Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [132]
Obviously, Crowley had been embezzling funds from the theatre’s coffers, which was bad enough. But one of the items purchased from the jewelry store, and the airline ticket, had been delivered not to Crowley but to a house on N Street, off Dupont Circle. The store manager, and travel agent, dug out their records, which showed that both purchases were sent to N. Zarinski, care of Mark and Laura Rosner at the N Street address.
Mac and Annabel had decided that while those facts uncovered by the auditors were startling, they didn’t provide conclusive proof in and of themselves that Bernard Crowley was Nadia’s killer. Mac and Yale Becker decided during their phone conversation to assign a private investigator to dig into the possibility that Crowley killed Nadia Zarinski, and to devote the next few days to seeing whether they could build a case sufficient to present to the U.S. Attorney and the court.
But Annabel didn’t have any doubt at that moment, in that cramped office, standing next to the limp body of Clarise Emerson. The controller, with the pleasant facade and who’d earned Clarise’s unbridled respect and admiration, was a killer, and Annabel knew he wouldn’t have the slightest reservation about killing her, too.
Keep him talking, she silently told herself. He said he was sorry. Ask about that. “Why did you do this to Clarise?” she asked. “Was it an accident?”
“No, I—”
“You said you were sorry.”
He looked away, eyes focused on the floor, and slowly shook his head. He wheezed with each exhalation, sounds from deep in his chest, expressions of the emotional pain he was feeling at that moment. He looked up with watery eyes: “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Annabel said, more concerned with the role she needed to play than with her veracity. “You had an affair with Nadia?”
“You could call it that. She was—I never had affairs with pretty women like Nadia. You can look at me and know why. I’ve always had to pay for female companions, and she was no different. ‘Buy me this, buy me that. Give me more or I’ll never see you again.’”
A flash of pity came and went. Annabel looked down at Clarise, who’d moved.
“We have to get her help,” Annabel said. “Please. I’m sure this can all be worked out, but if we don’t get her to a hospital, you’ll have her death on your conscience.” She made a move toward the door, but he blocked it again.
“What had Nadia done to make you so angry that you hit her, Bernard?”
With eyes to the floor again, he muttered, “She said she’d tell people about me taking money from here.”
“Clarise?”
“Yes. And others.”
“And so you had to hit her to keep her quiet. Is that it?”
“She told Clarise.”
“She—when did she tell her?”
“The day she—the day she died.”
“But Clarise was shocked when the auditors discovered you’d been taking money from the theatre.”
“She pretended to be. She’s a good actress. She told me to take care of Nadia. She told me to clean up my own litter box.”
The accusation hit Annabel in the stomach like a physical punch. He had to be lying. It was inconceivable to Annabel that Clarise would do such a horrific thing. It had to be a lie.
Clarise groaned and twisted in the chair; her hand went to the wound on her temple. Annabel reached down and grasped her wrist. “It’ll be okay, Clarise,” she said, not taking her eyes off Crowley, who leaned against the door frame as though the skeletal structure inside his big body were failing him. His chest heaved, and his eyes expressed, at once, anger and confusion.
“Bernard, don’t you think it would be best for everyone if—?”
Annabel saw a shadow fall across the landing behind Crowley, and knew it was Mac. Her immediate concern was for him, although the fact that Crowley didn’t appear to be armed provided some comfort. She wondered what Mac would