Klayman sat at a desk in a corner of the bedroom and moved papers around, glancing at each before going on to the next. He opened a drawer. In it were Playbills from Ford’s Theatre; bills from department and smaller clothing stores; pens, pencils, and scraps of paper with what appeared to be phone numbers on them, but no names. A search of other drawers failed to come up with the address book he was looking for. At the bottom and to the rear of the last drawer was a jewelry box covered in powder-blue satin. Johnson stood over Klayman as he opened it.
“My, my,” Johnson said as an array of expensive-looking jewelry was displayed. Klayman pulled a jewel-encrusted ladies’ Rolex from the box and held it up for Johnson and Mrs. Rosner to see. She ignored it and leaned closer to see the other jewelry in the box: rings, bracelets, and necklaces, their stones gleaming in the light from the desk lamp.
“Nice collection of trinkets,” said Johnson. “You ever see her wear any of this stuff?” he asked Laura Rosner.
She shook her head. “Never,” she said.
Klayman replaced the box in the drawer, and they moved to the bathroom, the most orderly room in the apartment.
“She sure loved perfume and soap,” Johnson muttered, surveying a row of at least fifteen bottles of perfume, and a large wicker basket filled with wrapped bars of scented soaps. He touched a towel hanging from a bar inside the shower. “Dry,” he said. To Mrs. Rosner: “You see her this morning?”
“No. I’m sorry about the mess in here. If I’d known you were coming I’d—”
“Glad you didn’t,” said Klayman.
“Will this be a crime scene, with yellow tape and all?” she asked. “I wouldn’t want the neighbors to be upset.”
“No, ma’am. No crime’s been committed here, but we will want to spend more time going through her things. No one’s to come in here except police. All right?”
“Yes.”
Klayman placed a call to headquarters requesting uniformed officers to secure the apartment until they’d had a chance to thoroughly examine it. “We’ll be back,” Klayman told Mrs. Rosner. “Some other detectives will probably swing by, too, in the next hour. Some evidence techs. Where’s your husband?”
“Mark is at work. He’s with the Treasury Department. He should be home soon.”
“Did he, uh . . . did he have much contact with your tenant?”
“With Nadia? They talked when they saw each other, just in passing. Why do you ask?” The answer dawned on her. “You don’t think—?”
They descended the exterior stairs from the apartment and walked to the front of the house. A patrol car pulled to the curb, and Klayman told the two officers to go around back and make sure no one entered the third-floor apartment until he cleared it.
“Thanks for your time, Mrs. Rosner,” Klayman said as he and Johnson went to their car. She stood at the edge of the front garden, arms folded across her chest, brow furrowed. Johnson turned, took a few steps back in her direction, and asked, “Was your husband home last night?”
“Yes, he was. All night.” Her cooperative tone had turned to ice.
“Thank you,” Johnson said, climbing in the car with Klayman, who drove away.
“What do you think?” Johnson asked.
“I see her—the deceased—as being like half the young women in D.C., looking for action, playing the bar scene, searching for love.”
“Uh-huh,” Johnson confirmed. “Lots a’ dates, lots a’ boyfriends, all of them dorks.”
“Why do you say that?” Klayman asked, laughing.
“Ah, girls like this Ms. Zarinski are always more mature than the guys they go out with. You know that. Not you, Rick. You’re very mature.”
“Thanks. Rich dorks.”
“Huh?”
“Unless she bought all that jewelry and that watch out of an intern’s pay, the guys she went out with were very rich. And generous.”
Johnson laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“Some cops—and you know who I mean—would be tempted to find one a’ those pieces in their pocket. Where we heading?”
“Where this Bancroft lives. Maybe he’s home now.”
“‘To be or not to be,’” Johnson said loudly, placing his hand over his heart.
