Murder at Ford's Theatre (5 page)

SIX

A
NNABEL,
C
LARISE, AND
B
ERNARD
C
ROWLEY
had to negotiate a crowd of reporters camped outside the theatre when they left to go to Annabel’s Watergate apartment. They drove in Annabel’s car, which she’d put in a garage adjacent to the theatre, and parked in the space reserved for the Smiths beneath the Watergate complex, that parking privilege setting them back an additional $45,000 on the purchase price of their three-bedroom co-op in the south building. Although apartments in other Watergate buildings tended to be larger, the south building afforded stunning views of the Potomac River, and accompanying sunsets—on most days.

“I lied,” Annabel said. They sat on the terrace, the women sipping glasses of red zinfandel, Crowley enjoying a glass of bourbon over ice. Mac had called to say he’d been detained at the university but would get there as soon as he could.

“Lied about what?” Clarise asked.

“The sunset. Sorry about the clouds.”

“Clouds seem more appropriate,” Clarise said, “considering what’s happened.”

“You said the young woman who’s been killed worked with you,” Annabel said to Crowley.

“Yes, I’m embarrassed to say.” To Clarise: “I hope you don’t think poorly of me for not telling you. I meant well.”

“Of course I don’t think poorly of you, Bernard. You did the right thing once you realized who she was. I’m somewhat embarrassed that I haven’t paid more attention to who’s working in the theatre. And let me say that despite my feelings about the girl, I am very saddened by her death. Very saddened.”

Clarise lightened her tone. “I’m sure you noticed how attractive she was,” she said, sipping her wine. “I remember thinking whenever I saw her on TV how beautiful she was. No, make that sexy. There was a crude sexiness to her.”

Annabel looked to Crowley for a reaction, whose slight shrug said he either didn’t have an opinion about such things, or hadn’t noticed.

“Where was she from?” Annabel asked.

“Somewhere in the Midwest,” Crowley answered. “I think her folks live in Florida. I remember her mentioning that once.”

“What amazes me, Bernard,” Clarise said, “is that you didn’t realize who she was immediately. You can’t be alive in this town without reading about the flirtatious young intern and my esteemed former husband.”

“I don’t read that kind of junk,” Crowley said, sounding as though he meant it. “Excuse me.” He headed for the kitchen to refresh his drink.

“It’s inevitable that the rumors about Bruce and the young girl will surface again,” Annabel said to Clarise. “Had he ever discussed her with you?”

“No. Once. After all the requisite denials had been issued, I asked him straight out whether he’d slept with her. Not that it was any of my business. He’s free to sleep with whomever he chooses. But I hated to see him fall into the dirty old man category. He’s too good for that.”

“And?”

“He gave me one of his usual charming answers. He said that at his age, talking after the act is as important as the act itself. ‘What could we possibly talk about?’ he said.”

Annabel smiled. She and Mac had met the dashing, erudite senator from Virginia on a number of occasions, and could picture him saying that. He was a charmer, no question about that. She glanced over at Clarise, who seemed to be deep in thought, her eyes focused on the German Gothic spires of Georgetown University to the northwest, behind which the sunset had failed to make an appearance that evening. Clarise’s divorce from Bruce Lerner had occurred many years before Annabel had been introduced to her, but she had seen pictures of the elegant couple, as well as attended functions at which they both made an appearance, the tall, urbane senator from Virginia and the stunning television and movie producer from Hollywood, a power couple if there ever was one—not only because of their respective positions, but the physical swath they cut when entering a room as well. They were always cordial toward each other when in the presence of others, seemingly friends who probably got along better divorced than when coupled in marriage.

Clarise had been relatively reticent with Annabel about the marriage and breakup, summing things up with flippant, offhand phrases: “No house was big enough for both egos.” Or, “He wanted to be a movie star, and I wanted to be a senator. We were both failures.”

“How’s Jeremiah?” Annabel asked. It sounded like an obligatory question—à la
How’s the kids?

Jeremiah was the only child from the Lerner-Emerson marriage, and Clarise seldom spoke of him. Annabel knew that the young man—how old was he now, twenty, twenty-one?—was a disappointment to Clarise, and presumably to his father. There had been scrapes with the law, minor incidents—Annabel knew little of the details—and whispers among rumormongers that the kid was a foul ball, a drifter, an un-handyman type of guy with no steady employment and no future, unless the Lerner name propelled him forward.

