Murder at Ford's Theatre (21 page)

“Not a goddamn one, Mac. Not a one. Have you tried Clarise?”

“Yes, earlier. She came up blank, too.”

“So, Counselor, what do we do now?”

Smith found the use of “we” to be inappropriate. As far as he could see, the only person doing anything was himself.

“Senator,” Smith said, “I’m way out on a limb here. As an attorney, I have a code of conduct that doesn’t include lying to the authorities about the whereabouts of my client. I asked to have until six in the hope Jeremiah would return. Obviously, that’s not about to happen. I have no choice but to call the U.S. Attorney handling the case and tell him Jeremiah has violated the court order, and is not available to be surrendered. That’s my obligation as an officer of the court.”

“I know all about that,” Lerner said. “I’m a lawyer, too.”

You gave up law years ago,
Mac thought.

“Can we meet to discuss this, Mac?”

“Of course.”

“Will you come to the house tonight? Say, seven?”

“All right. But I must call LeCour, the U.S. Attorney, at six and tell him of Jeremiah’s disappearance.”

“If you tell them he’s not there, they won’t have to come, will they?”

Mac managed a small laugh. “I’m not sure they’ll believe this attorney about that, Senator. They’ll want to see for themselves.”

His was a pained sigh. “Well, do what you can, and know I appreciate your efforts. Damn him! He must be sick in the head.”

Mac was tempted to say that too many people were labeled “sick” when they behaved badly, giving legitimate mental illness a bad name. The truth was, Jeremiah Lerner was a surly, rudderless young man, and it didn’t matter what made him that way. If he’d murdered the young woman, he’d have to pay for that, although he was entitled to the best possible defense if charged and brought to trial.

They ended the conversation and Smith went to the terrace, Rufus at his side. It had clouded up; rain was imminent, which was good. Washington and its environs had been in a drought all summer, unusual for a city whose summers were characterized by wet, humid, heavy, hot weather.

He realized he was conflicted at that moment, reminiscent of that period of his life when he came to the conclusion that he no longer wished to practice criminal law, and had resigned his partnership and abandoned what had been a love for many years. It hadn’t been the reality of the criminal justice system that he enjoyed as much as it was a reverence for the law and his country’s system of jurisprudence, as flawed as it sometimes was.

He’d spent time in London at its Old Bailey, where he engaged in long talks with British attorneys and judges. The U.S. legal system, which Smith revered, had been based upon the British model, although he’d pointed out to his British counterparts that there were some aspects of their approach that unfortunately had been ignored. The prepping of witnesses before trial, a common and, Smith thought, flawed practice, was anathema in England. Any attorney doing it there faced severe censure. On the other hand, there were English legal practices that he felt were best left behind, particularly the rule under which an English judge summarized for the jury the evidence as he or she saw it.

Mackensie Smith loved the law and its importance in creating and maintaining the American democratic system. Had his wife and son not been killed, he perhaps would have continued practicing, although that tragedy had coincided with a fear that he was becoming burned out, and that the time had naturally come when it was time to shift gears in his life.

At the same time, the more mundane, less stressful life of college professor did not always provide the brand of stimulation to which he’d been accustomed. That, he knew, had been at work when Clarise had drawn him into Jeremiah’s troubles with the law. And Annabel knew the signs, too, recognized when her husband was restless and craving the sort of action and challenge that only the adversarial structure of the criminal justice system could provide. For other men, it was driving fast or engaging in some athletic activity, climbing a mountain or diving off a charter boat in the Bahamas. For Mac Smith, it was standing up to the formidable resources of prosecutors and fighting for a client, using every bit of knowledge, experience, and skill he possessed. Despite his initial reluctance when contacted by Clarise, he knew that by taking that first step and representing Jeremiah the night of his arrest, he’d made a commitment. He was in for the duration, and reminded himself as he stood on the terrace that late Saturday afternoon that he owed his best to his young client, as unpleasant and unattractive as he might be.

“Mr. LeCour, please.”

“LeCour.”

“Mac Smith, Mr. LeCour.”

“You’re early.”

“Yes. My client, Jeremiah Lerner, hasn’t been available to me since you called.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“He’s not at his father’s home.”

