Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [133]
Mac answered her questions by asking in a firm, even tone, “Are you all right, Annie?”
Crowley flinched at the sound of Smith’s voice and turned in the doorway. Mac approached him and looked inside the office. “We need a doctor here, Bernard, and we need one now!”
Annabel had all she could do to not break down in tears and run to her husband. But she knew that might unsettle Crowley. Mac was steadying him by behaving normally.
“Get out of my way,” Smith said, pushing past Crowley and coming to Annabel. “I’m fine,” she said. He leaned over Clarise and said, “It’ll be okay, Clarise. We’ll get a doctor here and you’ll be fine.”
Mac and Annabel looked up to see Crowley leave the office and waddle toward the stairs.
“He killed Nadia, Mac, and attacked Clarise. He said—”
“He won’t get far,” Mac said, noticing the phone on the floor. “Grab a phone from another office and call 911. Tell them a murderer is leaving Ford’s Theatre, and describe him. And tell them we need an ambulance here fast!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
MAC SMITH HAD COFFEE with Rick Klayman and Mo Johnson on Saturday morning following his Lincoln-the-Lawyer class at GW. He’d devoted the session to Lincoln’s rise to preeminence as one of the nation’s top lawyers when it came to resolving an increasing number of suits spawned by the rapid expansion of the railroads. Lincoln was comfortable taking either side of these disputes, and began earning enough to finally provide decently for his family. Still, he took on smaller cases for minimal fees when he felt a decent, honest citizen had been cheated.
But conversation over coffee didn’t linger on Lincoln. The events of Thursday night dominated talk at the table.
“Crowley confessed right away,” Johnson said. “Rick and I did the interrogation yesterday. I think he was glad to get it off his chest.”
“What about his claim that Clarise Emerson told him to take care of Ms. Zarinski?” Smith asked. “In effect, he’s saying she ordered the killing.”
“He was still claiming that yesterday,” Klayman replied. “You know her pretty well, Mac.” They were on a first-name basis at Smith’s request. “Think she’s capable of doing that?”
“No,” he said, “but that doesn’t count for much. I’ve had clients over the years who did terrible things that I never would have suspected they were capable of. My wife and I prefer to think it’s Crowley’s attempt to shift blame.”
Smith looked down at a copy of yesterday’s Washington Post. An unnecessarily large photo of Sydney Bancroft, taken as a publicity shot years ago during his heyday as an actor, dominated the front page. Mac shook his head and smiled. “Who ever would have thought?” he said, standing. “I have to go. My wife is home packing. We’re planning a trip to Paris later this fall, but we—she—decided we needed a long weekend away. We’re driving out to White Post, Virginia. There’s a lovely inn there, L’Auberge Provençale. Great restaurant, hot tub, no kids under ten, the perfect getaway.”
“Sounds great,” Johnson said.
Smith left them on the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop.
“What’s up for you this weekend?” Johnson asked his partner.
“Not much left of it, is there? Rachel and I are having dinner tonight. I thought I’d spend Sunday trying to locate witnesses in the Marshall case, see if I can get them to remember things they might have forgotten first time around.”
“It’s your day off, Rick.”
“I know. Been an interesting couple of days, huh?”
Johnson’s laugh was low and rumbling. “You might say that. I told you Bancroft was nuts.”
“Slightly skewed, that’s all. See you Monday.”
“Yeah. See you Monday.”
HAD IT NOT BEEN for Sydney Bancroft’s apparent attempt at assassination—since the president wasn’t in attendance, it was assumed America’s first female vice president was his target, a second-best victim compared to John Wilkes Booth’s success at killing a president—and his spectacular failure in that leading role,