Murder at Ford's Theatre Page 22

  She knew so little about him outside the confines of the office. He was a tragic figure in her eyes, grossly overweight, perpetually flushed, and with thin, wet strands of hair covering the expanse of his baldhead. He was only forty-three years old; at least that’s what he’d claimed on his employment application. Was he gay? It was unfair to make that assumption based only upon the fact that he’d never married. Asexual? There was more of that than people realized, Clarise theorized, men and women so busy pursuing their professional dreams that taking time out for sex was simply too intrusive.

  She’d never been to his apartment, which she knew was in a large building in Silver Spring, Maryland, nor had she ever met any of his friends. He talked of having friends, male and female, and occasionally related what he’d done with them over the weekend, a movie, dinner out or in, a monthly low-stakes poker game at which he claimed he invariably lost but enjoyed the evening nonetheless.

  Her interest in his extracurricular activities wasn’t especially keen, no more than a natural human desire to know how other people live. As far as she was concerned, the thing that mattered was the job he did for the theatre, which was splendid. If only he didn’t wear that dreadful cologne, she thought as he turned in the chair again and faced her. He struggled from the chair. “Nature calls,” he said.

  “And I have to leave. I’m already late for my next appointment.”

  “Go home,” he said. “Spend a quiet night in, Clarise. Recharge the old batteries.”

  “Old batteries?” she said, laughing.

  “Just a figure of speech,” he said, joining her laugh. “Excuse me.”

  She watched him leave, packed things into her briefcase, then picked up the phone and dialed her home number. Isabella answered.

  “Is Jeremiah there?” Clarise asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Tell him to stay, not to leave for any reason. I’ll be home in an hour.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Crowley stood at the door.

  “That was quick,” Clarise said, smiling.

  “One advantage of being a man,” he said. “It’s always quicker.”

  “One of many advantages,” she said, standing and walking past him to the tiny hallway. “Don’t stay too late. And thanks again, Bernard, for all your fine work. Having the auditors come in to a shipshape operation takes a lot off my mind.”

  “Clarise.”

  She’d already gone down a few steps. “What?”

  “When the pressure is off—when things calm down a little—I’d like some of your undivided attention.”

  “Meaning?”

  “A chance to sit down and talk.”

  “Sure. About what?”

  “Oh, many things, my future here, nothing more important than that.”

  “Absolutely. When the pressure is off, you can buy me a drink and talk about anything, Bernard. Absolutely anything.”

  She’d no sooner retrieved her car from the garage downstairs and started the engine when her cell phone rang.

  “Ah, Clarise, darling,” Sydney Bancroft said. “So glad I caught you.”

  “What is it, Sydney?”

  “We absolutely must talk. I’m back from London, rejuvenated and revitalized and—”

  “I don’t have time now, Sydney. I’m running late for an appointment.”

  “Of course. What about Jeremiah? Anything new and exciting while I was away?”

  “No, nothing. Your teen show went well this afternoon, I’m told.”

  “Wonderful! I knew it would. When can we talk? Seriously talk?”

  “Monday. At the theatre.”

  “Ah, if it must be. I’ll be home all day tomorrow if you change your mind. Tomorrow would be better, at my apartment. Not the theatre. It’s—well, it’s highly personal, Clarise.”

  “Yes. All right. I’ll think about it, Sydney. Good-bye.”

  She checked her watch as she turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue, drove to the entrance of the Four Seasons Hotel, on the edge of Georgetown, and turned her car over to a parking attendant. She entered the lobby and looked through to the Garden Terrace, where a pianist in a black gown applied a light touch to show tunes on a black grand piano.

  “Clarise.”

  She turned to see Bill Wooby of the Millennium Arts Center. “Join us for a drink?” he asked.

  “Thank you, no, Bill,” she replied, looking past him to the terrace. “I’m meeting someone.”

  “Best of luck with your hearing.”

  “My—oh, goodness, I’ve forgotten all about that—at least for the moment. Have a nice evening.”

  “You, too, Clarise.”