Klayman didn’t respond. His thoughts were of Nadia Zarinski. He saw her battered face and wondered what could have made anyone so angry that they would beat her to death. Had it been one of her boyfriends, or a stranger? The location of her murder ruled out the latter. There was no reason to be in Baptist Alley alone at that hour of the night. Unless, of course, she was at the theatre for some official reason and went outside for a cigarette or fresh air. They’d asked people at Ford’s Theatre whether anyone had been in it overnight, and had received unanimous denials that that was possible. The park rangers on overnight duty claimed no one had entered the theatre after eight o’clock. It had to have been someone she knew, probably knew well.
She hadn’t been wearing a watch; at least it wasn’t on her wrist when Dr. Ong had stripped her down. No purse, either. A set of keys, tissues, two folded blank checks, an American Express card in her name, a pocket comb, breath mints, some loose change, and sixty-six dollars in folding money in her jeans and white sleeveless cotton vest she wore over her blouse.
“What are you thinking, man?” Johnson asked.
“Huh? Oh, sorry. Daydreaming. I was thinking I’d like to know where she got all that jewelry.”
“Maybe her daddy in Florida.”
“You don’t get rich teaching agriculture in college, Mo.”
“Hell, he paid her rent.”
“Yeah, he did.”
“Daddy’s little girl.”
“Daddy’s little dead girl.”
“Maybe Senator Lerner was a daddy, too. A sugar daddy.”
They fell silent, their thoughts the same. Solving a murder was tough enough without having a powerful U.S. senator in the middle of it.
FIVE
“CLARISE? It’s Mac Smith.”
“Hello, Mac. I’m sure you’ve heard.”
“Yes. Quite a shock. I thought Annabel might be there with you.”
“She is.”
His wife came on the line. “I was just about to leave,” she said.
“Glad I caught you. Still want me to come by?”
“No. I’ll meet you at home.”
“Is Clarise coming for dinner?”
“As far as I know.” He heard Annabel ask Clarise the question. “She’ll be there. Drinks at six okay?”
“Perfect. Hurry home.”
ANNABEL HANDED THE PHONE back to Clarise and resumed her seat across the desk from the theatre’s producing director.
Like her husband, Mackensie, Annabel had also been an attorney, a divorce lawyer. And like him, she’d packed up her practice one day to pursue a lifelong love of art, particularly pre-Columbian art. With Mac’s unbridled support, she opened a pre-Columbian gallery in Georgetown, an aesthetic success from the start to be sure, but only marginally profitable. But that wasn’t the point. The Smiths were financially comfortable from their lucrative former law practices, and were blissfully free to pursue more altruistic pursuits: the gallery; for Annabel, being part of D.C.’s arts community; and for Mac, teaching law and lending his vast legal experience to nonprofit activities.
Although Annabel’s friendship with Clarise Emerson was not of long duration, it was close, having become more so over the past few years. As often happens, they’d met through a mutual friend—in this case, a friend in very high places, Dorothy Maloney, America’s first female vice president.
The veep and Annabel had become friendly when Maloney was a four-term congresswoman from Los Angeles, and the House’s most vocal proponent of the arts and government funding for them. Dorothy’s husband seldom ventured to Washington, preferring to remain in Los Angeles to manage a successful real estate business, and the congresswoman had become part of the Smiths’ social circle.
Once
the Nash administration was up and running, its lovely vice president took the lead in lobbying Congress for arts funding—as well as lobbying the president for Clarise Emerson to head the NEA. They’d been friends since college in their native Los Angeles; Clarise had produced Dorothy’s campaign TV spots, and the congresswoman had pushed through legislation benefiting Clarise’s favorite California nonprofit arts organizations. That this quintessential quid pro quo friendship moved to Washington—America’s leading city of mutual back-scratching—when Clarise took over the leadership of Ford’s Theatre seemed only appropriate, although there was more to their relationship than advancing careers. They happened to like each other, too.
When Clarise moved to Washington, two of the first people Congresswoman Maloney introduced her to were Mac and Annabel Smith. “This handsome couple knows D.C. intimately,” Maloney told Clarise, “but they haven’t been corrupted by it.”
“I STILL CAN’T BELIEVE IT,” Clarise said to Annabel as they sat in her office in the three-storey building attached to the theatre. “I know murders happen in this city, but here? Good Lord! And her?”
