Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [33]
“That’s right,” said Klayman. “Did either of you know her?”
“I knew who she was,” the other one said. “Joe used to talk about her a lot.” A knowing smirk crossed his lips.
“Who’s Joe?”
“Joe Cole. He used to date her.”
“That’s right,” the roommate said.
Klayman looked at Marcia: “He’s a first-year grad student,” she said.
“He date her recently?” Klayman asked.
“Yeah. You don’t think—”
“Where is Joe Cole?” Klayman asked.
“Other end of the hall.”
Klayman took down their names in a small notebook and suggested to Marcia that they move on. As they retraced their steps down the hall, Klayman asked her, “Why do you know this Joe Cole? How many students are here, a couple of thousand?”
“Eleven thousand, Detective. Joe Cole is sort of a BMOC. You know what that means.”
“Big man on campus. Popular.”
“Yes. Popular. Handsome, with a great personality. He’ll be something one day.”
Cole’s roommate told them Joe had gone off to work out at the fitness center. Marcia thanked him, and she and Klayman crossed the campus to what a sign indicated was the William I. Jacobs Fitness Center, in the Bender Sports Arena. They found Cole using a weight machine. He saw Marcia motioning for him to join them, slid off the seat, and jogged to them. He stood a solid six feet tall. His black hair was shaved into a military style crew cut. His tanned face was square, his eyes droopy and pale blue, his smile big and friendly. The girls must trip over one another trying to get to you, Klayman thought.
“Joe, this is Detective Klayman from the police department. He’s here investigating the murder yesterday of Nadia Zarinski.”
The smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
“I know,” Cole said. “It’s all over the news. I couldn’t believe it.”
“You dated her,” Klayman said flatly.
“Yeah, I did. I mean, it was nothing serious, nothing like that. We went out a few times, nothing heavy duty.”
He’s exaggerating how casual it was. “I’m told it was more serious than that,” Klayman said.
“Who said that?”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
A bigger shrug of the shoulders than it needed to be. “A couple of weeks ago maybe. At least two weeks. Maybe three.”
Another lie.
“What did you do … three weeks ago?”
A deeply furrowed brow to indicate serious thought. “A movie, I think.”
“What did you see?”
That winning, boyish grin again. “Jesus, I can’t remember. I go to the movies all the time.”
Klayman lost patience. He turned to Marcia and said in a low voice, “You’ll excuse us for a few minutes, won’t you?”
It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t giving her a choice. “I’ll be right outside,” she said, leaving but looking over her shoulder every few steps.
When she was gone, Klayman leaned against a padded gymnast’s pommel horse, crossed his arms, and fixed Cole in a practiced hard stare. “Okay,” he said, “we’ve got the silly answers out of the way. Now we get serious. When did you last see Nadia Zarinski?”
The big smile accompanied, “A few days ago.”
“Over the weekend,” Klayman said, his smile considerably smaller.
A nod.
“You have a fight?”
“A fight? No. We never fought. We got along.”
“What night?”
“Huh?”
“What night over the weekend did you spend time with her?”
“Saturday.”
“You went to the movies?”
Cole shook his large head. “No, we … ah, come on, do I have to get into this?”
“Yeah, you do.”
Cole had stopped perspiring. Now, the sweat came again, and Klayman enjoyed it. It wasn’t something he openly bragged about, but being a detective—being in charge and watching people squirm because of that reality—gave him at times a certain pleasure. He was investigating a murder, which made his questions a lot more important than anything Cole might be thinking or feeling at that moment. As far as Klayman knew, he was asking questions of the person who’d killed Nadia Zarinski, and he wasn’t about to back off to make Cole more comfortable. He let his stare make the point that he expected an honest answer.
“We went to dinner.”
“Where?” Klayman was now making notes.
“Spezie.”
“In Rockville?”
“No, the one downtown, Connecticut