Murder at Ford's Theatre (9 page)

“Let’s get out of here,” he growled, his voice mirroring the foul mood that had descended upon him. Such introspection always seemed to do that.

ELEVEN

C
LARISE
E
MERSON HAD LUNCH
at her desk at Ford’s Theatre before heading for the final briefing session in preparation for her confirmation hearing. The meeting was held, as it usually was, in a small, seldom used conference room in the Executive Office Building, directly across from the White House.

“You certainly charmed good ol’ Senator Sybers,” one of three people from the administration’s presidential personnel office said after Clarise had taken her customary chair across from her mock inquisitors. The woman was one of eleven people on the team the White House had assembled to whip Clarise into shape as a witness. It was informally known as the Murder Team, and the intensity of their questioning had led Clarise to consider it an apt description.

“The president had coffee with Sybers this morning,” the woman in charge of President Nash’s task force responsible for the arts and humanities agencies said lightly. “The senator said you were ‘one damned impressive lady.’” She delivered the line the way a very old southerner would.

“That’s good to hear,” said Clarise. “He was charming when we met. I think he was flirting with me.”

A lawyer on the team laughed. “Senator Sybers is one of the biggest flirts in Congress. He may be eighty-six years old, but he still has an eye.”

“Southern shtick,” said a publicist, who’d been brought in to generate positive press for Clarise and her quest to head the NEA. “The senator’s charming, all right. It’s a shame his politics aren’t.”

“How do the numbers look so far?” Clarise asked.

“Solid. Unless somebody drops a bombshell, I’d say your confirmation is a slam dunk.”

Clarise sat back and smiled. “What would we do without sports metaphors?” she asked, more of herself than of the other people at the table. She came forward. “Now, what’s on tap for today?”

A young man from intergovernmental affairs spoke. “The way we see it, Ms. Emerson, the last possible sticking point could be that film you coproduced a dozen years ago, the one with incest as its theme. And these.” He pulled half a dozen posters from a large black carrying case and displayed them on the table, promotional material for made-for-TV motion pictures Clarise had produced. “Senator Sybers has been circulating these to members of Congress, along with other things he considers examples of your lack of morality.”

“Do I lack morality?” Clarise asked everyone with a sweep of her head. She laughed. “God, I hope not. It’s no fun without morality.”

“All in the eye of the beholder. As far as Sybers is concerned, he’s the last bastion of morality in America.”

“The film you mentioned,” Clarise said. “You’re talking about
that
film.”

“Yes,” said the White House arts and humanities czar. “Sybers pointed to it a couple of years ago as an example of why the NEA shouldn’t receive an increase in funding.”

“As I remember it,” Clarise said, “it wasn’t that he didn’t want to increase government funding. He wanted to
eliminate
funding.”

“He always does. Either way, he cited that movie as an example of what he considered the sort of prurient material the NEA funds.”

“But it wasn’t,” Clarise said, extending her hands in a gesture of frustration. “That film was privately funded.”

“It’s all the same to the senator, Clarise. Anything that offends his moral compass gets lumped together. Did he mention the film when you met with him?”

“No.”

A lawyer handed Clarise a sheet of paper with a dozen lines of type. “Talking points when that film and your role in producing it come up. Take a minute to study them. Then we’ll run you through questions about it. Stick to the talking points. They represent answers that some of the senators will want to hear. If you get off-message, it will open up other questions you might not be prepared to handle.”

The Murder Team’s grilling of Clarise went on for a half hour. When it was over, someone asked her about the killing at Ford’s Theatre.

“Incredible,” Clarise said. “A murdered young woman right at my doorstep.”

“Any leads?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

There was an awkward silence at the table before one of the lawyers said, “The rumors about the young woman who was killed and your former husband, Senator Lerner. Is that liable to get messy?”

“Oh, come on,” Clarise said. “Why should it? It was just a nasty rumor spread by a disgruntled former aide to Bruce. Why should it have any bearing on my confirmation?”

“It shouldn’t,” replied the lawyer. “But you never know what some of the committee members will dredge up, especially crafty curmudgeons like Sybers. We just don’t want any surprises.”

“Are any people on your staff suspects?” asked another attorney.

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re not, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“No surprise witnesses liable to show up to testify against you?”