  “A table?” she was asked when entering the room.

  “No, I see who I’m meeting.”

  As she crossed the room, Sol Wexler stood and offered his hand, kissed her on the cheek, and indicated the spot next to him on a love seat. A glass of ginger ale sat untouched on the table. A waitress took her order for diet Coke. After she’d been served, and small talk had been gotten out of the way, Wexler leaned close and said, “I know how busy you are, Clarise, and I appreciate you meeting with me like this on short notice.”

  She sipped her Coke.

  “I felt the matter was serious enough to warrant this meeting,” he said.

  “Yes, you indicated that on the phone, Sol. Now, what’s this all about?”

  KLAYMAN AND JOHNSON SAT in an unmarked car a considerable distance from Senator Lerner’s home, but within viewing distance. It was six-thirty. No one had entered or left the house since their arrival.

  “The kid is dead meat,” said Johnson between bites of a chicken burrito they’d picked up on their way from headquarters.

  “Seems like it. Not a hell of a lot of evidence, though.”

  “Looks solid to me,” said Johnson. “The kid lied. And the shoes.”

  “All that evidence says is that one of the shoes made an imprint in the alley behind the theatre. Doesn’t mean he killed her.”

  “Then why would he lie about knowing her?”

  “Scared.”

  “Man, you are something,” Johnson said. “You sound like the lawyer. Smith get to you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I just get the feeling that somebody’s putting on the pressure to arrest somebody—anybody.”

  Johnson finished the burrito and wadded up its paper wrapper.

  Klayman continued. “They’ve dropped interest in everybody else, Mo. That grad student, Cole, at American, was mad enough to kill her. At least his friends say so. All the people at the theatre, stagehands, the like. Maybe Senator Lerner had reason to want her out of the way.”

  “The senator? Come on, man. You saw him. He’s not the type to hang around back alleys beating some chick to death.”

  “Maybe he had somebody else do it. That was the speculation about Congressman Condit. And what about what her landlady told us: that she dated lots of guys. The only two we know are Lerner and Cole. Who were the others?”

  Johnson downed the remains of an orange soda. “Nah, Ricky. It was Lerner, Lerner the younger.”

  Klayman laughed. “Because he cut your pretty face?”

  “I forgot about that, but—”

  “There’s the senator,” Klayman said, indicating Lerner’s car that was entering the garage after the automatic doors had been activated.

  A few minutes later, Mac Smith drove up, parked in the short driveway, and went through the front door.

  “The troops are gathering,” Johnson said.

  Klayman’s cell rang.

  “Klayman.”

  “It’s Herman. Change in plans. Lerner skipped from the house last night. He’s gone. At least that’s what the lawyers say.”

  “Not too bright,” Klayman said.

  “He look like a genius to you?”

  “The senator and Mackensie Smith just arrived,” Klayman said. “What do you want us to do?”

  “Sit tight for a few minutes.”


  “The free press is here,” Johnson said, pointing to a remote truck from a local TV station pulling up in front of the house. Its arrival prompted two people, a man and a woman, to exit a car they’d been sitting in at the other end of the block, and approach the house.

  “Yeah, well, the kid blew the offer to come in quietly, provided he really did skip last night. I’ve got two cars on their way. The uniforms in them will block off the street at both ends in case the kid’s still there and decides to show us how fast he is. Stay until they’re in place. When they are, you two go into the house and make sure our little friend isn’t there.”

  “Okay.”

  Hathaway clicked off, and Klayman filled Johnson in.

  A minute later, the two marked patrol cars arrived, and their uniformed occupants took up positions at the ends of the street.

  “Might as well get out, “Johnson said, yawning, stretching, and opening the door. “No big secret the gang’s all here.”

  Klayman’s cell phone sounded again.

  “Go,” Hathaway instructed. “Be nice, but don’t take any B.S. from Smith or the senator. I figure Smith was telling the truth about the kid running, but you never know what these goddamn lawyers will pull. Let me know what goes down.”