“Oh, Jeremiah is all right, Annabel. Still finding himself.”

Not an especially prideful response. Annabel withheld any follow-up questions.

But Clarise wasn’t finished. “I have nightmares about Jeremiah.” Her sigh was prolonged and pained. “You know, the things I did wrong, the times I wasn’t there for him. Bruce and I did our best, I think, ‘our best’ under the circumstances of our careers and schedules. I don’t know, Annabel, maybe politics and parenting don’t mix.”

Annabel thought it interesting that Clarise chose her former husband’s career as an example rather than her own career as a high-powered movie and TV executive. Jeremiah, Annabel knew through anecdotes from people who were friends of the Lerners when they were a couple, had spent most of his youth in his father’s home, with full-time nannies. Clarise, who spent each week in Hollywood, had flown home to Washington on weekends to be with her husband and son. Not the ideal parenting situation, but not as bad as some others in which poverty exacerbates single-parent homes. Who was to judge their parenting record? Not Annabel. Not anyone other than the boy’s mother and father.

Crowley returned to the terrace, a fresh drink in hand. A moment later, Mac came through the door and apologized for being held up. “I see you’ve found the bar,” he said pleasantly. “Good. I think I’ll find it, too. Be with you in a minute.”

When Mac joined them, the conversation turned from Jeremiah Lerner to Ford’s Theatre and its upcoming productions.

“We have the teen show coming up,” Clarise said. “The Stages for all Ages program has really taken off. We can’t handle the number of teens who want to participate.”

“The
Post
sponsors that, doesn’t it?” Mac asked.

“Among others,” Crowley answered. “Metro Transit, DC Commission on the Arts. The support’s been terrific, thanks to our friend here.” He said to her, “Clarise, you’re the best arm-twister I’ve ever known.”

“Thank you,” she said lightly, “but that’s what the job is all about, isn’t it?”

“That, and putting on plays,” Mac offered.

“The easiest part,” Clarise replied. “Keeping the money flowing, and dealing with all the different personalities, are a lot harder.”

“Sydney Bancroft,” Crowley said flatly.

Annabel laughed. “Still the bane of your existence, Clarise?”

Clarise’s smile wasn’t pure pleasure. “Oh, Sydney is all right,” she said. “He’s directing the student play and doing a good job, I’m told.”

Crowley, who was leaning against the terrace’s railing, came away from it and went to take the fourth chair, which was vacant. He stumbled as he did, caught himself with a hand on the green wrought-iron table, and sat heavily. “Sorry,” he said. “Lost my balance.”

A little unbalanced by bourbon,
the others thought.

“Clarise is generous to a fault,” Crowley said, downing some of the shimmering amber liquid in his glass.

“How so?” Mac asked.

“Keeping someone like Sydney on the payroll. It seems to me that the only contribution he makes is trouble.”

“Oh, Bernard,” Clarise said, like a teacher to a child. To Mac and Annabel: “Bernard is always keeping his eye on the bottom line. That’s good. But he sometimes doesn’t appreciate the more subtle aspects of fund-raising. Sydney is a valuable commodity to me. His prior fame as an actor has opened many doors, behind which have lurked generous contributors. Sydney may be difficult at times, even outrageously so on occasion, but he fulfills an important function.”

“And drives everyone crazy,” Crowley said.

“He always had a reputation as a prima donna,” Annabel said, referring to the British Bancroft’s earlier time as a stage and film actor, particularly a series of successes years ago performing Shakespeare with the Royal Shakespeare Company at Stratford-upon-Avon. “He is prickly, I must say, but he can be charming, too.”

“Hardly a word I’d use,” said Crowley.

Mac ignored Crowley’s comment and asked Clarise what Bancroft had had to say about the murder that morning.

“I haven’t talked with him,” she said. “He’s out of town, I think. I was annoyed this morning. Sydney evidently called a meeting on the teen show knowing he couldn’t be there. That’s why there was a stage crew so early. They weren’t happy.”