Clarise shook her head back and forth, as far as it would go. “This is a little late for that, isn’t it?” she said. “My God, you’ve investigated me as though I were up to head the Atomic Energy Commission. What surprise witnesses could there possibly be?”

One of two friendly senators’ assistants on the team said, “Too much has gone into this process to leave room for bolts from the blue, Clarise, that’s all. The murder at the theatre is an unfortunate thing. Bad timing.”

“Murder,” Clarise muttered. “The ultimate pornography. Look, my friends, my life has become an open book. If there is some surprise in the woodwork, it’ll shock me as much as it shocks you—or the senators.”

“Good,” said the White House arts liaison. “You’ve been a real trouper, Clarise. Anything else anyone wants to raise?”

No one responded, and the meeting broke up. On her way out, Clarise was taken aside by the president’s arts chief: “Vice President Maloney asked me to send her best, Clarise. She’s firmly in your corner, as you know.”

“Please say hello for me. I owe her a call. It’s been so busy that—”

“Of course. I’ll tell her you’ll be in touch. Keep your chin up. It’ll be over soon.”

“It can’t be soon enough.”

Clarise headed back to Ford’s Theatre, where she huddled with Bernard Crowley for the rest of the afternoon going over plans for two upcoming fund-raisers: a cocktail party for members of the theatre’s board of trustees, each of whom had paid at least $10,000 for the privilege of serving; and the annual
Festival at Ford’s,
a nationally televised variety show that generated large sums of money for the theatre and was traditionally attended by a who’s who of Washington government officials and social leading lights, including the president and vice president and their families.

“It looks like you have things in your usual good order, Bernard.”

“I try to, Clarise.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I just don’t know how you do it,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“How you manage to juggle so many things. Running the theatre society, getting ready for a senate grilling, all your social obligations, and now having to put up with a murder investigation.”

“In the genes, I suppose. Dumb enough to enjoy the challenge. Have the police been back?”

“I don’t think so. At least they haven’t been up here in the offices. Sydney called when you were at your briefing.”

“And?”

“Said he wasn’t feeling well and was staying home.”

“What about the teen show?”

“He said to tell you it’s coming along fine. They’re rehearsing tomorrow. I must say, Clarise, that Sydney is becoming more erratic. Maybe ‘insufferable’ is more accurate.”

Hers was a gentle laugh; this time it was her hand on his shoulder. “Could we not discuss Sydney today, Bernard?”

As though not hearing her, he said, “I think you should know that Sydney is a serious suspect in Nadia’s murder.”

She stared. “How do you know that?”

“One of the stagehands. Wales. He told me that when the police questioned him, he told them that Sydney showed an unnatural interest in Nadia. He said Sydney was always touching her and making lewd comments. The police were extremely interested, Wales says.”

“I don’t believe it,” she said.

“You may not want to believe it, Clarise, but it’s a fact.”

“I hope it isn’t a fact, Bernard. Had you heard anything about Sydney and Nadia before?”

“No, of course I didn’t. Are you going to ask Sydney about it?”

“Not unless I have to. I’d like to talk to the police first.”

“They won’t tell you anything. But I’ll keep my ears open.”

“Yes, do that, Bernard. I have to leave now. There’s a party at the Millennium Arts Center I must stop in on, and dinner with some AT&T people. I think they might want to sponsor one of the shows next season in addition to their usual support.”

As she left the building and said good night to a park ranger on duty at the desk downstairs, her thoughts were on what Crowley had told her about Bancroft. She hadn’t been honest when she’d said she didn’t believe the claim that Bancroft had made improper advances to Nadia Zarinski. It was more a matter of not wanting to believe it.

“Damned old fool,” she said under her breath as she hailed a cab and gave the turbaned driver the address of the arts center in southwest Washington.

TWELVE

“I
DON
’
T UNDERSTAND
why a husband has to be in the delivery room when his wife delivers a baby,” Hathaway snapped at Klayman and Johnson the moment the detectives entered his office at First District headquarters. “Wallace’s wife’s having a baby, so he takes off for the day. It was better when my kids were born. My wife had the kids, and I went to work.”

“It’s an event you don’t want to miss,” Johnson said.

“Were you there when your kids were born, Mo?”

“No, but I wish I had been.”