  The two print reporters who’d been in the car, and a reporter from the TV station, approached Klayman and Johnson as they walked to the house.

  “Are you here to arrest Senator Lerner’s son?” one asked.

  The detectives ignored the question, stepped up to the front door, and rang the bell. Questions continued to be asked as the housekeeper opened the door and allowed Klayman and Johnson to enter. The senator and Smith were waiting in the study.

  “We’re here to arrest Jeremiah Lerner,” Johnson intoned, “on the charge of the murder of Nadia Zarinski.”

  “He’s not here,” Lerner said.

  “We’d like to take a look,” Klayman said.

  “Be my guest,” Lerner replied.

  A half hour later, the four men again gathered in the study.

  “Any idea where he might be, Senator?” Klayman asked.

  “I’m afraid not, gentlemen. I wish I did.”

  “It would have helped him if he’d surrendered,” said Klayman, rhetorically. He looked at Smith. “There’ll be an all-points out for him, Professor.”

  “We’re aware of that,” Smith said.

  “I suggest that if his whereabouts become known, he be encouraged to turn himself in.”

  “Any other advice, Detective?” Lerner asked.

  “None at the moment, sir. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  When the detectives left the house, the number of media representatives had increased. They hurled questions as Johnson and Klayman went to their car.

  “Is the senator in there?”

  “Where’s Jeremiah Lerner?”

  “Is he being charged with the murder?”

  Klayman and Johnson said nothing in response, climbed in the car, and drove away until they’d distanced themselves. Johnson used the car’s radio to call Hathaway at headquarters. “No sign of him at the house,” he reported.

  “That’s because he’s not there,” Hathaway said.

  Johnson and Klayman looked at each other quizzically as their chief’s words came through the speaker.

  “We’ve got a lead on him. His mother’s house.” He gave them Clarise Emerson’s address in Georgetown.

  “How’d you come up with that?” Johnson asked.

  “A little bird told me. It doesn’t make any difference. Get over there. Cars have been dispatched. You two bring the little bastard in—in one piece. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Johnson said as Klayman gunned it and turned the corner.

  By the time they arrived, the street had been blocked off to traffic. TV remote trucks and journalists on foot were kept at bay, some berating officers about being unjustly kept from the scene, and loudly proclaiming their First Amendment rights.

  Johnson and Klayman left their car, identified themselves to a uniformed cop, and were allowed to approach the house, where a contingent of a dozen officers waited for instructions. Two powerful halogen searchlights had been hooked up to a portable generator and were positioned to brightly illuminate the front of the three-storey home. Another cop with an electric-powered bullhorn was among the gathered.

  “Who’s that?” Johnson asked, pointing to a downstairs window where the drapes parted for a moment. A woman’s face was seen, but disappeared as the drapes closed again.

  “We’re ready to go in,” the officer with the bullhorn told Johnson.

  “Let’s hold up,” Klayman said. To Johnson: “Come on.”

  They went to the door, pushed the button, and heard chimes inside. Johnson banged on the door. “Police!” he shouted. “Jeremiah Lerner? If you’re in there, open the door and come out with your hands raised.”

  This time, Klayman kept his thumb on the bell, causing the chimes to tinkle rapidly, while Johnson continued to knock.

  “We take the door down?” Johnson asked.

  “I hate to do that,” Klayman said. “Stupid kid. Why doesn’t he just open the damn door?”

  “Please,” a woman’s voice said from behind.

  Clarise Emerson had been allowed through the barricades, and had been escorted to the door by an officer.

  “Oh, Ms. Emerson,” Klayman said.

  “Is your son in there?” Johnson asked.

  “I don’t know. I mean, he was, but—”

  “Can you get him to come out?”

  “Is all this necessary?” she asked. “This spectacle?”

  “We’re here to arrest him, ma’am, for the murder of Nadia Zarinski,” Johnson said.

  “Good God, this is a nightmare, an absolute nightmare.” She looked down the street to where reporters and TV camera crews vied for a better vantage point. “The press is everywhere. Jeremiah didn’t kill anyone. Don’t you see that?”