Mac excused himself to assume the role of chef. Annabel had prepared a large salad and a rice dish; Mac’s task was to pop flounder stuffed with crabmeat into the oven.

“Let’s talk about more pleasant things,” Annabel said. “All set for your confirmation hearing?”

Clarise frowned. “That is coming up soon, isn’t it? I’ve been making the requisite tour of Senate committee members, making nice, putting them at ease that I won’t allow the NEA to support what the senators consider blasphemous or pornographic.”

“Succeeding?” Annabel asked.

Clarise laughed. “Who knows? It’s obvious which committee members are for me, and which ones aren’t. You can put Topper Sybers at the head of the latter group.”

“Good ol’ Senator Sybers, champion of virtue, protector of women and children, and hypocrite nonpareil,” Crowley said.

“Actually, he was endearing when I visited him. We chatted for over an hour.”

“Wrapped the old reprobate around your little finger, huh, Clarise?” said Crowley, his words slightly slurred.

“I have no illusions. Being courteous to me informally doesn’t necessarily translate into his vote. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Dinner is served!”

Later, after coffee, fresh fruit, and slivers of chocolate truffle cake from Watergate Bakery, Crowley excused himself. “I don’t think I realized what an impact Nadia’s murder has had on me,” he said. “I’m exhausted.”

“I’ll call you a taxi,” Annabel offered.

After Crowley had departed, Mac, Annabel, and Clarise, accompanied by Rufus, returned to the terrace for a taste of rare port that Mac had recently purchased at a wine auction.

“He’s such a delight,” Clarise said, referring to Ford’s Theatre’s controller with theatrical overstatement.

“He’s obviously shaken by this morning’s events,” Mac said.

“He’s not alone,” said Clarise. “I dread tomorrow. The press will be camped at the door, and I’m due to have another series of briefings for the confirmation hearings. You can’t believe the possible questions my so-called handlers come up with. I’m tempted to withdraw, leave the theatre, and buy a cabin in the Maine woods.”

“Wouldn’t help,” Mac said. “Within a month you’d be thinking up ways to get back in the race. Ambition is an attribute, and a curse.”

“
You
did it,” Clarise said. “The two of you. Big-time law practices abandoned for an art gallery and mortarboard.”

“Guilty,” Mac said. “But the NEA needs you, Clarise. Most of our clients didn’t need us, or shouldn’t have. More coffee? Port?”

“Thanks, no. Being here has been wonderful. An oasis. And forget what I said about cabins in the woods. ‘The NEA needs me.’ I like that. Senator Topper Sybers needs me, whether he knows it or not. Everything was great. You’re special people, special friends.”

“Give a call tomorrow?” Annabel asked after calling a cab and walking Clarise to the elevators.

“Sure. Count on it.”

Mac and Annabel again settled on the terrace after clearing the dinner table and loading the dishwasher.

“She’s an impressive woman,” Mac said. The clouds had broken, and a full, white moon seemed within their reach.

“And beautiful.”

“I sometimes think you two look as though you could be sisters.”

“I feel bad for her. She was questioning what sort of mother she’s been.”

“Jeremiah didn’t have the most stable of homes, as I understand it. Classic case of mother and father pursuing demanding ambitions and schedules without a lot of time to devote to their kids.”

“Which doesn’t necessarily mean the kids have to turn out bad.”

“Of course not. What’s her relationship with Lerner? They seem to stay in touch.”

“Yes, they do. She’s told me they do it for the sake of their son, which can’t be faulted.”

“Maybe a little late.”

“Maybe.”

Mac stood and stretched. “Time to walk the beast.”

“Maybe we should stop calling him that in front of him,” Annabel said, following Mac to the kitchen where Rufus’s leash hung from a wooden peg on the wall.

“What? Calling him ‘the beast’?”

“Yeah. Maybe it hurts his feelings.”

Mac looked at the blue Great Dane. “Are you offended, big guy?” he asked.

Rufus replied by clamping his large mouth on Mac’s wrist and wagging his tail.

“Somehow, Annie, I think Rufus’s ego is intact enough to overcome any emotional trauma. Be back in a flash.”

They kissed, and Mac and
their
child disappeared through the door.

SEVEN

“S
O,
M
R.
P
ARTRIDGE,
tell us again what you claim you saw.”

