Murder at Ford's Theatre Read online

  “What financial question?” Mac asked.

  “Irregularities the outside auditors have come up with. I’m not certain of the details, but Sol Wexler promised to fill me in once he has a better grasp of it. Exactly what I needed at the moment.”

  “What’s your first step?” Mac asked.

  “My first step?” Her laugh was rueful. “My first step is to go home, shower, and change. I feel like I’ve been in this outfit for weeks. Then head for the theatre and do my usual juggling act.”

  Clarise offered to call a cab, but Mac insisted on driving her. It was after three in the morning. When he returned, he and Annabel sat on the terrace. Sleep was out of the question.

  “Did she say anything in the car about what put her over the edge?” Annabel asked. “I keep having the feeling that there’s something beyond the ordeal with Jeremiah that prompted her decision to back away.”

  “No, she didn’t, and I agree with you. We’ll probably never know.”

  “What about Jeremiah, Mac? Why is he still in jail?”

  “I spoke with Yale earlier today. Lerner is obviously dragging his feet with the bail, but he assured Yale that he’d have it to the court tomorrow afternoon—which happens to be this afternoon. The prosecution convinced the judge to place a lot of restrictions on Jeremiah, including an electronic monitoring ankle bracelet, but Yale managed to kill that. Clarise asked whether I could arrange for him to stay with her until the trial, instead of with his father.”

  “Can you?”

  “I’ll submit a motion today. The last thing Senator Lerner wants is to have Jeremiah living with him again. I’m sure he won’t balk at Clarise having custody. Let’s grab a few hours’ sleep.”

  A few hours were all the sleep they enjoyed. The rising sun two hours later saw to that.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  BERNARD CROWLEY HAD BEEN UP for hours at his apartment in Silver Spring. A call from Clarise at five-thirty had not only jarred him awake, it had sent him into a prolonged bout of anxiety.

  “You woke me,” he’d said.

  “And I’ve been up all night. I received a call from Sol Wexler a few minutes ago.”

  “Oh? So early?”

  “Bernard, we have to talk, and I mean now.”

  “On the phone?”

  “No. At the theatre. What time were you planning to come in today?”

  “The same time I always do. Nine.”

  “It will have to be later. Noon. In my office.”

  “Clarise, I—”

  “Noon, Bernard,” she said firmly, and hung up.

  Crowley sat stunned, staring at the phone. She’d sounded so angry, so uncharacteristically harsh. He’d often marveled at her even temperament when under pressure, at least where he was concerned. He’d seen flashes of anger directed at others, but those incidents were infrequent and usually of short duration.

  After showering and dressing in suit and tie, he went to the kitchen, where he sat at a small table, a small glass of orange juice in front of him, a small radio tuned to an all-news station.

  He called the theatre at nine and told the person who answered that he wouldn’t be in until noon: “No, I’m not ill, just personal things to catch up on.”

  Which wasn’t exactly true. His stomach churned, and acid rose to his throat. He thought he might vomit, but the waves of nausea came and went. He made himself a cup of tea and a slice of dry toast, hoping that would calm his stomach, and it seemed to help.

  Until . . . the voice from the radio’s tiny speaker announced that Clarise Emerson had withdrawn her name from consideration to head the NEA, intended to honor her resignation as producing director of Ford’s Theatre, and return to California.

  Crowley was stunned. The newscaster’s voice, now intoning another story, hung in the kitchen like smoke from a burning pan. He wanted to turn a dial on the radio to hear it again, to confirm it had ever been said.

  Why hadn’t she told me? Was that why she had demanded a noon meeting? No, of course not. He knew why, and it had nothing to do with her leaving. The larger question was how her announcement would impact her reason for demanding—yes, she’d demanded it, hadn’t suggested it—that he meet with her.

  As he watched the minutes pass on a wall clock, he fought to keep his emotions in check. Sol Wexler kept coming to mind. Crowley had been convinced from his first day on the job that Wexler had disliked him, and was working to undermine his authority. He was certain the accountant had counseled Clarise to not hire him. “That bastard!” he exclaimed to the empty room.

