Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [85]
“Where have you been?”
“Hangin’ out at a friend’s house.” He jumped to his feet, went to the windows, and pulled the drapes aside in order to see the street. She came up behind and placed her hand on his shoulder, causing him to start. He turned and looked at her with eyes she hadn’t seen since he was a small child, pleading, frightened eyes glistening with moisture. “What am I gonna do?” he asked. “You have to help me.”
She hesitated, then wrapped her arms about him and pulled him close. “We’ll take care of it, darling. I promise.”
He stepped back; she checked the lapel of her jacket for stains from his tears.
“I don’t want to go to jail,” he said, resuming his seat on the couch.
“And you won’t have to.”
The housekeeper entered the room.
“Not now, Isabella. Not now! Please, go to your room and leave us alone.”
Clarise joined Jeremiah on the couch.
“Mac Smith is very worried,” she said softly. “He says the court allowed you to go free only if you lived with Daddy.”
“Mac Smith!” he said scornfully. “He doesn’t care what happens to me. He’s one of them.”
“No, no, Jeremiah, he’s not. He has your best interests at heart. He’s my friend. He wouldn’t do anything to anger me. I promised him I’d call if I heard from you.”
“No, you can’t,” he said. “Please, don’t call him. Don’t call anybody.”
“What do you want me to do then? What do you intend to do?”
“I just need a little time to think, that’s all.”
“But Mr. Smith and—”
“No!” His voice was strong and emphatic, as though it carried physical weight. “I just want to stay here for a while.”
Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know,” she said. She glanced at a grandfather clock in a corner of the room. “All right,” she said. “I have to be somewhere, but I’ll be back as quickly as I can. You stay here. Don’t answer the phone or the door. Do you understand?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But only for a little while, Jeremiah. Maybe overnight. Then, tomorrow, we’ll talk to the right people and make this whole nightmare go away.”
“Okay.”
She went to the door, where she stopped, turned, and said, “Mr. Smith told me they had a warrant for your shoes. Is that right?”
“Yeah.” He shook his head. “Really stupid, huh?” He looked down at his sandals. “My friend’s. He lent them to me.”
As though struck by a sudden thought, she crossed the room, leaned down, kissed him on the forehead, and left the house.
“WE’RE BRINGING HIM IN,” Hathaway said to Klayman and Johnson.
“LeCour buys it?” Johnson said.
“Yeah. But he doesn’t want us to take him from the senator’s house. Lerner’s image and all that. He’s getting ahold of the kid’s lawyers, Smith or Becker, and offering to have them surrender him here at headquarters.”
“Rank does have its privilege,” Johnson said.
Hathaway laughed. “We can’t ruffle a senator’s feathers.”
“Think they’ll do it?” Klayman asked.
“Sure, why not?” Hathaway replied. “I don’t know much about Becker except by reputation, but Smith is wired in all over town. He’s too savvy to not play along.”
“So, what do we do now?” Johnson asked.
“I wait to hear from LeCour. You two go to the senator’s house and keep an eye on it in case the kid tries to run. Stay out of the way, low-key. Keep your distance. You’ve done a good job lining up those two witnesses who say Lerner was dating the victim. And you, Klayman, you with the shoes. What are they called, Eccos?”
“Right.”
Hathaway shook his head. “Sometimes you get lucky,” he said. “A pair a’ high-priced shoes. Who’d have thought? Nice job, guys.”
ANNABEL WAS SPENDING that Saturday visiting Annapolis galleries with a friend, and Mac took advantage of her absence to catch up on reading at their Watergate apartment. He was in the midst of his papers when the call came.
“Mr. Smith? U.S. Attorney LeCour.”
“Yes. How are you today?”
“Just fine, sir. We have a warrant for the arrest of your client, Jeremiah Lerner, on charges of murder.”
“I see.”
“We’re sensitive to the family situation, Mr. Smith, and don’t wish to inflict any undue pain on the senator or Jeremiah’s mother, Ms. Emerson.”
It sounded to Smith as though LeCour were