“Right, Ricky. Have a good night.”
Klayman winced and hung up. He preferred that Johnson not call him Ricky, although he never made a fuss, knowing that his partner didn’t mean anything demeaning. Mo would outgrow it—hopefully.
He perused the names and numbers on the pad. Two calls from his mother in New York; his sister from Boston; a neighbor wondering whether they’d caught the person who killed the young woman at Ford’s Theatre, and saying it was comforting to have a police officer living in the building; the building’s super informing all tenants that there would be no hot water the following day between noon and four due to boiler repairs; and a call from Rachel Kessler, whom Klayman had been seeing on an irregular basis.
“Just wanted to touch base, Rick,” Rachel’s voice said, “and see if you were up to dinner or a drink some night this week. Are you involved in the murder today at the theatre? I know how much you love that place. Call me, okay?”
He dialed his mother’s number.
His father answered. “How are you, Richard?”
“Fine, Dad. You?”
“Aches and pains, but I’m alive. Took a breath when I got up this morning . . .”
. . . and it worked, so no complaints. Rick smiled as he silently completed the statement. It was one of his father’s favorite lines.
“Dad, Mom called and left a couple of messages.”
“I’ll get her. Are you involved in the murder there in Washington?”
Which murder? Rick thought. There would be a dozen murders in D.C. that day. “The young woman at Ford’s Theatre? Yes, I am. My partner and I are working on the case.”
“Mr. Johnson?”
“Right. Mo and I are—”
“How are you two getting along?”
“Great. Why?”
“Well, you’re so different, Richard. Very—different.”
He could see his father standing in their small living room in the Bronx, thin and stooped, wiry gray hair beyond taming, thick glasses, a two-day growth of gray beard; he shaved only occasionally since retiring as a cutter in the garment district.
“Is Mom there?”
“I’ll get her.”
His mother and father had been vehemently against Rick’s joining the Washington MPD—any MPD, for that matter. His degree from City College of New York had been in history, and he’d graduated near the top of his class. The world was open to him: law, medicine, investment banking—all respected and lucrative professions, from his father’s perspective, options that were unappealing to their son.
Rick had been fascinated with law enforcement since his early years, envisioning himself as a cop, a detective, questioning people, solving puzzles, and bringing criminals to justice. Doing something. There was a fantasy dimension to such visions when he was young. He saw himself as considerably taller and more muscular than he was in reality, athletic, able to scale tall fences in mean alleys in pursuit of bad guys, or drop on them from fire escapes. Kid stuff. Cops and robbers. But he learned early in his career as a uniformed cop with the Washington MPD that his self-perception of his physical abilities was, more accurately, self-deception.
HE’D BEEN WALKING a downtown beat when he came upon a mugging of an older woman. The attacker was a bear of a man, which didn’t deter Klayman from leaping on his back as he tried to flee the scene. The mugger tossed Klayman off, slammed him against a wall, and was pummeling him when another uniformed cop intervened and helped subdue the mugger. Klayman broke a finger in the fracas and spent a week on medical leave. It wouldn’t be his last physical challenge as a cop.
Despite his slender build, he earned a reputation as a fearless cop, willing to put his life on the line in almost any situation, especially when it involved the safety of a fellow officer. Mo Johnson was somewhat aware of that reputation when he was paired with the skinny Jewish kid from New York, and had a chance to experience it firsthand during their early months together.
They were working backup for an undercover narcotics officer involved in a buy-and-bust operation on Martin Luther King Boulevard in the Anacostia section of the city, an impoverished, hardscrabble area seething with crime, much of it fueled by drug trafficking. Their target was a young Hispanic drug dealer, Manuel “Chi Chi” Ortiz, with whom the undercover detective had forged a relationship. Klayman and Johnson were stationed in an unmarked car parked around the corner from the buy; a small loudspeaker delivered what was being said between the narc and Ortiz.
At first, only the voices of the detective and Ortiz were picked up by a tiny microphone worn beneath the cop’s jacket. But then other voices were heard, three or four, speaking rapid-fire Spanish and black street slang, sounding angry. Then the spray of voices was shattered by rapid gunshots.
