okay,” Hathaway said after Wick had left, “looks like we’re getting there. The shoe matches, and we’ve got witnesses who claim Lerner was dating the girl. When are you getting a statement from Bancroft?”

  “Hopefully this afternoon,” Klayman said. “He said he’d be back from London today.”

  “Well, get on it. I think we’ve got enough to charge Lerner. I’ll run it by LeCour over at the U.S. Attorney’s office. Get a statement from that actor and do it fast.”

  “What about the senator himself?” Johnson asked. “Any progress on setting up an interview?”

  “Not yet, but I’m not especially concerned about that. The kid did it. I’d bet my pension on it.”

  “How was your class?” Johnson asked as he and Klayman went to the lobby, where Johnson used the ATM to get cash.

  “Great. He’s a good teacher. I learned a lot.”

  “You learn anything about the Lerner kid?”

  “From Smith? No. We never got into that. He asked me how the investigation was going. I said slow. That was it.”

  Klayman used a phone at the desk to dial Bancroft’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Bancroft, Detective Klayman.”

  His announcement was met with a moan.

  “Sir?”

  “I just walked in the door, Detective, and am suffering terminal jet lag. My circadian rhythms have positively crashed, although I’m pleased the plane didn’t.”

  “Sir, could my partner and I come by and get a statement from you regarding Jeremiah Lerner having dated the murder victim, Nadia Zarinski?”

  “Oh, my, that sounds so official. A statement. Written, I presume.”

  “Yes, sir. Just a short statement. Won’t take more than a few minutes.”

  “I find this terribly dismaying.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sure you do, but—”

  “Ms. Emerson mustn’t know I told you about the boy dating Nadia. I won’t have to testify at his trial, will I?”

  “That’s not my decision, sir.”

  “Perhaps another time.”

  “Sir, I’m afraid this can’t wait.”

  “What if I refuse to give you your statement? What if I deny I ever said anything about Jeremiah and the girl?”

  “That wouldn’t be the truth, would it?”

  Klayman glanced at Johnson, whose expression clearly mirrored his annoyance at his partner’s placating of Bancroft.

  “Mr. Bancroft,” Klayman said, “I would really appreciate it if—”

  The actor’s voice, more studied and theatrical now, said, “Take note, take note, oh world, to be direct and honest is not safe.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The hypocritical Iago, Detective, to Othello. Honesty isn’t always the best policy, I fear. People unfortunately have a habit of blaming the messenger. But come if you insist. Your servant awaits.”

  Klayman couldn’t help but smile and shake his head as he hung up.

  “He’s a whack job,” Johnson said.

  “I like him,” said Klayman.

  “You would. Because he talks that way?”

  “Talks?”

  “You know, with that British accent. Anybody with a British accent sounds smarter than the rest, cultured. Know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I do, but it’s not his speech. I just—I guess I feel a little sorry for him. Once a star, now a has-been. The underdog. I always root for the underdog.”

  “We’re going there now?” Johnson asked.

  “Yeah. And be nice to him, Mo.”

  “Oh, I will be, Ricky. I-will-be-nice.”

  Bancroft was waiting for them in the hallway when they reached the seventh floor. This day he wore a red silk bathrobe and sandals.

  “Thanks for seeing us,” Klayman said.

  “I just hope we can make it quick, gentlemen. As I told you on the phone, I am exhausted, absolutely exhausted.”

  “Won’t take more than a few minutes, sir.”

  They settled in his living room. A small overnight bag lay open on the couch, its contents piled on the floor.

  Klayman said, “You said you knew that the deceased, Nadia Zarinski, had been seeing Jeremiah Lerner, and that you’d warned her not to. Is that correct?”

  He nodded.

  Klayman gestured toward Johnson: “Detective Johnson is writing a statement for you to sign, sir. Is that all right?”

  “You don’t trust me to write my own?”

  “That’s not the reason, sir. Just trying to make it easier on you.”

  “And I speak in jest. Please, write what you will.”

  “When did you warn her, Mr. Bancroft? Do you remember when it was, the day, or night, the time?”

  “Oh, no. How could I possibly?”

  “Over the long weekend?”

  “Long weekend? Labor Day, you mean. No. It was before that. Yes, the week before, possibly two weeks.”

  “During the day?”

  “No. At night. Definitely at night. A rehearsal, I’m sure. Nadia, poor thing, only came to the theatre at night. Yes, that was it. At night. A rehearsal.”

  “How did you come to know she was seeing Jeremiah Lerner?”

  He touched his fingertips to his mouth and assumed a wicked expression. “I eavesdropped,” he said. “I know, I know, that isn’t very nice. But you will admit it can be fun. You learn the juiciest of secrets.”

