Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [9]
“Damn rumors,” Klayman said. “Everything’s a rumor in this town, every intern a lay.”
“Sometimes they’re true,” said his boss. “You’ll check it, of course.”
“Of course.” Klayman turned to Johnson. “Did you reach her parents?”
“Yeah. They live in Florida.” He glanced down at his notebook. “Retired. Father taught at Purdue University in Indiana, agricultural science. Mother was a nurse. Deceased had one sister older, one brother younger.”
Johnson’s ability to elicit information while being the bearer of bad news always impressed Klayman. The few times he’d made such calls he’d gotten off as quickly as possible. But his partner didn’t squander the opportunity to find out things, and was invariably successful. Not only was that voice calming, it held you captive.
“They’re flying up tonight,” Johnson said. “Got them a room at the Channel Inn.”
“Our resident travel agent,” Hathaway said while picking up the ringing phone.
“Figured I’d help ’em out,” Johnson said. “Nice people.” The Channel Inn was on the Washington Channel, close to First District headquarters, first choice when housing out-of-towners in D.C. on police business.
“How’d the formal statements go?” Klayman asked.
“Okay,” Johnson replied. “Everybody claims an alibi, didn’t see her last night. One guy they mentioned is interesting, though.”
“Who’s that?”
Another peek at his notebook. “A Sydney Bancroft.”
“The old British actor.”
“You know him?”
“Not personally, but I’ve seen a few of his films. Why is he interesting?”
“He works at Ford’s Theatre, Rick. He was supposed to be there this morning for a meeting but never showed up. Ms. Emerson says he’s out of town. But one of the stagehands claims Bancroft was always sniffing around the deceased, making a nuisance of himself, you know, touching where he shouldn’t have, lewd comments, dirty old man kind of stuff.”
“And they say he might have had something to do with her murder?”
“No, only that he’s worth talking to.”
“Why didn’t he show up this morning? Is he out of town?”
“I called the number they gave me. No answer. His message on the machine sounds like he’s reciting Shakespeare or something.” Johnson’s attempt to mimic the message came out a mix of cockney and hip-hop; Klayman suppressed a smile.
“Well, ‘To be or not to be,’” Johnson said, laughing.
“You missed your calling,” Klayman said, standing and stretching.
Hathaway got off the phone and asked what was on their agenda for the rest of the day.
“We’ll check out where Ms. Zarinski lived,” Klayman answered. “See if we can rustle up some friends, boyfriends, enemies. By the way, what about our FBI undercover eyewitness, Mr. Partridge?”
Hathaway snickered. “He’s sleeping it off downstairs. When he sobers up you can have the pleasure of questioning him. Bring your gas masks.”
“LINCOLN WAS A GOOD LAWYER before he became president.”
Mackensie Smith perched on the edge of his desk and took in the faces of the nineteen third-year law students seated in his class in George Washington University’s law building. It was the first session of a new course he’d lobbied to add to the law school curriculum, Lincoln the Lawyer, and he was enthusiastic about teaching it. Smith had been a top Washington criminal attorney until a drunk driver slaughtered his first wife and only child on the Beltway, prompting him to close up his criminal law practice and gravitate to the less violent, although sometimes treacherous, world of academia. He’d been a Lincoln buff since high school, compliments of a history teacher who always managed to weave a Lincoln story into any phase of American history being taught. It was during law school that Smith gravitated to reading not about President Lincoln but Lincoln as a young lawyer in Illinois. While Lincoln’s law experiences didn’t have direct relevance to other courses Smith taught to fledgling attorneys—although he had been involved in some precedent-setting cases, particularly in the area of municipal law—it was Honest Abe’s attitudes about justice and the pursuit of it that Smith found compelling.