“Anything from the police?” Annabel asked.
“Not that I’m aware of. I told them everything I could, which wasn’t much. I never even knew she spent time here at Ford’s. Not that I should be expected to know. Interns come and go, volunteers, dozens of them. They work at night, helping out on productions, or in the office sometimes.”
“Your office?” Annabel asked.
“At times, but not her. I assure you, if I had known she was even within a hundred feet of the theatre I’d have sent her packing.” She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and slowly shook her head. Annabel didn’t intrude on whatever thoughts were dominating her friend. When Clarise opened her eyes, she said, “This whole business with Bruce is so distasteful.”
Annabel was aware, of course, of the rumors linking Lerner to some sort of sexual relationship with Nadia Zarinski, but dismissed them as being nothing more than the result of one of Washington’s favorite avocations: generating scandal. The rumor’s genesis hadn’t had much substance to back it up. A former aide to Lerner, who’d been fired, made the claim that the senator and Nadia had enjoyed a number of sexual episodes late at night in the office. That was it. That was enough. The seed germinated and blossomed into a full-grown “item” at bars and restaurants: “Not hard to believe,” many said. “Lerner’s love of the ladies isn’t exactly news.” “Hell, he’s single. So what if he has a fling with a sexy intern?” “It’s not like it’s anything new in this town.” And so on. Lerner, who successfully ignored the rumor until press mentions gave it legs, eventually dismissed it as nothing more than the petty grumbling of a former staffer, end of story. Nadia, too, when confronted by a reporter, said it was a filthy lie.
Some of Lerner’s advisers urged him to get rid of Nadia to avoid even the appearance of impropriety, but he refused. A young woman’s life, he told them, wasn’t going to be ruined because of cheap innuendo and a malicious lie. And so she stayed—and was paid, which raised a few easily elevated eyebrows—until that morning in Baptist Alley, in back of Ford’s Theatre.
“The police brought up the rumor about Bruce and Nadia,” Clarise said. “They actually had the nerve to ask me about it, dumb questions, like whether I ever confronted her, or what I was feeling about her murder.”
“What did they think you would know?” Annabel asked.
“Oh, maybe that Bruce”—she laughed—“or Nadia confided in me one dark and gloomy night to clear their consciences—who knows? It was so embarrassing, Annabel. How dare they?”
“Well, at least you have that behind you, Clarise. Being questioned by the police. I heard that there’s someone who claims to have seen the murder.”
Clarise guffawed. “An old drunk sleeping it off in the alley. I’m sure the only thing he sees is snakes and bugs crawling over him.”
Ford’s Theatre’s controller appeared in the open doorway. “Sorry to interrupt,” Bernard Crowley said.
“Come in,” Clarise said. “You know Annabel Smith.”
“Of course,” Crowley said, offering his hand tentatively in the event it was bad manners for a man to do so first. He wasn’t sure. Annabel accepted it and said, “We were just talking about what happened this morning.”
“There’s nothing else to talk about,” he said, leaning against file cabinets. “Or think about. That’s all I’ve been doing.” He shifted his oversized body against the cabinets and flicked a drop of perspiration from the side of his nose with a finger. “I must tell you, Clarise, that I knew she was working here.”
“You knew, and didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t want to hurt you, Clarise. She helped me out a few times on some of the large fund-raising mailings we’ve been doing lately. She seemed like a really nice girl, willing to pitch in, not like some of the others who hang around here. All they want is the creative end of the theatre. Don’t even mention the business side. But she was always willing to give me a hand when I got backed up. You know, add columns of figures, get fund-raising letters ready to go out, things like that.” Tears formed in his eyes and he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “I’m sorry. I’ve never been close to a murder before. And somebody I know.”
“You knew who she was, Bernard?” Clarise asked, incredulous.
“Not at first. When someone mentioned to me that she was the girl who—well, you know, was rumored to have had some sort of relationship with Senator Lerner, I told her to leave. I told her that it was insensitive and even foolish to come here to Ford’s Theatre, knowing you were in charge. I’m afraid I was pretty harsh with her.”