Klayman peeled away from the curb and the car careered around the corner. The undercover narcotics detective was face-down on the sidewalk. Klayman barked into his radio, “Officer down! Officer down!” and gave the location. He and Johnson leaped from the car and pursued Ortiz and another dealer, who disappeared behind a row of boarded-up stores. Johnson pointed at an alley to his left; Klayman went in that direction. Johnson followed the route taken by the dealers, which led to a garbage-strewn lot separated from an auto repair shop and junkyard by a crumbling six-foot-high concrete wall.
As Johnson sprinted toward the rear of the stores, the dealers had almost reached the wall and were preparing to scale it. But Ortiz suddenly stopped, ducked behind a small Dumpster overflowing with trash, looked back at Johnson, and raised a Smith & Wesson nine-millimeter automatic. As he did, Johnson tripped over a broken, twisted bicycle frame and sprawled a few feet from the dealer, his own weapon flying from his hand and landing six feet away. Ortiz slowly stood, the pistol held steadily in both hands and pointed at Johnson. Johnson came up on his haunches and extended a hand toward Ortiz, who was dressed in a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, black pants, black boots, and wearing a red bandanna on his head. Ortiz smiled, and tensed, ready to fire.
“Hey!” Klayman yelled. He’d entered the area from the other direction, weapon drawn, and stood fifteen feet from the Dumpster. The dealer turned and aimed at Klayman, the smile still on his lips.
“Get down, Ricky!” Johnson called.
But Klayman began closing the gap between him and Ortiz, walking deliberately, step-by-step, weapon held out in front with both hands and aimed at the dealer’s head. “Don’t be stupid,” he said in a firm voice. “Drop it. Just drop it.”
Johnson crawled toward his gun but never took his eyes from the face-off between Klayman and Ortiz. It was as though Klayman had hypnotized the dealer, a cat stalking a mesmerized bird. Johnson reached his weapon when Klayman was only a few feet from Ortiz. He came up to a sitting position and squeezed off a single shot. It struck Ortiz in the left temple, shattering his skull and sending a plume of blood into the air. Ortiz’s finger froze on the trigger of his pistol as he fell to his right, the remaining rounds from his weapon popping like Fourth of July firecrackers.
Johnson scrambled to his feet and joined Klayman, who stood over Ortiz’s lifeless body.
“You crazy bastard,” Johnson muttered, his breath coming hard. “Why didn’t you take cover?”
“He would have shot you,” Klayman said. His eyes were still on Ortiz. He was numb, disassociated from the reality of what had just happened and its aftermath. Johnson had lowered his weapon to his side; Klayman still held his in both hands, pointed at the dead drug dealer. They heard sirens and cars coming to a noisy halt in front of the ramshackle buildings.
Johnson shook his head. “You should’ve taken cover, Rick.”
Klayman returned his gun to its holster beneath his arm. He nodded. “I know,” he said, walking away. “I know.”
Because Johnson had used his weapon and a death had occurred, a department inquiry was conducted, a pro forma hearing. There was no question that the veteran detective had been justified in shooting Ortiz in order to not only save his own lif
e but his partner’s as well. When Klayman was asked during the proceedings whether he considered his actions to have saved Johnson’s life, he replied in a voice so soft that the chairman of the investigative panel had to ask him to speak up: “I don’t remember anything about it,” he said. “It’s all a blank.”
He didn’t have to recall the incident, for word of his bravery quickly made the rounds at First District headquarters. Johnson recounted the experience every chance he got, and Klayman basked in its glory.
“ARE YOU FEELING ALL RIGHT, Richard?” his mother asked.
“I feel fine. You?”
“All right, I suppose, considering my age. Did you speak with your sister today?”
“No. She left a message while I was out. I’ll call after we hang up.”
“Please do. She isn’t happy.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t think the marriage is going well. Harry is such a difficult man, so stubborn. I wish—”
“I just got in, Mom, and I haven’t had dinner. I’ll call Susan. I promise.”
“Good. I worry so about you and Susan. The doctor says it isn’t healthy for me to worry. How is your lady friend?”
“I—who are you talking about?”
