Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [43]
“Right around the corner and I’ve never been,” Klayman said as he pulled up in front.
“A perk of the job, huh?” Johnson commented. “You get to see things you never saw before.”
“And not always things I want to see. You have the picture?”
“Yeah.” Johnson held up a mug shot of Jeremiah Lerner he’d taken from the files before leaving. They’d read what was in Lerner’s folder and agreed that the kid came off as a foul ball, nothing major—yet—but they’d seen too many Jeremiah Lerners who’d progressed from being a nuisance to the community to eventually becoming a threat. His mug shot depicted a smug young man, the hint of a smile on his lips to make the point that being arrested, printed, and photographed wasn’t such a big deal. Or, to cover the fear he was feeling at the time.
“Must be tough being a big shot U.S. senator and having a kid like this,” Johnson said, slipping the photo into his inside jacket pocket.
“And a big shot mother,” Klayman said. “Maybe too much for the kid to live up to.”
“Thank you, Dr. Freud.”
“Your forty-five minutes is up. Pay on your way out. Come on, let’s see if he showed up for work today.”
They climbed a short set of steps and walked through doors leading to a large, open space with white walls, a gleaming gray floor, and with artwork and sculptures lining both sides. The sounds of a cocktail party came from a doorway twenty feet to their right. A sign on an easel indicated an opening was in progress for two artists, Richard Dana and Judy Jashinsky.
They started toward the party sounds when Johnson stopped to take in a large Impressionistic painting. “What do you figure that is?” he asked Klayman.
“Looks like a head surrounded by birds to me.”
“Hello.”
They turned to face a slender, middle-aged man carrying a cocktail glass and wearing a purple shirt, and a wide tie from which the Mona Lisa smiled at them. “Are you here for the Dana-Jashinsky opening?”
“No,” Johnson said. “Detectives Johnson and Klayman, Crimes Against Persons Unit, First District.” They showed their badges.
“Is something wrong?”
“We’re looking for someone who works here,” said Klayman. Johnson pulled the mug shot from his pocket.
“Yes, I’ve seen him before. He doesn’t work for the arts center per se. He works for a contractor who does maintenance.”
“Is he here today, Mr.—?”
“Wooby. Bill Wooby. I’m the center’s director. He may be. I’ve been busy with the opening and party. Yes, I think he’s the one who’s been working in the garden café area.”
“How do we get there?” Johnson asked.
“By following me.”
He led them to a door in the middle of the building that opened out onto a grassy courtyard in need of tender loving care.
“As you can see, we’re in the process of converting the space into a café,” Wooby said.
The courtyard was empty. “I don’t see him,” Johnson said.
“I’m not sure he was due here today,” the director said, sipping from his drink, “although I don’t keep track of such things. I have enough to do—”
“Over there,” Johnson said, pointing to the far end of the quadrangle. Jeremiah Lerner was walking in their direction.
“Hey, Jeremiah,” Johnson yelled.
Lerner stopped and looked at them. He seemed unsure what to do, whether to approach or to turn. He turned and took rapid steps back toward the door he had come through. Looking over his shoulder, he saw them heading his way and broke into a run, disappearing through the door. Without a word, Klayman ran back into the building while Johnson continued after Lerner. Wooby followed Klayman inside.
“Where can he go?” Klayman asked.
“Anywhere,” Wooby said. “It’s a big place.”
Klayman moved at a fast trot down the hall, looking left and right into artist studios and performance rooms, unsnapping the leather restraining tab on his holster beneath his armpit as he went. “Mo!” he shouted. “Mo, where are you?”
He heard his partner’s voice from the recesses of the sprawling building and headed in that direction. Wooby, now minus his glass, was close on his heels. Klayman