Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [76]
“Coming?” Klayman asked.
“I should have known better than to ask,” Johnson said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“CLARISE. It’s Bruce.”
“I just walked in the door.” She cradled her cell phone between shoulder and cheek as she kicked off her shoes and moved through the Georgetown house. “I have guests arriving in a half hour and—”
“Have you heard from Jeremiah?”
“No. Oh, the interview with him this afternoon. I’d almost forgotten. I meant to call you. How did it go?”
“Badly. He lied to the police when he said he didn’t know the girl. He did know her. He dated her.”
“Oh, my God. Are you sure?”
“I was there, remember? He admitted it to me, and to Mac Smith. The police took his shoes.”
“What?”
“His shoes. They had a warrant for his shoes.”
“Why?”
“As evidence, of course. He left, drove off in my Jag. You haven’t heard from him?”
“No. I told you I hadn’t. Where did he go?”
“Damn it, Clarise, if I knew that I wouldn’t be calling you. Look, this is serious. He’s obviously in big trouble with the law and—”
“Can’t you do something?”
“Such as?”
“Such as—you’re a U.S. senator, for Christ’s sake. Maybe it’s political, a way to get at you—and at me. My confirmation hearing is looming and—”
“I don’t give a damn about your hearing, Clarise. Jeremiah is—”
“Thank you very much, Senator Lerner. What do you want me to do about Jeremiah, get in my car and cruise the streets looking for him?”
She felt her internal thermostat rising, becoming hotter. She could see her ex-husband sitting in his study, probably wearing one of his dozens of custom English suits, debonair and smug, viewing her as a hysterical woman unable to control herself and not making sense. She prided herself in her ability to manage her anger, to force cognition to trump emotions, to use any anger she might feel in a positive way, channeling it to achieve whatever goal was in her sights at the moment. But she hadn’t always been successful in doing it.
THERE WAS THE TIME less than a year ago when rumors had begun to circulate about a possible sexual affair between her former husband and Nadia Zarinski. Clarise had first heard about it when a friend, who consumed gossip and thrived on it the way health fanatics consume and thrive on sprouts and personal trainers, called.
“Clarise, dear, how are you?”
“I’m fine. How are you, Sissy?”
“Well, I must admit I’d be considerably better if my very good friend, Clarise Emerson, wasn’t being trashed the way she is.”
“I’m sorry, Sissy, but I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I have an appointment I’m already late for.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Maybe I’m speaking out of turn. You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?” Her pique was palpable.
“About Bruce and his intern.”
“What about them?”
She lightened her voice to soften her response. “About them having … well, I suppose there’s no delicate way of putting it … having a thing.”
Clarise’s immediate reaction was muted. Politicians becoming involved with female interns was nothing new in Washington. She laughed and said, “Don’t you just love this city’s rumor mill, Sissy? Thanks for sharing the latest with me. Have to run. Bye, sweetie.”
But after hanging up and chewing on what she’d been told, she found herself becoming increasingly agitated. And when, an hour later, she turned on all-news radio WTOP and heard mention of the rumor about Bruce and the intern, she experienced a painful wave of disgust, which quickly escalated into rage. She considered calling her former husband but held back—until the rumor developed legs and seemed to dominate every newscast. Worse, it soon became the centerpiece of whispers all over Washington. When she walked into a room, the sudden silence, then the shift to any inane subject other than what had been being discussed, was transparent.
Of course, she was asked about it by those who considered themselves close enough to tread on such delicate ground, and honed lighthearted answers that she considered sophisticated but that in no way truly reflected what she was