Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [78]
The amused grin on his face as she turned to leave made her want to kill him. It wasn’t the first time she’d felt that.
“CALL ME if Jeremiah shows up at your house, Clarise,” Lerner said.
“And you do the same.”
KLAYMAN AND RACHEL KESSLER met at ten at the Georgetown Café, one of Washington’s few restaurants open all night. Rick and Mo Johnson had finished their day at nine-thirty interviewing Nadia Zarinski’s parents, particularly about their deceased daughter’s financial situation.
“The parents claim they didn’t know that their kid was being paid by Senator Lerner’s office,” Klayman told Rachel over chicken salad sandwiches and iced tea. “They paint her as a young woman struggling to make ends meet in a big city, you know, always writing or calling home and asking for money. I hated to burst their bubble by telling them about her being a paid intern, but there was no choice. I mean, she probably didn’t get paid much and needed extra to live on. Interns don’t get paid much, right?”
“I didn’t know they got paid at all.”
“That’s right. Anyway, the father took it well, but the mother actually accused Mo and me of lying about it. She’s a tough lady, and who can blame her? Her daughter gets murdered in an alley and it sounds like we’re prosecuting her.”
“I don’t envy what you have to do in your job,” Rachel said. “I couldn’t do it.”
Rachel Kessler was a large girl, with strong features, prominent nose and cheekbones, and a wide mouth. She wore her brunette hair short, which tended to exaggerate her broad face. She worked as a statistical analyst at HUD, a job she described as deadly dull but without pressure. She wore an oversized, midnight blue sweatshirt, jeans, and a lightweight white windbreaker. Klayman liked many things about her, particularly her quiet nature and infectious laugh. And, like her job, dating her didn’t apply pressure to him in their fledgling relationship. She was easy to be with, like a welcome weekend houseguest who immediately falls into the flow of things and doesn’t cause problems or create tension, someone who eats anything and helps clean up.
“You said she had a lot of jewelry,” Rachel said.
“Yeah. We asked the parents whether their daughter had any independent source of money. They claimed she didn’t, at least not that they knew of. They’ll get the jewelry at some point. Right now it’s evidence.”
“Are there any leads?”
He shook his head. There were some things he was willing to share with family and friends, but most aspects of an investigation were off-limits.
“Amazing,” she said, shaking her head.
“What is?”
“You being a detective. I mean—don’t misunderstand—what I mean is that I think of cops as”—she laughed heartily—“as big and not especially bright. That’s not you.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“I didn’t mean it to compliment you, Rick. I suppose what I’m doing is admitting to my own stereotyping, my own occupational profiling. You know, all Irishmen drink, and all Greeks dance like Zorba.” Another laugh. “I’m not making sense, am I?”
“Sure you are. We all do that. What counts, I think, is whether we recognize what we’re doing and don’t let it affect how we treat others.”
“I agree,” she said. “Feel like dessert?”
“Sure. Ice cream.”
They’d reached that awkward moment when it was time to decide how they would spend the remainder of the night. Klayman had read in some magazine that women make up their minds whether to go to bed with a date far in advance of being asked. While she dipped into her bowl of chocolate–peanut butter ice cream, he went through the internal debate of whether to suggest they extend the evening at his apartment, or hers. His emotions were mixed. On the one hand, he was sexually attracted to her; their few previous episodes of lovemaking had been pleasurable. On the other hand, he was still operating on police time, his mind filled with thoughts of what had transpired that day, and what future days might hold.
“It’s been a tough day,” he said.