Murder at Ford's Theatre Page 8

  “I’m calling about the hearing, Bruce. Remember? I have been nominated to head the NEA.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course I remember. Let’s stop fencing, Clarise. What about the nomination?”

  “I want to get together and discuss it with you. I’m worried.”

  “Why? You’re a shoo-in.”

  “I don’t see it that way. This unfortunate incident at the theatre might muddy things. You won’t meet with me about it?”

  “Of course I will. When?”

  “Tonight?”

  “I’m occupied tonight.”

  “‘Occupied.’ A quaint way to put it. Bruce, please, I really do need to talk with you about the hearing. If not tonight, then—”

  “An hour?”

  “Where?”

  “Your apartment.”

  “Fine. Thank you.”

  “The least I can do for the next head of the National Endowment for the Arts—and the mother of my child. No need to go out of your way to entertain me. I’ve eaten.”

  Shirley Lester was coming down the stairs as he left the library. She flashed a wide smile. “I know,” she said, “affairs of state. High-level meeting.”

  “Something like that.”

  “I got used to it. Nelson was always fleeing the house in the middle of the night. Thanks for a lovely dinner, Bruce, and the concert. I thought the cello player’s intonation was faulty, but failing that, it was enjoyable.”

  She kissed his cheek; he pulled her into an embrace. “I like that perfume,” he said into her hair. “You should wear it more often.”

  “I’ll try to remember.” She stepped back. “Maria called a taxi for me while you were on the phone. It’s in front.”

  “Good.”

  She avoided his attempt to kiss her on the lips, moved to the front door, turned, and said, “Call if there’s anything I can do to help, Bruce.” His expression was quizzical. “This business about Nadia Whatever Her Name Is. I mean it, darling. Just call.”

  TEN

  FOR MOSES JOHNSON, physical fitness was an obsession. He had all the usual reasons: feeling and thinking better, relieving stress, keeping weight off, looking better, increased stamina on the job, sex appeal, an enhanced masculine image. On a deeper level, it represented a shield against mortality. There were times that he wondered whether he would be Nature’s exception, never dying, which would be a good thing because as far as he was concerned, the world, more specifically his family and the Washington MPD, simply could not function without him.

  He was up early Wednesday morning, before the sun, leaving Etta and their sons asleep. After splashing water on his face and exchanging pajamas for shorts and a T-shirt, he headed for the finished basement of their home in Rockville, Maryland, where an array of exercise equipment stood at attention. One wall of the room held floor-to-ceiling shelves on which Mo’s extensive collection of jazz LPs and CDs were alphabetically arranged. There were more than a thousand recordings, the majority of them LPs, whose warmer sound he preferred to that of compact discs, the occasional scratch and pop be damned. Not only was Johnson a devoted collector of recorded jazz, he’d built a sizable library of books about the music and its innovators—Ellington, Armstrong, Waller, Tatum, Parker, and Goodman—which occupied their own special place in the family room. It was more than just a love of the music, however. Mo was a scholar of jazz, knew as much as anyone making a living at it, and prided himself on being able to identify a soloist after hearing only a few bars of improvisation.

  His workout routine seldom varied. He perused the albums on the shelves and chose the recording of Duke Ellington’s famous 1956 appearance at the Newport Jazz Festival to set that morning’s pace. As the first strains of “Diminuendo and Crescendo in Blue” filled the room, he positioned himself in front of a full-length mirror and started with a few minutes of stretching exercises before getting on a stationary bike. He pedaled until the historic recording finished, his speed increasing as the band roared through a series of choruses featuring tenor saxophonist Paul Gonsalves, the seven thousand people in attendance screaming their approval until the orchestra brought the piece to a rattling conclusion. He wiped perspiration from his face with a towel, dropped the needle in the first groove of “Jeep’s Blues” featuring Johnny Hodges, and lifted weights for as long as that song played.

  Etta was in the kitchen when he came upstairs. “You are some sweaty mess,” she said, successfully avoiding his attempt to hug her.