“He’s supposed to be. Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

Smith knew he’d placed himself in a precarious position. Although he’d known about Jeremiah leaving since the previous day, he was under no legal obligation as his attorney to inform the authorities. But when told that the interest in his client had been elevated from assault and resisting arrest to murder, he’d been evasive to LeCour, leading the U.S. Attorney to assume, by inference, that Jeremiah was still at his father’s house. Not exactly a lie, but not exactly truthful, either.

LeCour then asked the question Smith hoped he wouldn’t.

“When did he leave the house?”

“Late yesterday afternoon.”

“You knew that?”

“I didn’t know he’d absent himself overnight. He and his father had an argument, and he left in anger, took his father’s car. The assumption was that he’d cool off and return. He didn’t.”

“I should have been notified.”

“Why? The judge didn’t specifically state that he couldn’t leave the house. He was free to go to the store and buy a newspaper and a cup of coffee.”

LeCour’s pique entered his voice. “He’s wanted for
murder,
Mr. Smith.”

“As of this afternoon,” Smith said, his momentary questioning of his legal culpability now gone. “Last night he wasn’t wanted for murder, Mr. LeCour. Now, concerning his whereabouts: You’ll obviously want to send officers to verify that he isn’t at Senator Lerner’s house, and that’s fine. But I’m meeting there at seven with the senator. I’m certain your previous offers of courtesy to the senator can be carried over for a few more hours. There’s nothing to be gained by turning a search of the house into a circus.”

Except, Smith knew, that prosecuting such a high-profile case, and reaping the publicity fallout, wouldn’t be unappealing to LeCour—or to any U.S. Attorney, for that matter.

“Send those two detectives who were there previously. Give me an hour with the senator. Make it eight. All right?”

“Absolutely not, Mr. Smith. We want Jeremiah Lerner. He’s already gone, who knows where, maybe out of the area. I’ll be honest with you. I consider your decision to not be forthcoming to be a breach of legal ethics.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion, Mr. LeCour. And you’re entitled to take whatever action you choose regarding sending officers to the house. We’ll be speaking again soon.”

TWENTY-FIVE

S
OL
W
EXLER HEADED
his own CPA firm in Washington, and listed an impressive roster of politicians and business leaders as clients. He was, of course, sought after by a number of nonprofit D.C. organizations and agencies to lend his financial knowledge to their boards, and managed to deftly turn down most of them. But he’d been an aspiring actor early in his life—before reality trumped youthful dreams—so when asked to join Ford Theatre’s board of trustees, he’d readily accepted. Naturally, he ended up chairing its finance committee, and had become close to Ford’s producing director, Clarise Emerson, as well as other trustees, including Annabel Smith.

Clarise’s brief confab with the director of philanthropic programs for American Express had gone well. The company pledged to continue its support for the theatre’s productions, and entertained Clarise’s suggestion that it up its pledge. She went directly from that meeting to one with the producers and the director of
Festival at Ford’s.
Everything was proceeding as planned, she was told, no hitches.

Now, she huddled with controller Bernard Crowley in her office. The independent auditors had been there all day poring over the books and reconciling income and expenditures. They seemed pleased, Crowley said.

“It’s going smooth as silk,” he told her after the auditors had departed, taking with them additional records needed to complete the audit.

“That’s no surprise,” she said. “I can’t tell you what a relief it is for me to not have to worry about finances. I—”

A phone call interrupted.

“Hello? Yes, how are you? . . . What? . . . I see. . . Yes, of course . . . All right . . . See you then.”

“A problem?” Crowley asked after she’d ended the call.

“Problem? No, no problem.”

“You looked concerned.”

She smiled. “It’s all this nonsense with Jeremiah. You’ve heard, of course, that the media is reporting that he’s a suspect in that girl’s murder.”

“Yes, Clarise. I didn’t mention it because—”

“Because you are a gentleman, that’s why, and I appreciate it.”

“He’s still with Bruce?”

“Ah, yes. He’s still with Bruce.”

Crowley looked quizzically at her.

“Now
you
look concerned,” she said.

“I am, Clarise. I know you. You’ll take on everything yourself, never seek help, and overload your system. When they question Jeremiah, I’m sure they’ll realize that they’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“And I’m sure you’re absolutely right.”

Crowley swiveled in his chair, which he overflowed, and looked out the window. Clarise took the opportunity to observe him.

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?”

K
LAYMAN AND
J
OHNSON 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.