Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [31]
Etta was in the kitchen when he came upstairs. “You are some sweaty mess,” she said, successfully avoiding his attempt to hug her.
He laughed and poured himself orange juice. “Got to sweat out all the toxic fluids, Etta. Purify the system.”
“Is that so? You sound like that Sterling Hayden character in Dr. Strangelove, with his vital bodily fluids. Where are you off to this morning?”
“Rick and I are heading for American University, see if we can rustle up some of her friends, lovers, anybody who knows what her private life was like.”
“A boyfriend? Is that who you’ve decided killed her?”
“Haven’t decided anything yet. But this has all the trappings of a romance gone wrong. Her landlady says she was a sexy little thing, you know, liked to flaunt it. Wore skimpy clothes, things like that.”
“We’re blaming the victim now, are we?”
“Of course not. You know me better than that.”
“What I know is that you’ll do the right thing. Go on now, get in the shower. Pancakes?”
“Eggs. Over easy. Dry toast.”
He stole a quick kiss on his way from the room, showered and dressed, and joined her for breakfast in an alcove off the kitchen they’d added the previous year.
“You’ll be late?” she asked as they parted on the front steps.
“Probably.”
“Say hello to Rick for me. Invite him over for dinner. It’s been a while.”
“Yeah, I will. You have a good one.”
Klayman and Johnson met up at headquarters, where their boss, Herman Hathaway, conducted a briefing.
“Okay,” said Hathaway, “here’s what we’ve got. One dead girl, hit in the head and face, no credible suspects. Old drunk says he saw it happen, which is bull. Landlady says she was a flirt, sexy, things like that. Had a box full of expensive jewelry. Rumor that she had an affair with Senator Bruce Lerner. Unlikely it was a random killing. No reason for her to be in that alley alone at that hour. Family needs to be interviewed. They’re in town.”
“We’re going over to the university,” Klayman said.
“We’re? Your togetherness is touching. We’re stretched thin today. You can meet up later. Rick, you go to her school and dig around for friends, boyfriends, whatever. Mo, I want you to interview the parents. They’re due here in a half hour.”
Johnson walked Klayman to the parking lot, where Klayman’s unmarked car was parked.
“Catch up with you what, around noon?” Johnson said.
“Good. Let’s meet at the Thai restaurant where Bancroft and Jones said they’d had dinner. Make it one, okay?”
“You got it.”
Klayman’s first stop at American University’s main campus on Massachusetts Avenue, NW, was the Hamilton Building, in which some of the school’s administrative offices were located. The university had been founded in 1891 by the Methodist Church as a graduate school, and eventually evolved into a nondenominational university with strong schools of communications and education. He was ushered to the office of Wendell Jessup, vice president of student affairs. Jessup, a bald, courtly gentleman in a three-piece gray suit, warmly greeted the detective and offered coffee, which Klayman declined.
“I was shocked when I read about Ms. Zarinski,” Jessup said, “and anticipated a visit from the police. I’ve gathered up her records for you.” He slid a batch of file folders across the desk in Klayman’s direction. The detective quickly flipped through them while Jessup sipped black coffee.
“I can take these?” Klayman asked.
“Of course. I had copies made.”
This guy has got it together, Klayman thought, returning the folders to the desk. “I’m hoping to talk to her friends on campus, Mr. Jessup, a roommate who still might be here, students she was close to, maybe even young men she dated.”
Jessup shrugged and smiled. “I’m afraid those records won’t help in that regard,” he said. “But I can direct