Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [54]
“In Lincoln, period. I guess you could say I’m a Lincoln buff. I’d like to say Lincoln scholar, but I’m a long way from that.”
“You might be closer than you think, Detective. I’ll look forward to seeing you Saturday.”
“Thanks. Nice meeting you—Professor.”
Smith drove back to the Watergate, where Annabel and Rufus were waiting.
“I can’t believe you did that, Mac,” Annabel said.
“I’m having some trouble believing it, too. Clarise was very upset, and I thought … well, I wanted to help out. I’ll call Yale first thing in the morning and turn it over to him.” Yale Becker, one of Smith’s former partners in the criminal law practice, was considered a top criminal attorney, perhaps the District’s best now that Mac Smith was no longer in the saddle.
“Clarise called,” Annabel said.
“I said I’d call her. She should be at Jeremiah’s hearing tomorrow. Being in a parent’s custody is helpful when setting bail.”
“Is he in big trouble?”
“Yeah, I’d say so. They’re charging him with resisting arrest, and assault on an officer. Those are serious felonies, as you know. What really concerns me, though, is that they want to question him about the murder at the theatre.”
“Clarise didn’t mention that. Did he know the girl?”
“He claims not to, but he’s lying.”
Annabel didn’t ask how her husband knew Jeremiah was lying. His instincts about such things were uncannily accurate.
“I’ll get hold of Yale and see if he’ll take the case.”
“Maybe Clarise or the senator won’t want him. The way Clarise talked, she won’t settle for anyone but you.”
“Out of the question. By the way, one of the detectives involved in the case—a nice young man named Klayman—is signed up for my Saturday session. He says he’s a Lincoln buff.”
“Conflict?”
“Not as long as we keep any discussions to Lincoln, and avoid any talk about the Lerner case. Know what bothers me, Annie, besides not believing Jeremiah?”
“Tell me.”
“Clarise seemed more concerned about her confirmation hearing than what was happening to her son.”
“She’s an ambitious woman, Mac. We know that. And I suspect she was never much of a nurturing mother. I don’t mean a loving mother. She obviously loves Jeremiah. But she’s spent her life chasing a career, not motherhood.”
“She was annoyed that Senator Lerner was away at some retreat and wouldn’t bother coming back until tomorrow.”
“Sad. I dealt with a lot of parents like that when I was handling divorces, and kept in my desk a copy of something Dickens wrote. He said, ‘I am the only child of parents who weighed, measured and priced everything’—and went on to say that what couldn’t be weighed, measured, or priced didn’t exist.”
“Let’s not be too judgmental, Annie. Lots of kids are brought up in such circumstances and end up solid citizens. I had too many young people in trouble with the law, and with generally screwed-up lives, who blamed their parents. It’s a convenient excuse for avoiding responsibility. Speaking of responsibility, I’d better walk the beast.”
“Mac!”
“Sorry. I forgot about his fragile ego.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SYDNEY BANCROFT EXITED the Delta Shuttle at New York’s La Guardia Airport, went to a large electronic board on which airport hotels were displayed, and called one. Ten minutes later, he boarded a shuttle bus and checked in at the lowest price offered, which included a senior citizen discount.
“Tricked you,” he told the dour young woman at the check-in desk. “I’m actually thirty-five but made myself up to enjoy your old fogy rate.”
She handed him his room key without breaking a smile.
Shame. He had tried to brighten her day. Young fogy. The room was small. It had one window, which faced a highway, beyond which jet aircraft arriving and departing could be seen—and heard, though muted. He freshened up, checked himself in a mirror cracked in one corner—he was wearing jeans, a black turtleneck, and a tan safari jacket, his usual flying outfit—and went downstairs to the restaurant and bar. It was empty except for the bartender, a waitress whose fatigue showed through her heavy makeup, and two men in business