  “Ma’am,” Klayman said, “whether he did or not will be determined by others. Right now, our orders are to bring him in. We’d rather do it quietly, but—”

  “You call this ‘quietly’?”

  “If you can get him to surrender himself, it’ll be over,” Johnson counseled. “Otherwise, we’re going to have to go in and get him.”

  “I want his lawyer present,” she said, her voice reflecting the modicum of control she’d managed to muster.

  “Mr. Smith?” Klayman said. “He’s at your former husband’s house. We just left there. But I suggest we take care of getting your son first.”

  “I’ll make that decision,” she said, fumbling in her purse for her cell phone. She found it and dialed.

  “Bruce, a horrible thing has happened. Jeremiah is here, and . . . what? . . . Here, at my house . . . he’s here and the police are here, too, and the press are everywhere and—is Mac Smith still with you? Put him on.”

  She told Smith what was occurring, thanked him, and ended the call. “He’ll be here shortly,” she told the detectives.

  “Look, Ms. Emerson, we don’t have time to—”

  Klayman’s cell rang.

  “What’s going on there, Rick?” Hathaway asked.

  Klayman explained.

  “Go in and get him,” Hathaway said. “The hell with the lawyer. Read him his rights and bring him in.”

  “Okay,” Klayman said, not happy with the order. He saw no reason to not wait until Smith arrived, which would undoubtedly be in minutes. He said to Clarise, “Ms. Emerson, why don’t you go inside and talk with Jeremiah? It would make things a lot easier if he just came out nice and peaceful.”

  “What do you intend to do, shoot him down like some rabid dog?” she growled.

  Klayman or Johnson didn’t respond. Clarise removed a set of keys from her purse, inserted one in the door, and pushed it open.

  “Jeremiah?” she yelled. “It’s Mother. Jeremiah, please, you must talk to me.” She vanished into the foyer’s darkness
; a light came on in a room to the right.

  “We go in?” Johnson asked, sotto voce.

  Klayman indicated patience with a raised hand.

  Mac Smith arrived with a uniformed officer, who said, “He says he’s the lawyer for the perp.”

  Smith’s facial reaction was worth a thousand words.

  “Sorry, Professor,” Klayman said. “If he’d only—”

  “I know, I know,” said Smith. “Ms. Emerson is inside?”

  “Yes.”

  Smith walked past them and entered the house. They heard him call Clarise’s name, and she responded. Klayman and Johnson stepped into the foyer. The voices from the room on the right were distinct.

  “You’ve caused a lot of trouble, Jeremiah,” Smith said.

  “I’ve been telling him that,” Clarise said, her voice shrill.

  “You told them,” Jeremiah said.

  “No, I did not tell them, darling,” she said. “I don’t know how they knew. Reporters are everywhere. This will be front-page news tomorrow, on every TV station.”

  “Look, Jeremiah,” Smith said, “there’s nothing to be gained sitting here. You can’t go anywhere. If you don’t allow me to bring you out, they’ll storm in here and take you by force. Nobody wants that, including the police. If this is a mistake—and the police do make mistakes—we’ll sort it all out, and you can go home. Until then, my best advice is to cooperate. I’ll be with you every step of the way. No one will abuse you or your rights. I promise you that.”

  There was silence, broken only by what sounded like sniffling.

  “Ready?” they heard Smith say.

  Smith came from the room to the foyer, followed by Jeremiah and his mother.

  “He’ll cooperate,” Smith said. “He’s not running anymore.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  THE APPREHENSION OF JEREMIAH LERNER as the targeted suspect in the murder of Nadia Zarinski was, in fact, the lead story on every TV and radio newscast that evening. In a sense, it was refreshing news. Washingtonians, like the rest of the country, had been numbed by a daily dose of unpleasant war stories from the Middle East, tales of childish squabbling among members of Congress, and countless pundits carrying form-over-substance to new heights. The arrest of a U.S. senator’s son for murder was almost palliative.