Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [91]
“Yeah, well, the kid blew the offer to come in quietly, provided he really did skip last night. I’ve got two cars on their way. The uniforms in them will block off the street at both ends in case the kid’s still there and decides to show us how fast he is. Stay until they’re in place. When they are, you two go into the house and make sure our little friend isn’t there.”
“Okay.”
Hathaway clicked off, and Klayman filled Johnson in.
A minute later, the two marked patrol cars arrived, and their uniformed occupants took up positions at the ends of the street.
“Might as well get out, “Johnson said, yawning, stretching, and opening the door. “No big secret the gang’s all here.”
Klayman’s cell phone sounded again.
“Go,” Hathaway instructed. “Be nice, but don’t take any B.S. from Smith or the senator. I figure Smith was telling the truth about the kid running, but you never know what these goddamn lawyers will pull. Let me know what goes down.”
The two print reporters who’d been in the car, and a reporter from the TV station, approached Klayman and Johnson as they walked to the house.
“Are you here to arrest Senator Lerner’s son?” one asked.
The detectives ignored the question, stepped up to the front door, and rang the bell. Questions continued to be asked as the housekeeper opened the door and allowed Klayman and Johnson to enter. The senator and Smith were waiting in the study.
“We’re here to arrest Jeremiah Lerner,” Johnson intoned, “on the charge of the murder of Nadia Zarinski.”
“He’s not here,” Lerner said.
“We’d like to take a look,” Klayman said.
“Be my guest,” Lerner replied.
A half hour later, the four men again gathered in the study.
“Any idea where he might be, Senator?” Klayman asked.
“I’m afraid not, gentlemen. I wish I did.”
“It would have helped him if he’d surrendered,” said Klayman, rhetorically. He looked at Smith. “There’ll be an all-points out for him, Professor.”
“We’re aware of that,” Smith said.
“I suggest that if his whereabouts become known, he be encouraged to turn himself in.”
“Any other advice, Detective?” Lerner asked.
“None at the moment, sir. Thank you for your cooperation.”
When the detectives left the house, the number of media representatives had increased. They hurled questions as Johnson and Klayman went to their car.
“Is the senator in there?”
“Where’s Jeremiah Lerner?”
“Is he being charged with the murder?”
Klayman and Johnson said nothing in response, climbed in the car, and drove away until they’d distanced themselves. Johnson used the car’s radio to call Hathaway at headquarters. “No sign of him at the house,” he reported.
“That’s because he’s not there,” Hathaway said.
Johnson and Klayman looked at each other quizzically as their chief’s words came through the speaker.
“We’ve got a lead on him. His mother’s house.” He gave them Clarise Emerson’s address in Georgetown.
“How’d you come up with that?” Johnson asked.
“A little bird told me. It doesn’t make any difference. Get over there. Cars have been dispatched. You two bring the little bastard in—in one piece. Got it?”
“Got it,” Johnson said as Klayman gunned it and turned the corner.
By the time they arrived, the street had been blocked off to traffic. TV remote trucks and journalists on foot were kept at bay, some berating officers about being unjustly kept from the scene, and loudly proclaiming their First Amendment rights.
Johnson and Klayman left their car, identified themselves to a uniformed cop, and were allowed to approach the house, where a contingent of a dozen officers waited for instructions. Two powerful halogen searchlights had been hooked up to a portable generator and were positioned to brightly illuminate the front of the three-storey home. Another cop with an electric-powered bullhorn was among the gathered.
“Who’s that?” Johnson asked, pointing to a downstairs window where the drapes parted for a moment. A woman’s face was seen, but disappeared as the drapes