  He laughed and poured himself orange juice. “Got to sweat out all the toxic fluids, Etta. Purify the system.”

  “Is that so? You sound like that Sterling Hayden character in Dr. Strangelove, with his vital bodily fluids. Where are you off to this morning?”

  “Rick and I are heading for American University, see if we can rustle up some of her friends, lovers, anybody who knows what her private life was like.”

  “A boyfriend? Is that who you’ve decided killed her?”

  “Haven’t decided anything yet. But this has all the trappings of a romance gone wrong. Her landlady says she was a sexy little thing, you know, liked to flaunt it. Wore skimpy clothes, things like that.”

  “We’re blaming the victim now, are we?”

  “Of course not. You know me better than that.”

  “What I know is that you’ll do the right thing. Go on now, get in the shower. Pancakes?”

  “Eggs. Over easy. Dry toast.”

  He stole a quick kiss on his way from the room, showered and dressed, and joined her for breakfast in an alcove off the kitchen they’d added the previous year.

  “You’ll be late?” she asked as they parted on the front steps.

  “Probably.”

  “Say hello to Rick for me. Invite him over for dinner. It’s been a while.”

  “Yeah, I will. You have a good one.”

  Klayman and Johnson met up at headquarters, where their boss, Herman Hathaway, conducted a briefing.

  “Okay,” said Hathaway, “here’s what we’ve got. One dead girl, hit in the head and face, no credible suspects. Old drunk says he saw it happen, which is bull. Landlady says she was a flirt, sexy, things like that. Had a box full of expensive jewelry. Rumor that she had an affair with Senator Bruce Lerner. Unlikely it was a random killing. No reason for her to be in that alley alone at that hour. Family needs to be interviewed. They’re in town.”

  “We’re going over to the university,” Klayman said.

  “We’re? Your togetherness is touching. We’re stretched thin today. You can meet up later. Rick, you go to her school and dig around for friends, boyfriends, whatever. Mo, I want you to interview the parents. They’re due here in a half hour.”

  Johnson walked Klayman to the parking lot, where Klayman’s unmarked car was parked.

  “Catch up with you what, around noon?” Johnson said.

  “Good. Let’s meet at the Thai restaurant where Bancroft and Jones said they’d had dinner. Make it one, okay?”

  “You got it.”

  Klayman’s first stop at American University’s main campus on Massachusetts Avenue, NW, was the Hamilton Building, in which some of the school’s administrative offices were located. The university had been founded in 1891 by the Methodist Church as a graduate school, and eventually evolved into a nondenominational university with strong schools of communications and education. He was ushered to the office of Wendell Jessup, vice president of student affairs. Jessup, a bald, courtly gentleman in a three-piece gray suit, warmly greeted the detective and offered coffee, which Klayman declined.

  “I was shocked when I read about Ms. Zarinski,” Jessup said, “and anticipated a visit from the police. I’ve gathered up her records for you.” He slid a batch of file folders across the desk in Klayman’s direction. The detective quickly flipped through them while Jessup sipped black coffee.

  “I can take these?” Klayman asked.

  “Of course. I had copies made.”

  This guy has got it together, Klayman tho
ught, returning the folders to the desk. “I’m hoping to talk to her friends on campus, Mr. Jessup, a roommate who still might be here, students she was close to, maybe even young men she dated.”

  Jessup shrugged and smiled. “I’m afraid those records won’t help in that regard,” he said. “But I can direct you to the dorm in which she lived. You might find someone there who was friends with her. Are you suspecting the murderer might have been a student here, or a former student?”

  “At this stage, Mr. Jessup, we’re not assuming anything. What we’re doing is gathering all the information we can, from any source. No one’s a suspect, although . . .”

  “. . . although everyone’s a suspect,” Jessup said, completing Klayman’s thought and pleased that he’d thought of it. “One of my assistants will accompany you, and stay with you for as long as you need. I’ve provided her with a list of faculty names who might prove helpful, including Ms. Zarinski’s faculty adviser during her four years here. I’ve instructed the person who’ll be accompanying you to give you every possible bit of cooperation.”

