Murder at Ford's Theatre (20 page)

“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

I
MMEDIATELY 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 we 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.

C
LARISE
E
MERSON 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?”

“Stop asking questions,” he said. “Jesus, all everybody does is ask me questions. I didn’t do nothing to her. I swear.”

“Where have you been?”

“Hangin’ out at a friend’s house.” He jumped to his feet, went to the windows, and pulled the drapes aside in order to see the street. She came up behind and placed her hand on his shoulder, causing him to start. He turned and looked at her with eyes she hadn’t seen since he was a small child, pleading, frightened eyes glistening with moisture. “What am I gonna do?” he asked. “You have to help me.”

She hesitated, then wrapped her arms about him and pulled him close. “We’ll take care of it, darling. I promise.”

He stepped back; she checked the lapel of her jacket for stains from his tears.

“I don’t want to go to jail,” he said, resuming his seat on the couch.

“And you won’t have to.”

The housekeeper entered the room.

“Not now, Isabella. Not now! Please, go to your room and leave us alone.”

Clarise joined Jeremiah on the couch.

“Mac Smith is very worried,” she said softly. “He says the court allowed you to go free only if you lived with Daddy.”

“Mac Smith!” he said scornfully. “He doesn’t care what happens to me. He’s one of them.”

“No, no, Jeremiah, he’s not. He has your best interests at heart. He’s my friend. He wouldn’t do anything to anger me. I promised him I’d call if I heard from you.”

“No, you can’t,” he said. “Please, don’t call him. Don’t call anybody.”

“What do you want me to do then? What do
you
intend to do?”

“I just need a little time to think, that’s all.”

“But Mr. Smith and—”

“No!” His voice was strong and emphatic, as though it carried physical weight. “I just want to stay here for a while.”

Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know,” she said. She glanced at a grandfather clock in a corner of the room. “All right,” she said. “I have to be somewhere, but I’ll be back as quickly as I can. You stay here. Don’t answer the phone or the door. Do you understand?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But only for a little while, Jeremiah. Maybe overnight. Then, tomorrow, we’ll talk to the right people and make this whole nightmare go away.”

“Okay.”

She went to the door, where she stopped, turned, and said, “Mr. Smith told me they had a warrant for your shoes. Is that right?”

“Yeah.” He shook his head. “Really stupid, huh?” He looked down at his sandals. “My friend’s. He lent them to me.”

As though struck by a sudden thought, she crossed the room, leaned down, kissed him on the forehead, and left the house.

“W
E
’
RE BRINGING HIM IN,
”
Hathaway said to Klayman and Johnson.

“LeCour buys it?” Johnson said.

“Yeah. But he doesn’t want us to take him from the senator’s house. Lerner’s image and all that. He’s getting ahold of the kid’s lawyers, Smith or Becker, and offering to have them surrender him here at headquarters.”

“Rank does have its privilege,” Johnson said.

Hathaway laughed. “We can’t ruffle a senator’s feathers.”

“Think they’ll do it?” Klayman asked.

“Sure, why not?” Hathaway replied. “I don’t know much about Becker except by reputation, but Smith is wired in all over town. He’s too savvy to not play along.”

“So, what do we do now?” Johnson asked.

“I wait to hear from LeCour. You two go to the senator’s house and keep an eye on it in case the kid tries to run. Stay out of the way, low-key. Keep your distance. You’ve done a good job lining up those two witnesses who say Lerner was dating the victim. And you, Klayman, you with the shoes. What are they called, Eccos?”

“Right.”

Hathaway shook his head. “Sometimes you get lucky,” he said. “A pair a’ high-priced shoes. Who’d have thought? Nice job, guys.”

A
NNABEL WAS SPENDING
that Saturday visiting Annapolis galleries with a friend, and Mac took advantage of her absence to catch up on reading at their Watergate apartment. He was in the midst of his papers when the call came.

“Mr. Smith? U.S. Attorney LeCour.”

“Yes. How are you today?”

“Just fine, sir. We have a warrant for the arrest of your client, Jeremiah Lerner, on charges of murder.”

“I see.”

“We’re sensitive to the family situation, Mr. Smith, and don’t wish to inflict any undue pain on the senator or Jeremiah’s mother, Ms. Emerson.”

It sounded to Smith as though LeCour were reading a prepared statement.

“I’m sure that will be appreciated,” Mac said.

“We’ll give you and your client the opportunity to surrender voluntarily at First District headquarters, Mr. Smith, rather than send officers to make the arrest at the senator’s home.”

Smith heard the words, but was thinking of other things, namely how to finesse the fact that Jeremiah wasn’t available to turn himself in. He wouldn’t blatantly lie to LeCour, but he needed to buy some time, any amount of time, in the hope Jeremiah would return to his father’s house of his own volition within the next few hours.

“You understand,” Smith said, “that I’ll have to confer with my client.”

“There’s not much to confer about,” LeCour said. “Either you bring him in, or we go get him.” This didn’t sound scripted.

“I’m an attorney, Mr. LeCour. I don’t make decisions for my client. My assumption is that he’ll agree to what it is you’re suggesting. But I’ll need time to”—he almost said “locate him,” but caught himself in time—“I’ll need time to explain your offer, which I might add is generous. He’ll need time to put some things in order before surrendering. Nine o’clock tomorrow morning?”

There was silence on the other end, and Smith heard LeCour speak with another person, the words not clear. Obviously, that someone else was superior to the U.S. Attorney and would be the one to agree to Smith’s suggestion.

LeCour came back on the line. “Nine o’clock sharp,” he said.

Smith added, “Give me until six this evening. How can I reach you to confirm that my client agrees to this?”

LeCour started to respond, but Smith said, “And if he doesn’t agree, you can come and arrest him.”

“I’ll be here at six, Mr. Smith.” He recited the number. “Let me just say that if, at six, you call and tell me your client does not agree to voluntarily surrender, officers will immediately be dispatched to Senator Lerner’s house.”

“I understand. You’ll hear from me at six. And thank you for your courtesy.”

Smith’s priority was to attempt to reach Clarise and Bruce Lerner in a last-ditch effort to find Jeremiah. His call to Lerner’s home was again answered by the housekeeper. The senator was away on official business and wasn’t expected home until the next day. He tried two numbers at Lerner’s senate office, finally reaching a staff member who was reluctant to give out a way to contact her boss.

“Look, Miss,” Smith said, “this is extremely important. It has to do with the senator’s son. I assure you that the senator will thank you for putting me in touch with him—and will be very unhappy if you don’t.”

She absented herself from the phone for what seemed a long time. When she returned, she asked Smith for a number at which he could be reached. “The senator will call you there,” she said.

“Thank you. And please tell him to do it fast.”

Lerner called within a minute of Smith hanging up.

“Sorry to disturb you, Senator,” Smith said, “but this is urgent. The police are about to arrest Jeremiah for Nadia Zarinski’s murder.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Maybe it is, and it doesn’t necessarily mean they have a sufficient case to indict. But they’ve offered to have me surrender Jeremiah voluntarily to avoid having cops swarming all over your house. I have until six to get back to them. Have you any idea, any notion, where he might be?”