  “Go on.”

  “I heard her complaining about the Lerner boy to some of the other young people backstage. Frankly, I was shocked to hear she was dating him. I mean, after all, his mother, Clarise, runs the theatre, and considering the rumors about Nadia and Senator Lerner—well, I was shocked, that’s all, simply shocked.”

  “So you were shocked,” Johnson interjected, more to break the boredom he was feeling. “What did you do?”

  “I took her aside.” He feigned extreme concentration. “No, actually she took me aside, which wasn’t unusual. She valued my advice, I’m sure.” A laugh. “
Once you reach my age, you have more advice to give than certain other things.” His arched eyebrows asked whether they agreed.

  “She asked your advice about Jeremiah Lerner?” Klayman asked.

  “Not so much asked for advice as complained to me the way he was treating her. I will tell both of you gentlemen something. Any man who lays a hand on a woman is, in my estimation, a scoundrel of the first order.”

  Klayman thought about having read years back of Bancroft’s arrest for assaulting a woman in London, but didn’t raise it. He asked, “She told you Lerner had hit her?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s when you suggested she not see him anymore?” Johnson asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “Did she agree with you?” Klayman asked.

  “Absolutely. But she evidently didn’t follow through, saw him one final, fateful time. I have a theory about the murder, gentlemen.”

  “Is that so?” said Johnson.

  “I believe that she decided to do what I said, break off their relationship, and met with him behind the theatre for that purpose. It sent him into a rage and he battered her to death.”

  Klayman stood and said, “Well, Mr. Bancroft, thanks for your time and for being so forthcoming.”

  Johnson handed Bancroft the brief statement he’d written—it said only that the actor knew that Jeremiah Lerner had engaged in a relationship with the murder victim, Nadia Zarinski, and warranted that his statement was true.

  “Must I?” Bancroft said.

  Klayman nodded, and Bancroft scratched his signature on the paper.

  “Thanks again,” Klayman said. “By the way, how are things coming with your one-man show? You went to London for that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes, it’s coming along famously. I’m very excited about it.”

  He walked them to the elevator.

  “One thing I will never understand,” he said as they waited for the car to arrive.

  “What’s that?” Johnson asked.

  “Why Clarise stood for having Nadia at the theatre, even as an occasional helper.”

  The doors opened, but Johnson held them that way with his hand. “You say Ms. Emerson knew the girl hung around?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Crowley says she didn’t,” said Johnson.

  “Mr. Crowley?” Bancroft said, guffawing. “That fat excuse for a man?”

  “I take it you and Mr. Crowley aren’t friends,” Johnson said.

  Bancroft said to the otherwise empty hallway, “‘Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens.’”

  “Shakespeare, I suppose,” Johnson said.

  “Very astute, sir. As You Like It.”

  “You’re sure she knew?” Klayman asked.

  “Have I said something I shouldn’t have?”

  “No, not at all,” Klayman said, stepping into the elevator.

  “Have a nice day,” Johnson said as the doors slid shut.

  They waited until reaching their car.

  “What do you make of it?” Klayman asked. They were headed back to headquarters.

  Johnson answered, “Why would Ms. Emerson claim she didn’t know the girl was working at the theatre?”

  “It was Crowley, the controller, who said that. Right?”

  “Yeah, but she also put on the big surprise act when she found out. How come?”

  “Maybe to not look foolish,” Klayman offered.

  “Or maybe to take herself out of the running as a suspect.”

  “We’ll ask,” said Klayman.

  “Yeah, let’s do that.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING his Saturday morning class, Smith went to his office at the university and dialed Senator Bruce Lerner’s unlisted home number. The housekeeper who answered informed Smith that the senator was gone for the day on official business.

  “Is his son there?” Smith asked.

  “No, sir, I don’t believe he is.”

  His next call was to Clarise Emerson’s Georgetown home. Again, a housekeeper answered: “Ms. Emerson isn’t feeling well, Mr. Smith. She’s resting.”

  “It’s important I speak with her,” Mac said.

  “Sir, I—”

  “Put her on.”

  “One minute, sir.”

  Clarise eventually came on the line.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Clarise, but I tried the senator’s house and was told Jeremiah wasn’t there.”

  “Oh, God,” she said. “I’m sorry, Mac. I have a splitting headache. It came out of the blue and my head feels as though it’s exploding. Jeremiah! I know he left the house yesterday. I spoke with Bruce about it.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might be?”

  “Not the slightest. I’m sorry, Mac. I wish I could be more helpful.”

  “We have to find him, Clarise.”

