Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [84]
“Roommate?”
“Yes. In the apartment they share in Adams-Morgan.”
“Give me the number.”
“I—all right. Hold on.” She returned a minute later and gave him the number.
“Will you be at the house for the rest of the day?” he asked.
“I hope not. I’m supposed to meet with a corporate sponsor later today, and then with the producers of the festival. And Bernard and I need to meet. We’re getting ready for the annual outside audit. What a dreadful time to come down with a migraine.”
Smith sighed. If he had his way, he would have insisted that Jeremiah’s mother and father meet with him to help find their son before the police tried to contact him and discovered the boy had violated the court’s order by leaving his father’s home.
“You have my cell phone number, Clarise, and my other numbers. Please, if you hear from Jeremiah, let me know immediately.”
“I promise I’ll do that, Mac. I can’t thank you enough for all your help.”
His next call was to the apartment where Jeremiah had been living. The roommate answered.
“I’m looking for Jeremiah Lerner,” Smith said.
“He’s not here, man.”
“Has he been there in the last twenty-four hours?”
“Who is this?”
“His attorney.”
“Oh, man, right. He’s in some trouble, huh?”
“Here’s my number. Please have him call me if you see him.”
“Sure. I guess he’s famous. I already talked to some reporters who called.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Smith said. “Thanks.”
Next was a call to Yale Becker at home. He filled his colleague in on the situation, and they agreed that unless Jeremiah elected to return, his problems were magnified tenfold.
“Dumb kid,” Becker muttered.
“If he doesn’t return of his own volition by tomorrow, maybe we’d better put an investigator on it.”
“If we have to. What about the parents?”
Smith related his conversations with Senator Lerner and Clarise Emerson.
“They don’t sound terribly concerned.”
“I think they’re so consumed with their professional lives, there isn’t a lot of room for concern about anything else. Besides, these are people used to having their way. Bad things don’t happen to them.”
“Their luck may have run its string. I’m heading out, Mac. My cell will be on.”
Smith realized that he, too, had developed a headache, and took a Tylenol from his desk drawer before heading home.
CLARISE EMERSON HAD BEEN DOCTORING herself with Tylenol since getting up that morning. She hadn’t showered or dressed when taking Smith’s call, having spent the morning drinking black coffee and applying cold compresses to her forehead. Now, with time running out before her first appointment of the day, she ran as cold a shower as she could tolerate, chose a peach-colored pantsuit outfit and white blouse, dressed, and prepared to leave the house. Her departure was delayed a few minutes by a phone call from a reporter, whom she summarily dismissed.
“Ghouls,” she mumbled as she grabbed her purse and briefcase and made for the door. A sharp knocking stopped her.
She flung open the door and was face-to-face with Jeremiah.
“Where have you been?” she shouted.
He responded by pushing past her and slamming the door behind him.
“Jeremiah,” she said, following him from the foyer into the living room. “What are you doing here?”
He collapsed on the couch, arms spread wide, legs extended in front of him. His eyes were dilated as though artificially propped open, and ringed with dark circles. He wore black jeans, a black T-shirt, and sandals; his clothes and breath reeked of marijuana.
“Do you know they’re looking for you?” she asked, standing over him, one hand on her hip, head cocked.
“Yeah, I know.” He was out of breath.
“You took Daddy’s car?”
He nodded.
“Where is it?”
“Around the corner. I didn’t want to park in front of the house.”
She exhaled in frustration and took a few steps away, turned, and resumed her posture. “Jeremiah, did you have some sort of relationship with that young woman, Nadia?”
“Stop asking questions,” he said. “Jesus, all everybody does is ask me questions. I didn’t do nothing to her. I swear.