Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [35]
Johnson whistled. “How’d you find that out?”
“A guy who was also dating her, Joe Cole. Cole was angry because she was seeing Lerner. Cole had a date with her Saturday.”
“Angry enough to do her in?”
“I’d say so. Let’s go inside and check on Bancroft and his pal, Jones.”
“We should have a picture of Bancroft,” Johnson said, opening his door. “To show the manager.”
“Yeah, but we don’t have one. Maybe he’ll remember him because he’s—well …”
Johnson laughed. “Strange.”
Klayman laughed, too. “I prefer ‘eccentric.’”
“You would.”
A picture of Sydney Bancroft wasn’t necessary.
“Oh, yes,” the manager of Duangrat’s and Rabieng said pleasantly. “Mr. Jones is a regular. Mr. Bancroft comes here often with him.”
“They had dinner here Monday night?” Johnson asked.
“Yes. Excuse me, please.”
He returned moments later with the waiter who’d served them. “Sajing waited on them.”
“You remember what time they came and left?” Klayman asked the small, achingly thin waiter.
He flapped his hands as though such a question were beyond the capability of mere mortals.
“Approximately,” Johnson helped.
“Maybe seven. Maybe seven-thirty, they come. That table over there. Mr. Jones, he always sit at that table.”
“He’s a regular,” the manager repeated.
“How long did they stay?” Johnson asked.
“Is Mr. Jones in trouble?” asked the manager.
“No.”
“They left at ten,” the manager said. “I remember because Mr. Bancroft, he—he had a great deal to drink and was entertaining people at other tables near them.”
“Entertaining them?” said Johnson.
“Saying speeches from William Shakespeare, acting for them. He has done that before—when he has had too much to drink. Very funny. The other customers enjoy him.”
“Yeah, I bet they do,” Johnson muttered.
“Mr. Jones, he had bhram,” the waiter said. “He always has bhram.”
“A specialty,” the manager said. “Chicken with shallots, cabbage, and peanut sauce. Very good.”
“I’m sure it is,” Johnson said. “So they were here from about seven until ten. They left together?”
“Yes, although—”
“Although what?” Klayman asked.
“I went with them to the sidewalk,” the manager said. “They walked in separate directions.”
“They say why, where they were going?” Johnson asked.
“No. I did not ask. It would not be proper for me to pry.”
“Very discreet,” Johnson said. “We’d appreciate you not telling Mr. Jones or Mr. Bancroft we were here asking questions about them.”
“Of course.”
Once outside, Johnson said, “So they weren’t together all night like they claim.”
“Maybe they went in separate directions to—I don’t know, Mo, walk off the meal? Maybe one of them went to get the car.”
“While the other one walks away? No way, Ricky. Hathaway wants us at headquarters. I told him we were meeting up here, and he said to come back when we were through.” Johnson whistled, louder this time. “Lerner’s kid dating the deceased, huh? Man, the plot thickens.”
At a fast-food place where they stopped for lunch on the way to headquarters, Johnson filled Klayman in on his interview with Nadia Zarinski’s parents.
“I’M SORRY TO HAVE TO MEET YOU under these circumstances,” Johnson told the parents as they sat in an interrogation room.
“We appreciate that,” said Nadia’s father, a short, chunky man with ruddy cheeks, and wisps of gray hair jutting at odd angles from his baldpate.
The mother, whose name was Judith—the father was Morton—was the same height as her husband, but appeared to be in better physical shape. Her features were sharp, her eyes steely. When she spoke, there was assurance in her voice, a woman used to being in charge. A nurse. No nonsense. She pulled a cigarette from her purse.
“Sorry, ma’am, but we don’t allow smoking in here,” Johnson said gently. No surprise to him that she was a smoker. Most nurses he’d met smoked. Salty language was next, he assumed.
“My daughter has just been brutally murdered, and you’re worried about me smoking?” she said.
“It’s not me, ma’am. Policy.”
She shoved the cigarette back into her purse.
“Judith is upset,” Morton