Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [97]
One of the couples had, and discussion ensued about the Lincoln Museum in the theatre’s basement, and the tour they’d taken with a park ranger.
“Is it true that John Wilkes Booth originally hadn’t planned to kill Lincoln?” Klayman was asked.
“Yes, it is,” the young detective replied. “Booth was a die-hard Confederate supporter and hated Lincoln, considered him uncouth and a traitor for advocating freeing the slaves. He originally intended to kidnap Lincoln, take him to Richmond, and trade him for Southern prisoners, but that plot failed. He was in the audience during Lincoln’s last public speech in April 1865. Lincoln gave it from a second-storey White House window and proposed that some blacks be given the right to vote.”
“Some blacks?” There was much laughter.
“I think he meant well,” Klayman said in defense. “At any rate, even suggesting that some blacks get the vote was too much for Booth. He tried to get a colleague to shoot Lincoln on the spot, but he refused. That’s when Booth told his friend, ‘That’s the last speech he’ll ever make.’”
“He was right, wasn’t he?”
“Unfortunately.”
Johnson took orders—rare, medium, or well done?—and the grill flared up as he slapped the meat on it. Rachel went with Etta to fetch accompanying dishes from the house, and Klayman followed Johnson into the family room, where Mo replaced the Miles Davis CD with one by pianist George Shearing.
“You still thinking Lerner might not have killed her?” Johnson asked his partner.
Klayman shrugged. “I’d just feel better if we were following other leads, talking to other people.”
“Like who? The senator? That crazy old actor? Cole? Somebody at the theatre?”
“I suppose so. I—”
“Ooh, better get out and turn those steaks.”
They were in the middle of dinner on the patio when Klayman’s cell phone sounded. “Sorry,” he said, standing and walking a few feet from the table.
“Rick, it’s Herman.”
“What’s up?” Klayman asked his boss.
“Nothing to pull you away—how’s Mo as a chef?”
“Five-star.”
“Look, I know you’ve been dogging the Connie Marshall case since she disappeared. What is it now, two years?”
“Yeah.”
“They dragged a floater from Chesapeake Bay early this morning. Some fisherman snagged the body—skeleton, I guess—and the ME was called in.”
“It’s her? Connie Marshall?”
“Looks like it. They used dental records on file, brought in a forensic dentist from Virginia. It matches up.”
Klayman said nothing.
“Rick?”
“Yeah. Sorry, Herman. I’m glad they found her.”
“I just thought you’d want to know.”
“I appreciate the call. Is Ong still there?”
“Yeah. He’s doing his number on what’s left of her.”
“I’ll swing by.”
“Nothing you can do.”
“I’d just feel better. Thanks again.”
“That was Herman,” Klayman told Johnson as he rejoined the other guests. “They found Connie Marshall.”
“Who’s that?” someone asked.
“An intern who went missing a couple of years ago, the one supposedly having an affair with the House majority leader, Tomlinson. A fisherman found her in the bay.”
“Rick’s been following the case,” Johnson announced.
“Is there a connection with the intern at Ford’s Theatre?”
“I doubt it,” Klayman said. He turned to Rachel: “I need to stop by headquarters.” To the others: “Hate to eat and run, but I really have to go.”
“You didn’t eat and run, Rick,” Etta said. “You’ve barely touched your food.”
He stood, and Rachel did, too.
“No, you stay,” Rick said. “I’m sure someone will drive you home.”
“No,” she said pleasantly, “I’m old-fashioned. I leave with the guy I came with.”
“Take a doggie bag home,” Etta said, jumping up and disappearing inside the house. She emerged seconds later with plastic food bags into which she placed their steaks and a few other items. Mo walked them to their car.
“I’m sorry, Mo, to cut out like this,” Klayman said. “It’s just that—”
“Hey, buddy, no apologies necessary. I know how much this case means to you.” He said to Rachel, “Just don’t let my main man here get too bent out a’ shape over it.”
“I promise,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.
Rick wanted to drop