Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [13]
“My, my,” Johnson said as an array of expensive-looking jewelry was displayed. Klayman pulled a jewel-encrusted ladies’ Rolex from the box and held it up for Johnson and Mrs. Rosner to see. She ignored it and leaned closer to see the other jewelry in the box: rings, bracelets, and necklaces, their stones gleaming in the light from the desk lamp.
“Nice collection of trinkets,” said Johnson. “You ever see her wear any of this stuff?” he asked Laura Rosner.
She shook her head. “Never,” she said.
Klayman replaced the box in the drawer, and they moved to the bathroom, the most orderly room in the apartment.
“She sure loved perfume and soap,” Johnson muttered, surveying a row of at least fifteen bottles of perfume, and a large wicker basket filled with wrapped bars of scented soaps. He touched a towel hanging from a bar inside the shower. “Dry,” he said. To Mrs. Rosner: “You see her this morning?”
“No. I’m sorry about the mess in here. If I’d known you were coming I’d—”
“Glad you didn’t,” said Klayman.
“Will this be a crime scene, with yellow tape and all?” she asked. “I wouldn’t want the neighbors to be upset.”
“No, ma’am. No crime’s been committed here, but we will want to spend more time going through her things. No one’s to come in here except police. All right?”
“Yes.”
Klayman placed a call to headquarters requesting uniformed officers to secure the apartment until they’d had a chance to thoroughly examine it. “We’ll be back,” Klayman told Mrs. Rosner. “Some other detectives will probably swing by, too, in the next hour. Some evidence techs. Where’s your husband?”
“Mark is at work. He’s with the Treasury Department. He should be home soon.”
“Did he, uh … did he have much contact with your tenant?”
“With Nadia? They talked when they saw each other, just in passing. Why do you ask?” The answer dawned on her. “You don’t think—?”
They descended the exterior stairs from the apartment and walked to the front of the house. A patrol car pulled to the curb, and Klayman told the two officers to go around back and make sure no one entered the third-floor apartment until he cleared it.
“Thanks for your time, Mrs. Rosner,” Klayman said as he and Johnson went to their car. She stood at the edge of the front garden, arms folded across her chest, brow furrowed. Johnson turned, took a few steps back in her direction, and asked, “Was your husband home last night?”
“Yes, he was. All night.” Her cooperative tone had turned to ice.
“Thank you,” Johnson said, climbing in the car with Klayman, who drove away.
“What do you think?” Johnson asked.
“I see her—the deceased—as being like half the young women in D.C., looking for action, playing the bar scene, searching for love.”
“Uh-huh,” Johnson confirmed. “Lots a’ dates, lots a’ boyfriends, all of them dorks.”
“Why do you say that?” Klayman asked, laughing.
“Ah, girls like this Ms. Zarinski are always more mature than the guys they go out with. You know that. Not you, Rick. You’re very mature.”
“Thanks. Rich dorks.”
“Huh?”
“Unless she bought all that jewelry and that watch out of an intern’s pay, the guys she went out with were very rich. And generous.”
Johnson laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“Some cops—and you know who I mean—would be tempted to find one a’ those pieces in their pocket. Where we heading?”
“Where this Bancroft lives. Maybe he’s home now.”
“‘To be or not to be,’” Johnson said loudly, placing his hand over his heart.
Klayman didn’t respond. His thoughts were of Nadia Zarinski. He saw her battered face and wondered what could have made anyone so angry that they would beat her to