  He turned on the TV and again heard the news about Clarise and the NEA, although the stories were now considerably shorter than when first announced, and were buried deeper in the newscasts. He ignored his ringing phone, left the apartment, went into the basement parking lot, got in his 1996 Honda Accord, and went up the ramp. It was ten-thirty, an hour and a half before the meeting. He drove aimlessly, eventually parking in the almost empty lot of a seafood restaurant on Water Street in the city’s southwest quadrant. If there was ever a time for clear thinking, it was now.

  BERNARD CROWLEY WASN’T THE ONLY PERSON in Washington who’d been deeply affected by the news about Clarise.

  Sydney Bancroft became absolutely frantic.

  He’d started the morning in an ebullient mood.

  After leaving Clarise’s home and receiving what he perceived to be her agreement to fund him through the NEA, he’d considered calling his former London agent, Harrison Quill. But it was the middle of the night in England. He waited until three that morning—eight A.M. in London—and called Quill’s home number. The agent’s wife answered.

  “Sydney Bancroft here,” he happily announced, “with good news, very good news indeed, for your hubby. Put him on.”

  “He’s sleeping.”

  “Wake him up, woman. I am about to make him the most important agent in London—again.”

  It seemed an eternity before a sleepy Quill came on the line.

  “What do you want, Sydney?”

  “I have the money, Harrison, old boy. I have the money for my show.”

  There was silence.

  “Did you hear me, Quill? I said I have the backing for my show.”

  Quill responded with a fit of cigarette-induced morning coughing. When it had subsided, he said hoarsely, “That’s wonderful, Sydney. Congratulations.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear, Harry. It will take a few weeks for the funds to flow. When they do, I’ll be in London and we can begin lining up a theatre, production team, the works.”

  “Sydney, I’m out of the bloody agenting business. I’m closing up shop. You’ll have to—”

  “Fine,” Bancroft said. “Just as well. I’ll need someone fresh and with more energy, a young Turk with vision. No hard feelings, Quill. But remember, I gave you first shot.”

  Quill’s announcement didn’t diminish Bancroft’s sense of jubilation. He’d meant what he’d said, that his former agent was over the hill, a dinosaur from another era. It was time for new blood to be infused into Sydney Bancroft’s return to the stage and stardom.

  His elation lasted until nine-fifteen, when he heard the news on TV about Clarise. At first, he sat slack-jawed, unable to process what he’d heard. Not heading the NEA? But she’d told him she’d give him the money once she was ensconced as head of the arts agency. She’d bloody well promised! He screamed at the TV, his words decidedly not Shakespearean. He shook his fist at the tube, and at one point fell to his knees and cursed not only Clarise but the whole human race as well.

  His first attempt to call Clarise resulted in a misdial; his hand shook as he sought the numbers on the keypad. He drew deep breaths to calm himself and correctly dialed her number. Her voice on the answering machine spoke to him: “Leave a message if you wish.”

  He slammed down the receiver and paced the living room before calling Ford’s Theatre: “Clarise isn’t here, Sydney,” he was told.

  “When is she coming in?
”

  “I really don’t know. She has a noon appointment with Bernard.”

  “Does she? I must speak with her.”

  “About the news?”

  “Yes. Is she serious?”

  “I think so. Yes, of course she’s serious.”

  “She mustn’t do this.”

  “I don’t think we have anything to say about it.”

  “Well, I do. Oh, yes, I certainly do have something to say about it. When you see her, tell her I shall be there within the hour, and I must speak with her.”

  “All right, Sydney. I’ll tell her.”

  He spent the next half hour rehearsing what he would say to her, the words he would use to persuade her to change her mind, the emotions he would evoke, the reasoning he would employ to reach her senses. But while he engaged in this exercise, the futility of it was apparent, and his mood and tone gradually evolved into anger, then rage at her. The truth was, he told himself, she’d lied to him, knowing she’d never intended to go through the confirmation process and provide him the funds needed to launch his comeback. She’d played him for a fool, as she’d been doing all along. The question of whether Jeremiah was his son, or Senator Bruce Lerner’s boy, was now moot. She’d stripped him of whatever potency he might possess, and had probably laughed loudly the minute he’d left her house.

