Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [75]
“She never said anything to me about that. I mean, about the other guy being better.”
Klayman, who’d been content to allow Johnson take the lead, spoke. “So she did talk about another guy,” he said.
Cole nodded.
“Who?” They’d decided on the way to the campus to not offer that they knew about Jeremiah and his alleged relationship to Nadia. Hopefully, the other students who’d told them about Cole dating Nadia, and being angry over her comments about Lerner, wouldn’t have shared it with him, considering his BMOC status.
“Lerner. Jerry Lerner.”
When they didn’t respond, Cole added, “He’s already a suspect, right? I heard it on the news.”
“What did Nadia say about him?”
“Have you talked to him?” Cole asked.
“Mind if we ask the questions, Joe?” said Johnson.
“Do you know Jeremiah Lerner?” Klayman asked.
He shook his head.
“Ever see him together with Nadia?”
“No.”
“What did she tell you about him, Joe?”
He made an embarrassed false start before saying, “She thought he was some kind of a stud. I guess she’d know, huh, considering what a slut she was.”
Johnson came from his position at the door and stood over Cole. “Let me give you a little good advice, my man,” he said in his best baritone. “I am getting tired of hearing you trash the victim. I am getting tired of hearing you talk like you’re the original macho man and slandering a young woman who was beaten to death. Is my message getting across?”
“I didn’t mean anything. It’s just that—”
“So you were angry with her. Right?” said Klayman.
“Yeah, I was, and I told her so.”
“How did she react?”
“She laughed and told me to get out.”
“And this was Saturday night?”
“Right.”
“Not Monday night.”
“Monday? No. Hey, look, if you think I got mad enough to kill her, you’re all wrong.”
“You own a pair of Ecco shoes?” Klayman asked.
“What’s that?”
“Mind if I look at your shoes?” Johnson asked, opening the closet door.
“No. Why should I mind?”
“Which shoes are yours, and which ones are your roommates?”
Cole showed them his shoes. No Eccos among them.
Klayman opened the door, and he and Johnson stepped into the hall, with Cole following anxiously.
“So you know I didn’t kill her. Right?”
Johnson replied, “You just remember what I said about slandering the dead, Joe.”
“Okay.”
On their way back to First District headquarters, Johnson said, “Man, I don’t like that smug bastard.”
“Think he’s lying? Think he was with her Monday night?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. We should check the restaurant he says he took her to.”
“Right.”
“You know, buddy, I’ve got to give it to you about the shoes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Noticing that the Lerner kid was wearing a pair when we brought him in, and remembering it when forensics came back with a match of the prints to that sole pattern.”
They stopped at a light, and Klayman raised his right foot off the accelerator. “Eccos,” he said, returning his foot to the pedal. “My parents bought me this pair last time they visited.”
Johnson chuckled. “I’m impressed. Yeah, I am impressed.”
“I was more impressed with the judge who gave us the warrant. Hardly compelling evidence to base it on.”
They pulled into the parking lot at the rear of the building.
“What about Bancroft, the old actor?” Johnson asked. “We know Lerner lied to us about knowing the victim because of what Cole says. We get Bancroft on the record about it and the kid is dead meat. He’s due back tomorrow?”
“That’s what he said. I figured we could check him out tomorrow afternoon, after my class.”
“How’d you get Hathaway to give you the morning off? He’s got us on twenty-four/seven until we break this case.”
“Herman’s a believer in education,” Klayman responded wryly.
Johnson chuckled. “Like Lincoln, huh? Hey, by the way, since you’ve become a shoe expert, what kind of shoes did Lincoln wear? Eccos?”
Klayman said without hesitating, “He wore size fourteen boots made by a New York boot maker named Kahler. Lincoln made tracings of his own feet and sent them to New York.”
Klayman opened the rear door