Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [83]
“Must I?” Bancroft said.
Klayman nodded, and Bancroft scratched his signature on the paper.
“Thanks again,” Klayman said. “By the way, how are things coming with your one-man show? You went to London for that, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Oh, yes, it’s coming along famously. I’m very excited about it.”
He walked them to the elevator.
“One thing I will never understand,” he said as they waited for the car to arrive.
“What’s that?” Johnson asked.
“Why Clarise stood for having Nadia at the theatre, even as an occasional helper.”
The doors opened, but Johnson held them that way with his hand. “You say Ms. Emerson knew the girl hung around?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Crowley says she didn’t,” said Johnson.
“Mr. Crowley?” Bancroft said, guffawing. “That fat excuse for a man?”
“I take it you and Mr. Crowley aren’t friends,” Johnson said.
Bancroft said to the otherwise empty hallway, “‘Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens.’”
“Shakespeare, I suppose,” Johnson said.
“Very astute, sir. As You Like It.”
“You’re sure she knew?” Klayman asked.
“Have I said something I shouldn’t have?”
“No, not at all,” Klayman said, stepping into the elevator.
“Have a nice day,” Johnson said as the doors slid shut.
They waited until reaching their car.
“What do you make of it?” Klayman asked. They were headed back to headquarters.
Johnson answered, “Why would Ms. Emerson claim she didn’t know the girl was working at the theatre?”
“It was Crowley, the controller, who said that. Right?”
“Yeah, but she also put on the big surprise act when she found out. How come?”
“Maybe to not look foolish,” Klayman offered.
“Or maybe to take herself out of the running as a suspect.”
“We’ll ask,” said Klayman.
“Yeah, let’s do that.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING his Saturday morning class, Smith went to his office at the university and dialed Senator Bruce Lerner’s unlisted home number. The housekeeper who answered informed Smith that the senator was gone for the day on official business.
“Is his son there?” Smith asked.
“No, sir, I don’t believe he is.”
His next call was to Clarise Emerson’s Georgetown home. Again, a housekeeper answered: “Ms. Emerson isn’t feeling well, Mr. Smith. She’s resting.”
“It’s important I speak with her,” Mac said.
“Sir, I—”
“Put her on.”
“One minute, sir.”
Clarise eventually came on the line.
“Sorry to disturb you, Clarise, but I tried the senator’s house and was told Jeremiah wasn’t there.”
“Oh, God,” she said. “I’m sorry, Mac. I have a splitting headache. It came out of the blue and my head feels as though it’s exploding. Jeremiah! I know he left the house yesterday. I spoke with Bruce about it.”
“Do you have any idea where he might be?”
“Not the slightest. I’m sorry, Mac. I wish I could be more helpful.”
“We have to find him, Clarise.”
“What do you expect me to do, Mac? Bruce said the same thing, as though I can snap my fingers and he’ll appear.”
She was right, of course. From a pragmatic point of view, she couldn’t be expected to produce her son. But she might speculate on where he’d go. Smith just wished she sounded a little more concerned; he needed company to share the frustration he felt, and the sense of pending trouble. Although he didn’t have firsthand information, he was convinced the police were narrowing in on Jeremiah for the murder. Obviously, Jeremiah had sensed it, too, and fled his father’s home in a foolish attempt to avoid facing it.
He also found it inexplicable that Lerner would be gone for the day knowing the situation. Yes, he was a United States senator, and undoubtedly had pressing matters of state with which to contend. Then again, maybe he had decided to absent himself to avoid having to deal with the increasingly active media. But their son was in deep.
“Clarise, do you know any of Jeremiah’s friends we can call, anyone who might know his whereabouts?”
“No, I don’t. Jeremiah never shared such