  “I appreciate that, sir.”

  Jessup picked up his phone and asked someone named Marcia to come in. She was a stocky, thirty-plus-year-old woman in a teal pantsuit, with short blond hair, a round, open face, and whose glasses were oversized circles. After introductions, Jessup walked them into the reception area. “Please feel free to call me anytime, Detective. And good luck in your investigation.”

  “We’ll start at Ms. Zarinski’s dorm,” Marcia told Klayman, leading him at a brisk pace across the street to what she described as Anderson Hall, “our largest of six residence halls. Ms. Zarinski lived there for part of her undergraduate time at the university.”

  “‘Part of her time?’ Where did she live the rest of the time?”

  Marcia came to an abrupt halt and consulted papers she carried. “She lived off-campus. She’d repeatedly requested a single on-campus room, but we don’t have many single-occupancy accommodations for undergraduate students.”

  “Do you have a record of who paid for her schooling and housing?” Klayman asked as they resumed walking.

  “No, but that’s easily obtainable.” She stopped again and scribbled a note on the top page.

  When they reached the front of Anderson Hall, Marcia inserted an ID card into a slot, tripping the lock on the door. “Security is a top priority at American University,” she proudly announced. “Each student has a coded ID card for his or her dorm. That’s the only way you can gain entry.”

  “The only way? Students can’t bring in guests?”

  “We discourage it.” She opened the door and allowed Klayman to precede her. “Students can only enter other residence halls with an escort from those halls.”

  Young men and women were everywhere, outside on the grassy knoll and in the public rooms and hallways, chatting and laughing, their energy palpable. Klayman reasoned that there were probably more students in the building that day, and at that hour, than would be the case further into the new semester when classes were in full swing.

  Marcia checked her papers and led Klayman to a staircase. “Ms. Zarinski’s last room was on the second floor, west wing,” she announced, taking the stairs two at a time with Klayman in step behind. As they moved down the hallway, Klayman glanced right and left through open doors into student rooms where young men and women were in the process of decorating walls and unpacking suitcases, some with parents who helped, or stayed out of the way.

  “Coed dorm,” Klayman commented.

  “All the floors in Anderson are coed,” Marcia confirmed. “Some of the others have same-sex floors.” She laughed. “I still can’t get used to the notion of coed living. I wouldn’t want it.”

  The room that had been Nadia Zarinski’s was occupied by two young men sitting on the floor amidst a pile of half-emptied boxes. Rock music screeched from a boom box at their feet. They looked up at Klayman and Marcia; one of them waved. Marcia stepped into the room and yelled over the music, “Got a minute, guys?” They looked puzzled. “Turn that down?” she said, pointing to the boom box. They got to their feet, and one of them clicked off the recording. Marcia introduced herself, then did the same for Klayman.

  “Just take a couple of minutes,” Klayman said. “Maybe you heard about the murder at Ford’s Theatre yesterday.”

  One said, “She was a student here.”

  “That’s right,” said Klayman. “Did either of you know her?”

  “I knew who she was,” the other one said. “Joe used to talk about her a lot.” A knowing smirk crossed his lips.

  “Who’s Joe?”

  “Joe Cole. He used to date her.”

  “That’s right,” the roommate said.

  Klayman looked at Marcia: “He’s a first-year grad student,” she said.

  “He date her recently?” Klayman asked.

  “Yeah. You don’t think—”

  “Where is Joe Cole?” Klayman asked.

  “Other end of the hall.”

  Klayman took down their names in a small notebook and suggested to Marcia that they move on. As they retraced their steps down the hall, Klayman asked her, “Why do you know this Joe Cole? How many students are here, a couple of thousand?”

  “Eleven thousand, Detective. Joe Cole is sort of a BMOC. You know what that means.”