“Well,” said Clarise, “at least you did the right thing. The gall, the arrogance of her, wanting to work here. It’s inconceivable, but judging from what I read about her, it shouldn’t be a surprise.”
The phone, which had rung almost continuously while Annabel was with Clarise, was picked up by someone else in the small building. That someone else came up the stairs and handed Clarise a sheaf of phone message slips. She perused them and said, “Just about all from media wanting interviews. The ghouls are on the prowl. I’d opt for a secluded, sunny island right about now.”
“I can’t offer that,” said Annabel, “but sunsets from our terrace are pretty nice. How about getting out of here early? Like now, for instance?”
“Good idea,” Clarise said.
Crowley said, “Sunny islands don’t appeal to me, not with my fair skin. I’ve already had a dozen skin cancers burned or cut off. For me, I’d like a quiet, dark bar where they pour big drinks.”
“I can offer that, too,” Annabel said brightly. “You’ll have to put up with a big dog—we have Rufus, a blue Great Dane—but he doesn’t drink much.”
Crowley laughed.
“I mean it,” said Annabel. “Clarise is coming for dinner, and you should, too.”
“I wouldn’t want to—”
“You work for me, Bernard,” Clarise said, “and I say you join me at the Smiths’ for dinner. That’s an order.”
“Yes, ma’am. Give me five minutes to close up my office.”
“Oh, and take these,” Clarise said, handing him a dozen checks she’d signed while talking with Annabel.
“He’s been a godsend,” Clarise said once Crowley was out of earshot. “Finances were in disarray when I got here. He arrived and quickly put everything in order. He’s like a human computer. Every cent accounted for, bottom line solid for the first time in ages.”
“How did you find him?”
“A search firm. He was controller for a string of movie theatres in the Midwest. He took a pay cut to come here, which concerned me. But he said he wanted to work in a place where things mattered, where money was put to good use, like this theatre. I suppose being single helped in his decision. Less overhead and obligations. He seems to spend his life here, sometimes all night, and weekends. At any rate, Annabel, having him here has
certainly made my life easier. Whoever replaces me will inherit a top-notch controller.”
“Once you’re confirmed to head NEA.”
“If I’m confirmed. Come on, we’ll pick up Bernard on our way downstairs. An inspiring sunset and a stiff drink are precisely what I need.”
SIX
ANNABEL, CLARISE, AND BERNARD CROWLEY had to negotiate a crowd of reporters camped outside the theatre when they left to go to Annabel’s Watergate apartment. They drove in Annabel’s car, which she’d put in a garage adjacent to the theatre, and parked in the space reserved for the Smiths beneath the Watergate complex, that parking privilege setting them back an additional $45,000 on the purchase price of their three-bedroom co-op in the south building. Although apartments in other Watergate buildings tended to be larger, the south building afforded stunning views of the Potomac River, and accompanying sunsets—on most days.
“I lied,” Annabel said. They sat on the terrace, the women sipping glasses of red zinfandel, Crowley enjoying a glass of bourbon over ice. Mac had called to say he’d been detained at the university but would get there as soon as he could.
“Lied about what?” Clarise asked.
“The sunset. Sorry about the clouds.”
“Clouds seem more appropriate,” Clarise said, “considering what’s happened.”
“You said the young woman who’s been killed worked with you,” Annabel said to Crowley.
“Yes, I’m embarrassed to say.” To Clarise: “I hope you don’t think poorly of me for not telling you. I meant well.”
“Of course I don’t think poorly of you, Bernard. You did the right thing once you realized who she was. I’m somewhat embarrassed that I haven’t paid more attention to who’s working in the theatre. And let me say that despite my feelings about the girl, I am very saddened by her death. Very saddened.”
Clarise lightened her tone. “I’m sure you noticed how attractive she was,” she said, sipping her wine. “I remember thinking whenever I saw her on TV how beautiful she was. No, make that sexy. There was a crude sexiness to her.”
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