Detectives Klayman and Johnson, and Sergeant Hathaway, sat with the homeless man in an austere interrogation room at First District’s headquarters building. The cops had brought Partridge two candy bars and a Coke from a snack machine in the lobby, which he consumed with gusto, complaining later that he would have preferred cheeseburgers and a Pepsi.

Now, with something in his stomach other than whiskey, and benefiting from a few hours’ sleep and cold water splashed on his face, he sat at the scarred oak table with the bearing of a decrepit, disheveled CEO.

“I saw the man kill the woman,” he said, belching and twitching. His right shoulder kept coming up in an involuntary motion, matched by rapid blinking of his right eye.

“What were you doing back there?”

“Relaxing,” he said, pleased with his answer. “No law against a man being where he wants to be and relaxing.”

“You were sleeping it off,” Hathaway said.

“Just a nap. Takin’ a nap.” As though suddenly struck with a better answer, he shifted in his chair, lowered his voice, and said, “I was working undercover.”

“Is that so?” said Johnson. “Were you there in the alley all night—working undercover?”

“All night? No. Got lots of places I go to. Was there, maybe, an hour, maybe two. Got relieved, had to give my report to the director. I’m hungry.”

Johnson asked, “What did the man who killed the woman look like?”

“You hear me? I said I’m hungry. You want to talk to me, you got to feed me.”

“What did he look like, Mr. Partridge?”

Partridge shifted in his straight-back chair and grimaced against a pain somewhere in his body. His shoulder and facial tic intensified, then seemed to subside as he decided to answer. “He was big, a big and strong kind a’ guy. Mean-lookin’, too. Russian, I think.”

“Russian?”

“A mole. You can’t trust the Russkies. Commie bastards’ll stick it to you every way.”

Johnson sighed and stood. “How big?” he asked. “As big as me?” Partridge looked up at the six-foot-three-inch Johnson.

“Bigger.”

“Uh-huh.” Johnson sat.

“How old?” Klayman asked. He wished the session were over. He hated everything about the interrogation room, its institutional look, battered furniture, heavy metal grill over the only window, but most of all the harsh light from the twin fluorescent bulbs hanging over the table.

“How would I know how old he was?” Partridge replied. “Might have been a young punk, might have been an old one. You never can tell with them.”

“Maybe he was a young punk, huh? You know, twenty maybe, something like that?”

The old drunk’s face fell into a pout. His head came forward, his scraggly beard resting on his chest. He crossed his arms defiantly, looked up, and announced, “I have nothing more to say about it.” The detectives were silent. “Is there a reward?”

“Might be,” Hathaway replied. “Think you’d recognize the guy in a lineup?”

“How much is the reward?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“I don’t want to stay here anymore. They’ll be wondering where I am.”

“Need a drink, Mr. Partridge?” Johnson said.

“I want my lawyer.”

“You’ve got a lawyer?” Hathaway asked, chuckling. He motioned for Klayman and Johnson to follow him from the room. “You just sit tight, Mr. Partridge. We want to go out and—talk about the reward.”

Partridge had a contented smile on his face as his questioners went to an area separated from the interrogation room by a large, one-way window through which they could observe him.

“It’s a waste of time,” Hathaway said. “He didn’t see a damn thing. He’s an old drunk, that’s all.”

“We let him go?”

“Yeah.”

“We could hold him as a material witness,” said Klayman. “Give him a bed and a few meals.”

“Forget it,” Hathaway said. “We’re not running a flophouse for winos. Besides, it’s not like he’s going to catch a plane for Paris or something. He’s got a vagrancy and panhandling sheet going way back. We’ll find him again if we need him. Get him another candy bar and show him the door. The smell’s making me sick.”

“Any thoughts that
he
might have killed her?” Klayman asked.

Hathaway looked from Johnson to Klayman and back to Johnson. “Come on,” he said. “Get real.”

Partridge was escorted to the street by uniformed patrolmen, and Klayman and Johnson followed Hathaway to his office.

“You get hold of that Bancroft character?” Hathaway asked.

“No. Answering machine,” Klayman said. “I thought we’d give him one more try before calling it a night.”