  “What do you expect me to do, Mac? Bruce said the same thing, as though I can snap my fingers and he’ll appear.”

  She was right, of course. From a pragmatic point of view, she couldn’t be expected to produce her son. But she might speculate on where he’d go. Smith just wished she sounded a little more concerned; he needed company to share the frustration he felt, and the sense of pending trouble. Although he didn’t have firsthand information, he was convinced the police were narrowing in on Jeremiah for the murder. Obviously, Jeremiah had sensed it, too, and fled his father’s home in a foolish attempt to avoid facing it.

  He also found it inexplicable that Lerner would be gone for the day knowing the situation. Yes, he was a United States senator, and undoubtedly had pressing matters of state with which to contend. Then again, maybe he had decided to absent himself to avoid having to deal with the increasingly active media. But their son was in deep.

  “Clarise, do you know any of Jeremiah’s friends we can call, anyone who might know his whereabouts?”

  “No, I don’t. Jeremiah never shared such information with me. I assume his roommate has been contacted.”

  “Roommate?”

  “Yes. In the apartment they share in Adams-Morgan.”

  “Give me the number.”

  “I—all right. Hold on.” She returned a minute later and gave him the number.

  “Will you be at the house for the rest of the day?” he asked.

  “I hope not. I’m supposed to meet with a corporate sponsor later today, and then with the producers of the festival. And Bernard and I need to meet. We’re getting ready for the annual outside audit. What a dreadful time to come down with a migraine.”

  Smith sighed. If he had his way, he would have insisted that Jeremiah’s mother and father meet with him to help find their son before the police tried to contact him and discovered the boy had violated the court’s order by leaving his father’s home.

  “You have my cell phone number, Clarise, and my other numbers. Please, if you hear from Jeremiah, let me know immediately.”

  “I promise I’ll do that, Mac. I can’t thank you enough for all your help.”

  His next call was to the apartment where Jeremiah had been living. The roommate answered.

  “I’m looking for Jeremiah Lerner,” Smith said.

  “He’s not here, man.”

  “Has he been there in the last twenty-four hours?”

  “Who is this?”

  “His attorney.”

  “Oh, man, right. He’s in some trouble, huh?”

  “Here’s my number. Please have him call me if you see him.”

  “Sure. I guess he’s famous. I already talked to some reporters who called.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t,” Smith said. “Thanks.”

  Next was a call to Yale Becker at home. He filled his colleague in on the situation, and they agreed that unless Jeremiah elected to return, his problems were magnified tenfold.

  “Dumb kid,” Becker muttered.

  “If he doesn’t return of his own volition by tomorrow, maybe we’d better put an investigator on it.”

  “If w
e have to. What about the parents?”

  Smith related his conversations with Senator Lerner and Clarise Emerson.

  “They don’t sound terribly concerned.”

  “I think they’re so consumed with their professional lives, there isn’t a lot of room for concern about anything else. Besides, these are people used to having their way. Bad things don’t happen to them.”

  “Their luck may have run its string. I’m heading out, Mac. My cell will be on.”

  Smith realized that he, too, had developed a headache, and took a Tylenol from his desk drawer before heading home.

  CLARISE EMERSON HAD BEEN DOCTORING herself with Tylenol since getting up that morning. She hadn’t showered or dressed when taking Smith’s call, having spent the morning drinking black coffee and applying cold compresses to her forehead. Now, with time running out before her first appointment of the day, she ran as cold a shower as she could tolerate, chose a peach-colored pantsuit outfit and white blouse, dressed, and prepared to leave the house. Her departure was delayed a few minutes by a phone call from a reporter, whom she summarily dismissed.

  “Ghouls,” she mumbled as she grabbed her purse and briefcase and made for the door. A sharp knocking stopped her.

  She flung open the door and was face-to-face with Jeremiah.

  “Where have you been?” she shouted.

  He responded by pushing past her and slamming the door behind him.

  “Jeremiah,” she said, following him from the foyer into the living room. “What are you doing here?”

  He collapsed on the couch, arms spread wide, legs extended in front of him. His eyes were dilated as though artificially propped open, and ringed with dark circles. He wore black jeans, a black T-shirt, and sandals; his clothes and breath reeked of marijuana.

  “Do you know they’re looking for you?” she asked, standing over him, one hand on her hip, head cocked.

  “Yeah, I know.” He was out of breath.

  “You took Daddy’s car?”

  He nodded.

  “Where is it?”

  “Around the corner. I didn’t want to park in front of the house.”

  She exhaled in frustration and took a few steps away, turned, and resumed her posture. “Jeremiah, did you have some sort of relationship with that young woman, Nadia?”