Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [125]
“Sure. I can swing by now. I just finished up with Jeremiah.”
She lowered her voice to barely above a whisper. “Clarise is here, Mac. She’s in the back office using the other line. What she’s told me is—well, it’s upsetting, and important.”
“How long is she staying?”
“She said she’ll be leaving in a few minutes. She came here to get away from the theatre. Look, I’ll leave as soon as I can after she’s gone. I’ll meet you at home.”
“All right. Annie, are you okay?”
“I think so. Have to run. See you soon.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE MEDIA DEVOTED considerable space and airtime Thursday morning to Clarise’s decision to not seek leadership of the NEA. It wasn’t front-page news; the articles were treated more as feature stories, with boilerplate descriptions of her career, beginning with college and tracing it through her Hollywood years and eventual position as producing director of Ford’s Theatre. The Post ran a wedding photograph of Clarise and a young Bruce Lerner, and a picture of Jeremiah, “the now divorced couple’s young son currently being held on charges of murder.” President Nash’s comment about personal needs trumping career decisions was duly reported, and Vice President Dorothy Maloney, billed as a friend of long-standing, said the NEA had lost a superb future leader but wished Clarise all good wishes for whatever she chose to do in the future. “Ms. Emerson declined to respond to repeated requests for a comment for this article,” the writers wrote, although there were plenty of others more than willing to weigh in on why they thought she’d made her decision, regardless of whether they knew anything about it or not.
Klayman and Johnson had worked late Wednesday night, scouring the neighborhood in Southeast for witnesses to the drug murder, and writing their report at headquarters. “It’s almost ten,” Johnson said as they prepared to leave. “Come on back to the house for a nightcap and something to eat.”
“No, thanks, I—”
“You’ve got to eat, man. Don’t argue with me.”
Etta whipped up leftovers, and Mo poured beers. Klayman was glad he’d agreed to come. He found himself relaxing more than he’d been able to in recent days, and by the time he left—almost midnight—he was enjoying a drowsy reverie; he wouldn’t have trouble sleeping that night, and looked forward to a leisurely morning. Because they’d been assigned to duty at Ford’s Theatre Thursday night, they weren’t required to sign in until noon.
Wednesday was another late night for Mac and Annabel Smith. He’d met her at the apartment late in the afternoon and they talked for hours, interrupting their confab twice, once for Mac to fill in Yale Becker about the subject of their discussion, and to learn that his colleague had personally delivered Jeremiah to his mother’s house after Senator Lerner’s verbal assurances to the court that he approved of Jeremiah being with Clarise. The second intermission was to order in dinner from the Watergate Hotel’s Aquarelle restaurant.
Later in the morning, Mac went to GW to teach a class while Annabel met with a wealthy Japanese collector of pre-Columbian art at the gallery who’d flown to Washington specifically to examine items she had for sale.
In the afternoon, Mac worked out at his health club, and Annabel attended a tea honoring the retirement of a friend from the Library of Congress. They met back at the apartment at five, took a nap, showered, dressed in formal wear befitting the occasion, and headed across town to attend Festival at Ford’s.
Security at the theatre was rigorous. After submitting their invitations to members of the Secret Service, Annabel’s purse was sent through an X-ray machine and searched by hand after it had emerged. Mac set off bells when passing through the portable metal detector that had been positioned in the lobby. The culprit had too many keys. Uniformed members of the Washington MPD, especially and hurriedly trained in security following the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, waved wands over the couple, apologizing as