Hathaway stroked the tuft of black hair on the end of his chain and gave out with a small laugh. “The night is young, pal. So’re you. You say the deceased’s landlady was no help coming up with names of boyfriends?”

“Right,” said Johnson. “But all that jewelry says somebody took good care of her.”

“Somebody’s got to know who she dated. She’s not out of college that long. American University. Get over there and ask around. She must have had a roommate, friends, somebody who knew about her sex life.”

“Okay,” said Klayman. “After we try Bancroft again.”

“And check everybody who worked with her in Lerner’s office.”

“What about the senator?” Klayman asked.

“I need the word from up top before we contact him. Don’t be strangers. Keep me in the loop. I don’t want any surprises.”

Klayman’s and Johnson’s desks butted up against each other in the detectives’ room.

Johnson said to Klayman: “Ricky, got to call Etta, tell her I’ll be late again.”

Klayman thought it was good he didn’t have to call anyone, but didn’t say it to his partner. Besides, there was that fleeting moment when he wished someone were waiting for him to arrive home; that thought came and went now and then. He heard Mo say, “Hey, baby, got to put in the overtime again. That kid who got killed at Ford’s Theatre.” After a pause, and a sly glance at Klayman, he said, “Of course I love you. Don’t wait up.”

Klayman picked up his phone and dialed Sydney Bancroft’s number. The British actor’s live voice startled him.

“Mr. Bancroft?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Detective Klayman, First District Crimes Against Persons.”

“‘Crimes Against Persons’? Who else could crimes be committed against?”

“Used to be called Homicide.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I’d like to be able to come and talk with you.”

“About the death of that dear, dear girl, Nadia.”

“Yes, sir, that’s right.”

“How dreadful to die that way, at the hands of a madman in a filthy, barren alley. We all wish to die peacefully in a warm, dry place in the presence of loved ones, don’t we?”

“Yes, sir. That would be preferable. Would it be too much of an inconvenience to come to your home tonight?”

Johnson frowned at Klayman and mouthed, Would it be too much of an inconvenience . . . ?

“To determine whether I killed her, I presume,” Bancroft said slowly and with practiced diction.

“Just to ask a few questions, sir,” Klayman said. “It won’t take long. My partner, Detective Johnson and I, are working the case and—”

“I would love to meet you and your partner,” Bancroft said, exaggerating his pleasure. “Real, live detectives. Are you like those on TV?”

Klayman laughed. “No, sir, I’m afraid not. We can be there in a half hour, if that’s okay.”

“That is
quite
okay,” Bancroft said. “You undoubtedly have my address.”

“Yes, sir, we do.”

“Then come as quickly as you can. I am tingling with anticipation.”

Klayman hung up and shook his head.

“He quote Shakespeare to you?” Johnson asked.

“No, but he talks like an actor. I think we’re in for an interesting evening. Come on. Let’s get it over with.”

Bancroft lived in a well-maintained, small apartment building on tree-lined G Street, in Foggy Bottom, not far from the Kennedy Center, the Watergate complex, and George Washington University. The two men said little as they made their way across the city in their unmarked car.

“This one’s yours, Ricky,” Johnson said as they turned down G.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s all yours. Actors make me nervous.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. They’re always—well, you know, always onstage. You never know whether they’re being themselves or playing some part.”

“Okay, I’ll lead.”

They parked in front and entered the lobby, where a middle-aged uniformed doorman was reading a magazine. Klayman flashed his badge: “Mr. Bancroft is expecting us.”

“It’s about that intern, isn’t it?” the doorman said, getting up from behind his small desk and going to the intercom board. Johnson and Klayman said nothing. “She worked for Senator Lerner,” the doorman said, running his index finger down the row of buttons. “Like what happened with Condit, huh, intern and big shot politician?”

Johnson was about to tell the doorman to speed it up when he pushed a button, and the now familiar voice of Sydney Bancroft came through a small speaker. “I know, Morris, I know,” he said in his distinctive British accent. “Scotland Yard is here to audition. Send them up by all means.”

Johnson and Klayman smiled at each other as the doorman opened an inside door. “Elevator’s on your right. Hope you catch who killed her. He’s on Seven. Seven D.”

