Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [90]
“Ah, if it must be. I’ll be home all day tomorrow if you change your mind. Tomorrow would be better, at my apartment. Not the theatre. It’s—well, it’s highly personal, Clarise.”
“Yes. All right. I’ll think about it, Sydney. Good-bye.”
She checked her watch as she turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue, drove to the entrance of the Four Seasons Hotel, on the edge of Georgetown, and turned her car over to a parking attendant. She entered the lobby and looked through to the Garden Terrace, where a pianist in a black gown applied a light touch to show tunes on a black grand piano.
“Clarise.”
She turned to see Bill Wooby of the Millennium Arts Center. “Join us for a drink?” he asked.
“Thank you, no, Bill,” she replied, looking past him to the terrace. “I’m meeting someone.”
“Best of luck with your hearing.”
“My—oh, goodness, I’ve forgotten all about that—at least for the moment. Have a nice evening.”
“You, too, Clarise.”
“A table?” she was asked when entering the room.
“No, I see who I’m meeting.”
As she crossed the room, Sol Wexler stood and offered his hand, kissed her on the cheek, and indicated the spot next to him on a love seat. A glass of ginger ale sat untouched on the table. A waitress took her order for diet Coke. After she’d been served, and small talk had been gotten out of the way, Wexler leaned close and said, “I know how busy you are, Clarise, and I appreciate you meeting with me like this on short notice.”
She sipped her Coke.
“I felt the matter was serious enough to warrant this meeting,” he said.
“Yes, you indicated that on the phone, Sol. Now, what’s this all about?”
KLAYMAN AND JOHNSON SAT in an unmarked car a considerable distance from Senator Lerner’s home, but within viewing distance. It was six-thirty. No one had entered or left the house since their arrival.
“The kid is dead meat,” said Johnson between bites of a chicken burrito they’d picked up on their way from headquarters.
“Seems like it. Not a hell of a lot of evidence, though.”
“Looks solid to me,” said Johnson. “The kid lied. And the shoes.”
“All that evidence says is that one of the shoes made an imprint in the alley behind the theatre. Doesn’t mean he killed her.”
“Then why would he lie about knowing her?”
“Scared.”
“Man, you are something,” Johnson said. “You sound like the lawyer. Smith get to you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I just get the feeling that somebody’s putting on the pressure to arrest somebody—anybody.”
Johnson finished the burrito and wadded up its paper wrapper.
Klayman continued. “They’ve dropped interest in everybody else, Mo. That grad student, Cole, at American, was mad enough to kill her. At least his friends say so. All the people at the theatre, stagehands, the like. Maybe Senator Lerner had reason to want her out of the way.”
“The senator? Come on, man. You saw him. He’s not the type to hang around back alleys beating some chick to death.”
“Maybe he had somebody else do it. That was the speculation about Congressman Condit. And what about what her landlady told us: that she dated lots of guys. The only two we know are Lerner and Cole. Who were the others?”
Johnson downed the remains of an orange soda. “Nah, Ricky. It was Lerner, Lerner the younger.”
Klayman laughed. “Because he cut your pretty face?”
“I forgot about that, but—”
“There’s the senator,” Klayman said, indicating Lerner’s car that was entering the garage after the automatic doors had been activated.
A few minutes later, Mac Smith drove up, parked in the short driveway, and went through the front door.
“The troops are gathering,” Johnson said.
Klayman’s cell rang.
“Klayman.”
“It’s Herman. Change in plans. Lerner skipped from the house last night. He’s gone. At least that’s what the lawyers say.”
“Not too bright,” Klayman said.
“He look like a genius to you?”
“The senator and Mackensie Smith just arrived,” Klayman said. “What do you want us to do?”
“Sit tight for a few minutes.”
“The free press is here,” Johnson said, pointing to a remote truck from a local TV station pulling up in front of the house. Its arrival