  He poured himself a large water glass of scotch and downed it, and then drank another as he walked into his bedroom, opened the closet door, and frenetically shoved clothing in his closet back and forth on the rod, pulling out an occasional piece and disgustedly throwing it to the floor. He settled on a pale green linen jump-suit, and white loafers, stripped off his pajamas, and dressed. He brushed his teeth, popped a breath mint into his mouth, and grabbed his leather shoulder bag from where he’d dropped it near the bed the night before. He ran his hand through the bag’s contents, talking to himself, not making any sense, speaking nonsense, lines he intended to use to convince Clarise to change her mind, coupled with obscenities, curses at a God he didn’t believe in, snippets of Shakespearean dialogue, mumbles and grunts, the ranting of a man consumed by frustrated fury.

  He returned to the closet, got down on his knees, and pulled shoes and shoeboxes from its floor. He finally reached what he was seeking: a cigar box wrapped in a discarded shirt. He removed the shirt and opened the box. In it was a Colt .32 caliber revolver. He stood, stared at the weapon for a moment, held it at arm’s length, placed it in the shoulder bag, and hurried from the apartment.

  “A beautiful day, Sydney,” Morris, the doorman said as Bancroft crossed the lobby.

  “What? Yes, lovely day. I need a taxi.”

  Bancroft was dropped in front of Ford’s Theatre. He handed the driver a twenty-dollar bill, far more than the fare, but didn’t ask for change. He stood on the sidewalk and looked up and down the nearly deserted street. The cancellation of tours at the theatre had sent tourists elsewhere in search of history and culture.

  “Hello, Mr. Bancroft,” said the park ranger on lobby duty.

  “Hello, hello. Splendid day out there.”

  “So they say but you can’t prove it by me, cooped up here inside.”

  Bancroft didn’t continue the pleasantries. He entered the theatre, where the stage crew and TV technicians were hard at work preparing for the telecast of Festival at Ford’s the next night. They ignored Sydney, which was fine with him. He went backstage and into a small room used for props. He paused inside. Confident no one was about to join him, he closed the door and stood before floor-to-ceiling metal shelving holding labeled boxes: WIGS, GLOVES, JEWELRY, SHOES, BOOKS, GLASSWARE, DRIED FLOWERS, KNIVES, TABLECLOTHS, PHOTOS WITH FRAMES—and FIREARMS. He took the firearms box down from where it sat on a top shelf, opened it, again checked that no one was about to come through the door, removed the Colt .32 from his shoulder bag, and placed the revolver in with the replicas of pistols and other handguns, nestling it beneath them at the box’s bottom. He returned it to the shelf, stood on his toes, and delivered to the otherwise empty room one of Brutus’s lines from Julius Caesar in a deliberate, harsh whisper, “‘Between the acting of a dreadful thing and the first motion, all the interim is like a phantasma or a hideous dream.’”

  Waiting would be the hardest part.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ANNABEL REALIZED she hadn’t been paying enough attention lately to the gallery, and decided to spend Wednesday in Georgetown catching up on paperwork and other administrative chores. Despite having had only a few hours’ sleep, she and Mac felt surprisingly awake and alert that morning. They breakfasted on the terrace, with Rufus at their feet.

  “What’s on your plate today besides eggs over easy?” she asked.

  “Deliver the motion for Clarise to take custody of Jeremiah after his bail is paid, and meet with Yale. We need to sit down with Jeremiah and start from page one. I want to know why his shoe print was found in that alley. Yale is contacting a forensic expert in St. Louis who specializes in shoe prints. The science isn’t all that scientific; we may need testimony to that effect at trial.”

  “I can see a battle of the experts looming large in your future,” she said lightly.