Sydney Bancroft stood in the open door to his apartment as Klayman and Johnson stepped off the elevator. The picture he presented was unusual enough to cause the detectives to stop in the middle of the carpeted hallway and stare. The British actor wore a yellow T-shirt, a black, waist-length leather jacket with silver studs, jeans, and black cowboy boots etched in red leather. His thinning hair, worn long, had an orange tint common with male hair dyes. What especially struck Klayman was how short Bancroft was, no taller than five six, or seven. His screen presence, at least as Klayman remembered it, was that of a taller man. His face was thin and pinched, nose long and pointed, cheeks sunken, skin slightly jaundiced. Was he wearing makeup? It looked that way.

“Ah, the cavalry has arrived,” Bancroft announced, his face breaking into a smile. “Welcome, welcome. You are . . . ?”

“Detective Klayman, Mr. Bancroft. This is Detective Johnson.”

“As you promised you would be. Please. Come in.” He stepped back and bowed slightly as he indicated with a hand that they were to enter the apartment. “As is said, sorry to meet under such unfortunate circumstances.”

They passed through a small foyer and into the living room where rock-and-roll music came through speakers while a black-and-white movie played on a large-screen TV. Klayman recognized the film almost immediately. “
Fool’s Gold,
” he said.

“Yes,” said a pleased Bancroft. “I see you are a connoisseur of fine films.”

“It was a good movie,” said Klayman. “You were good in it.”

“Thank you. Thank you indeed. Please, make yourselves at home.” He went to a table and lifted a snifter in a toast of sorts. “Join me?”

“Thank you, no,” Klayman said, joining Johnson on a couch. “But you go ahead.”

Bancroft took a sip. “The bartenders call it the ‘stabilizer’ aboard the QE2 and other ships. Half brandy, half port, quite effective for a queasy stomach. Indian food. I had Indian food tonight and should have known better. I’ve lectured on Shakespeare on the QE2 a number of times. Wonderful experiences. Sure you won’t join me?”

“My stomach’s fine,” Johnson said.

Bancroft pulled up a yellow director’s chair with the title of one of his movies stenciled on its back. A half dozen other such chairs were scattered about the room. The walls were covered with large posters from Bancroft’s film and stage appearances; four life-sized mannequins dressed in period costumes occupied the room’s shadowy corners.

“Now,” said Bancroft, continuing to sip from his drink, “let us talk about Nadia.” He squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered. When he opened them, he displayed a wan smile. “What a lovely young thing, so vibrant, so filled with joie de vivre.”

“We understand you were out of town last night,” Klayman said. Johnson pulled a pad and pen from his pocket and was poised to write.

“That is correct,” Bancroft said, “unless you don’t consider Alexandria to be ‘out of town.’”

“You were in Alexandria last night?” Klayman said. Alexandria was only a fifteen-minute cab ride to Ford’s Theatre.

“Yes. Visiting a dear friend.”

“You stayed with this friend overnight?”

“Correct again, Detective.”

“Your friend’s name?”

Bancroft drew himself up to full height in his chair and slowly shook his head. “I see no reason to inconvenience my friend,” he said, one leg over the other, the boot bobbing up and down.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bancroft, but you’ll have to give us his name.”

“To see whether I was actually there at the time poor Nadia was killed. Sorry, Detective, but—”

“Maybe you’d rather come to headquarters and discuss it there,” Mo Johnson said in his big baritone.

“What a marvelous voice,” Bancroft said. “Reminds me of my dear friend James Earl Jones. Have you ever considered acting, doing commercials?”

“The name, Mr. Bancroft,” Johnson said in a tone that carried with it an implicit threat.

“Ah-ha,” said Bancroft, draining his drink. “‘Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs.’”

“Pardon?”

“Shakespeare.
Henry the Fifth.
My friend’s name is Saul. Saul Jones.” He laughed. “It sounds as though the only people I know are named Jones, doesn’t it? Well, I assure you that Mr. Saul Jones’s personality is not nearly as bland as his name.”

“Address and phone number?”

After Bancroft had reluctantly given that information, he was asked about his activities the previous night, where he and his friend went, whether they were together the entire time—boilerplate questions out of the handbook on a suspect’s alibi. When he was asked about his relationship with Nadia Zarinski, he said, “You do realize, I’m sure, that I have no obligation to speak with you?”