  “Big man on campus. Popular.”

  “Yes. Popular. Handsome, with a great personality. He’ll be something one day.”

  Cole’s roommate told them Joe had gone off to work out at the fitness center. Marcia thanked him, and she and Klayman crossed the campus to what a sign indicated was the William I. Jacobs Fitness Center, in the Bender Sports Arena. They found Cole using a weight machine. He saw Marcia motioning for him to join them, slid off the seat, and jogged to them. He stood a solid six feet tall. His black hair was shaved into a military style crew cut. His tanned face was square, his eyes droopy and pale blue, his smile big and friendly. The girls must trip over one another trying to get to you, Klayman thought.

  “Joe, this is Detective Klayman from the police department. He’s here investigating the murder yesterday of Nadia Zarinski.”

  The smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

  “I know,” Cole said. “It’s all over the news. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “You dated her,” Klayman said flatly.

  “Yeah, I did. I mean, it was nothing serious, nothing like that. We went out a few times, nothing heavy duty.”

  He’s exaggerating how casual it was. “I’m told it was more serious than that,” Klayman said.

  “Who said that?”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  A bigger shrug of the shoulders than it needed to be. “A couple of weeks ago maybe. At least two weeks. Maybe three.”

  Another lie.

  “What did you do . . . three weeks ago?”

  A deeply furrowed brow to indicate serious thought. “A movie, I think.”

  “What did you see?”

  That winning, boyish grin again. “Jesus, I can’t remember. I go to the movies all the time.”

  Klayman lost patience. He turned to Marcia and said in a low voice, “You’ll excuse us for a few minutes, won’t you?”

  It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t giving her a choice. “I’ll be right outside,” she said, leaving but looking over her shoulder every few steps.

  When she was gone, Klayman leaned against a padded gymnast’s pommel horse, crossed his arms, and fixed Cole in a practiced hard stare. “Okay,” he said, “we’ve got the silly answers out of the way. Now we get serious. When did you last see Nadia Zarinski?”

  The big smile accompanied, “A few days ago.”

  “Over the weekend,” Klayman said, his smile considerably smaller.

  A nod.

  “You have a fight?”

  “A fight? No. We never fought. We got along.”

  “What night?”

  “Huh
?”

  “What night over the weekend did you spend time with her?”

  “Saturday.”

  “You went to the movies?”

  Cole shook his large head. “No, we . . . ah, come on, do I have to get into this?”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  Cole had stopped perspiring. Now, the sweat came again, and Klayman enjoyed it. It wasn’t something he openly bragged about, but being a detective—being in charge and watching people squirm because of that reality—gave him at times a certain pleasure. He was investigating a murder, which made his questions a lot more important than anything Cole might be thinking or feeling at that moment. As far as Klayman knew, he was asking questions of the person who’d killed Nadia Zarinski, and he wasn’t about to back off to make Cole more comfortable. He let his stare make the point that he expected an honest answer.

  “We went to dinner.”

  “Where?” Klayman was now making notes.

  “Spezie.”

  “In Rockville?”

  “No, the one downtown, Connecticut and L.”

  “I didn’t know there was one in town. And?”

  “What? You want to know what we ate?”

  “I want to know what you did the rest of the evening.”

  “We—we went back to her apartment and—you know, we screwed.”

  “A happy screw?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, of course it was.”

  “No problems between you.”

  “Nope.”

  “You stay the night?”

  “Nope. Came back here. She—”

  “She what?”

  “She—she wasn’t feeling well and wanted to get a good sleep. I left right after we—”

  “You didn’t see her again after Saturday?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll probably want to talk to you again. You’re not planning to go anywhere, are you?”

  “Hell, no.” He let out a stream of air, shook his head, and looked to a far corner of the workout area.

  “I’ll be back in touch,” Klayman said. He left the building and rejoined Marcia outside.

  “An impressive young man, isn’t he?” she said.

  “Very. I’d like to go back and talk to the two young men in the room she lived in.”