Hathaway’s eyes rolled up in his head. “Who wants to see that bloody mess anyway?” His eyes returned to straight and level. “So, what do you have?”

Klayman led off. “I talked to some students who knew the deceased—or knew about her. They portray her as being sexually active; one called her a ‘round heels.’ I didn’t think anybody used that expression anymore. She was dating a student named Joe Cole. I spoke with Cole. He was out to dinner with the deceased Saturday night. They made love back at her apartment after dinner. He says he left because she wasn’t feeling well and didn’t see her again. Other students I talked to claim Cole was angry about the way the date turned out because, according to them—and they’re quoting him—she told him that another guy she was dating was a better lover.”

“That must have given his ego a hell of a boost,” Hathaway said.

“Tell him who the other guy is,” Johnson told Klayman.

“Jeremiah Lerner.”

“Ooooh,” said Hathaway. “The senator’s son?”

“Yup.”

“We have an address on him?” Hathaway asked.

“Easy to get,” said Johnson.

“The chief was on with the senator today,” Hathaway said, leaning back as far as his chair would allow, and rubbing his eyes. “He agrees to talk to us, but not here. They’re working out a deal. Don’t you love it? Somebody gets murdered, and we have to cut a deal to talk to him.”

“I want to run a background on Cole,” Klayman said. “According to the other students, he was mad enough to want to kill her.”

“What do we do about the Lerner kid?” Johnson asked.

“Go talk to him,” Hathaway said. “His old man’s immunity doesn’t cover the kid.”

“Oh, by the way,” Klayman said, “I also spoke with the deceased’s faculty adviser at American. Kind of interesting what she said. She says Ms. Zarinski wasn’t much of a student, just managed to get by. This adviser says she couldn’t understand how Zarinski ever landed an internship in any political office, let alone with a senator like Lerner. The school’s got a great reputation in political affairs and international service, and lots of good students in them. But Ms. Zarinski almost flunks the only courses she took in those disciplines, and never bothers to register with the internship department. But she ends up with Senator Bruce Lerner—”

“And with a
paid
internship, too,” Johnson added.

“Right.”

“I’m interested in what Johnson got out of the parents,” Hathaway said. “She’s getting paid by Lerner’s office, but she lies to her parents and says she isn’t getting paid. So they keep sending money, pick up the rent, who knows what else?”

“The jewelry?” Johnson asked. “I should have asked how much they gave her every month. Enough for the baubles?”

“Ask ’em,” Hathaway said. “They’re still around. Just keep the mother away from me. She’s been breaking my chops since they got here. Okay. Run down the Lerner kid and see what he has to say.”

“How do we handle him?” Klayman asked. “Is he a suspect?”

“If you mean do you have to read him his rights, the answer is no. Nobody’s a suspect yet, at least officially. I’ve got a warrant out for the Partridge character to be picked up as a material witness.”

“Why?”

“To cover our rear ends.” Klayman’s and Johnson’s glances at each other were swift and discreet.
Our rear ends?
they thought in concert. Hathaway was the one who’d decided to release the old drunk.

“Maybe we run a lineup for Partridge with this Cole guy, or Lerner, or anybody else,” their boss said. “For the record.”

“Good idea, Herman,” Johnson said.

The answer to Jeremiah’s address was close at hand. He had a rap sheet, which gave his address, an apartment in the Adams-Morgan section of the city, and phone number—at least as of the date of his last arrest, which was three months ago. A girlfriend had brought charges against him for assault and battery, claiming he struck her during a domestic dispute. He’d spent the night in jail but was released the following morning after the young woman chose to not press charges. The incident had received a small mention in the Washington
Times.
Two earlier arrests involved a bar fight, and marijuana possession. Both charges were summarily thrown out; the arresting officers in each instance were never told why, although the popular assumption was that political pressure had been brought. The D.C. police prided themselves on not bowing to pressure by the highly placed; whether internal reality matched up with that public posture was conjecture. This was Washington, D.C., where almost anything was possible.

A male answered sleepily, “He’s not here.”

“Where is he?”

“Work.”

“Where does he work?”

“The Millennium Arts Center, over in Southwest.”

“He’s there now?”

A loud, prolonged yawn preceded, “Five o’clock. He goes to work at five.”

Hang up.