  “Guaranteed to confuse even the best of juries. Experts usually cancel one another out, and the jury ends up using what common sense it brings into the deliberations. I also want to set up a meeting with LeCour, the U.S. Attorney.”

  “To discuss a plea possibility?”

  “To hear what he has to say. You can always tell how strong a case the other side has by how lenient they’re willing to be in pleading out a case.”

  “You’ve gotten dozens of defendants off who had much tougher cases against them.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t put it that way. I prefer thinking that justice prevailed despite strong cases on the other side.” He smiled and looked at his watch. “I’d better walk Rufus and be on my way. I envy you a quiet day with your friends.”

  “My friends?”

  “Tlatilco and Teotihuacán and—”

  She laughed and placed her hand on his. “The humor is in the mispronunciation,” she said playfully. “But you are right. I will enjoy spending the day with my pre-Columbian friends. I do intend to try to catch up with Clarise. The fallout from the announcement has got to make for an overfull day for her.”

  “Her decision pleases me,” he said, standing and carrying his dishes into the kitchen, with Annabel close behind. “I think it might be good for Jeremiah—provided, of course, he doesn’t end up behind bars, and provided, of course, she means what she says about taking him with her back to California. It could be the first time she actually becomes a mother to him.”

  Mac stopped at the H. Carl Moultrie D.C. courthouse and handed his motion to Judge Walter Jordan’s law clerk before heading for the downtown law offices of Yale Becker, on K Street.

  “Where do we stand with bail?” Smith asked after Becker’s secretary had served them coffee.

  “Senator Lerner had the funds wired to the court overnight. I’m picking up Jeremiah.”

  “You? Not the senator?”

  “He’s on some junket.” Becker didn’t attempt to disguise his scorn. “You delivered the motion about the mother taking custody?”

  “Yeah. The judge has it. Just have to wait for a decision.”

  Smith tasted his coffee. It wasn’t as good as what he made at home—he was an inveterate coffee snob—but it would do. He asked, “Have you worked out your fee schedule with the senator?”

  “Our fee schedule, Mac. No, but it’s on my list.”

  They spent the next twenty minutes going over details of the case and determining what pretrial motions to develop. In papers filed with the court, LeCour indicated he wanted to introduce prior acts of violent behavior by the defendant, which Smith and Becker would challenge on the basis of its prejudicial impact outweighing any probative value. Asking for a change of venue based upon the intense media coverage was being debated when Becker’s secretary interr
upted: “Judge Jordan’s clerk for you,” she said. Becker took the call.

  “The judge has granted your motion, Mac, to allow Jeremiah to reside with his mother,” Becker said after hanging up. “But there’s a caveat. Senator Lerner has to sign off on it.”

  Smith shook his head. “The judge doesn’t want to cross a U.S. senator, huh? Not that it makes much difference. Lerner doesn’t want the kid living with him. The problem is getting hold of him. Where’s the junket?”

  “Mexico City.”

  “Can he be reached?”

  Becker instructed his secretary to attempt to make contact with Lerner through his Senate office. He said to Mac, “Jeremiah will just have to cool his heels in jail until this gets straightened out.”

  “I don’t want to wait until it is to sit down with Jeremiah and see if we can get a straight story from him.”

  “I agree,” said Becker.

  A call to the jail resulted in an appointment to meet with their client at two that afternoon.

  “Changing the subject,” Becker said, “what’s the inside scoop on his mother dropping out of contention to head the NEA? You know that was coming?”

  “Yes. Annabel and I were with her last night until the wee hours this morning.” He briefly recounted part of the discussion that had taken place with Clarise at the Watergate apartment.

  When Mac was finished, Becker said, “She didn’t seem like the type to cut and run.”

  “We’ve all got our breaking points, Yale,” Smith offered. “We both know people who are rock-solid on the surface but turn to jelly when the spotlight is off. There’s something else involved here that prompted her to drop out, but I don’t know what it is. I do know that her decision makes me more determined than ever to ride this thing through to an acquittal for Jeremiah. As I told Annie, she might one day actually have a shot at enjoying a real mother.”