Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [3]
“That is one good-looking woman,” the oldest of the stagehands said quietly. He’d been at Ford’s for twenty-two years.
“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Wales offered.
“Hate to see her go,” the older man said.
“Better Sydney should go,” Wales said. “We going to hang around?”
“Might as well.”
“I’m going out for a cigarette,” Wales said. He’d cut back on his smoking, limiting himself to ten cigarettes a day, except when he was out drinking. He didn’t keep count on those occasions.
“I’ll go with you,” said the young female apprentice.
As Wales and the girl headed for a door at the rear of the stage leading to a narrow area behind the theatre called Baptist Alley, the older stagehand laughed and said to the others, “She hangs around Johnny like a puppy dog. Really got the hots for him.”
“He could do worse. She’s a fox.”
“I’ll take Clarise,” the older man said. “Women aren’t any good until they’ve got a little wear and tear on them.”
“‘You’ll take Clarise?’ Fat chance. She’s strictly money and power.”
“You never know,” the older guy said, chuckling. “My wife’s too good at homicide anyway. Let’s put this furniture in place as long as we’re here.”
Wales and the girl, Mary, had paused at the door to the alley while he fumbled in the fanny pack for his cigarettes. “Just got ten,” he said. “You owe me one.”
She punched his arm and turned the security lock on the door.
“Got ’em,” Wales said, retrieving the crumpled half pack and pulling two cigarettes from it.
“Every time I go through this door,” she said, “I think of Booth.”
“John Wilkes? Crazy bastard. Got his fifteen minutes of fame.”
“He escaped through this door. He had his horse tied out in the alley.”
“I know, I know. I’ve heard the tourist pitch a thousand times.”
Wales grasped the doorknob and pushed on the door. It opened only a few inches. Something was blocking its way. He pushed harder, resulting in another inch or so.
“What the hell?” he muttered.
He leaned his body against the door and exhaled a rush of air as he tried again. This time the opening was wide enough through which to poke his head.
“What is it?” Mary asked.
He’d been looking straight ahead, up the long alley that forked left and exited onto F Street. He wedged his shoulder into the gap and twisted his head to look down at whatever was preventing the door from swinging open.
“What is it?” Mary repeated, envisioning some drunk sleeping it off against the door. Baptist Alley had become a downtown lovers’ lane for couples looking for smooch time, drug addicts shooting up, or alcoholics deciding to nap.
“Jesus!”
“What is it?” she repeated.
“Jesus!”
“Johnny.”
“It’s Nadia,” he managed, his voice raspy and higher than normal as though the horror on the dead girl’s face had reached up and gripped his throat.
CHAPTER TWO
WHEN THE CALL CAME IN to the MPD’s First District Headquarters at 415 Fourth Street, SW, the duty officer that morning put out a notice of a body behind Ford’s Theatre. This was picked up by all vehicles in the area, including an unmarked patrol car manned by two detectives from the Crimes Against Persons Unit. Rick Klayman and Mo Johnson were parked a block from Ford’s Theatre drinking coffee and comparing notes about their long weekend.
Their celebration of Labor Day had taken different turns. Johnson had had Sunday and Monday off with the family. Klayman had worked, paperwork mostly, catching up on what seemed to be a mountain of forms to be filled out. MPD’s upper echelon had instituted what it termed “project paperwork simplification,” which somehow resulted in more forms rather than fewer, more complicated, too, shades of the IRS’s claims of tax simplification. Klayman really didn’t care. He’d had little else to do anyway that weekend, and could use the overtime. He’d also gone over investigative files on a Congressional intern,