“I don’t remember her name. You mentioned her once. Rachel, maybe. Or Roxanne.”
“Rachel. She’s fine. Heard from her today, in fact. Have to run. Glad you and Dad are doing okay. Love you both.”
He was relieved when he reached his sister’s answering machine. He heated up a can of tomato soup, sliced some bread, and ate in front of the TV. Nadia Zarinski’s murder was the lead story on the eleven o’clock news.
“An intern who worked for Senator Bruce Lerner was found murdered early this morning in Baptist Alley, behind Ford’s Theatre. The victim, Nadia Zarinski, had been bludgeoned to death by what a police spokesman has termed a blunt object. Ms. Zarinski, who graduated from American University, had worked as a part-time volunteer at Ford’s Theatre. There had been rumors of a romantic relationship between Ms. Zarinski and Senator Lerner, which was denied by all parties involved. Police say they have no leads at this point in the investigation.”
Klayman clicked off the set and went to his computer in a corner of the living room, where he brought up one of many electronic folders he’d created, each devoted to an unsolved murder to which he and Johnson had been assigned. This particular folder dealt with the disappearance a year earlier of another congressional intern, approximately Nadia Zarinski’s age and who looked a great deal like her: five feet four inches tall, face with prominent cheekbones (chipmunk cheeks), brown eyes and hair, full-figured. The missing girl, whose name was Connie Marshall, had interned with the House majority leader. Like the Lerner-Zarinski connection, there were rumors that the congressman and Ms. Marshall had had an affair, but that had never been proved.
He stared at the photos of Connie Marshall provided by family and friends and suffered the same emotions he always felt when opening that file. The search for her had consumed months, without results. She was a missing person, presumed dead. No one searched for her anymore.
He created a new file, NADIA ZARINSKI, and typed in what information the day had delivered. He made a series of notes that reflected what the next investigative steps would be, saved the file, and closed the computer.
Were the cases connected? Had Nadia’s murderer also been involved with Connie Marshall’s disappearance and presumed death?
With any luck, he’d play a role in answering that question.
He was physically tired but mentally alert. He took a textbook from his desk—he occasionally took courses as a nonmatriculated student at George Washington University; the course he was about to start covered the 1920s and ’30s—and read until sleep came. His final conscious thoughts were of Nadia Zarinski’s lifeless, battered body in a shabby alley behind Ford’s Theatre.
Morning couldn’t come fast enough.
NINE
IN THE EARLY TWENTIETH CENTURY, the eminent Virginia architect Waddy B. Wood designed more than thirty elegant homes, some of them mansion size, in an area that was an extension of the exclusive Dupont Circle residential community. The area was known as Kalorama—Greek for “beautiful view”—and its stately Norman, Tudor, and Georgian homes offered stunning views of Rock Creek Park. One of the more imposing houses, in the châteauesque style inspired by Paris’s École des Beaux-Arts, was the residence of Virginia senator Bruce Lerner.
Lerner and his then wife, Clarise, had purchased the house in the early years of their marriage, and it was to there they’d brought their only child, Jeremiah, home from the hospital. The previous owner had turned it into a bed-and-breakfast, a highly unpopular move with his wealthy neighbors, who were grateful when it again functioned as a private home for a distinguished U.S. senator and his family.
It was a large house, with twelve-foot-high ceilings, period moldings, and hardwood floors throughout its sixteen rooms. There were seven fireplaces, four baths, a separate two-bedroom apartment, maid’s quarters, a three-car garage with a deck above that afforded views of Washington’s monuments from its front, and from its rear, the park. Senator and Mrs. Lerner paid $800,000 for it in the late ’70s; its current worth was estimated to be well in excess of $2 million.
This night, Lerner sat on the deck, a glass of scotch on the rocks in his hand. His pose in the chair was relaxed, long legs in gray slacks stretched in front of him, double-breasted blue blazer hanging open, blue-and-white-checkered button-down shirt unbuttoned. Internally, he churned. The glass he held dangled at his side, hovering inches from the tile floor.
“How inconsiderate,” the woman in another chair said, referring to the sound of music being played too loud from somewhere, a car perhaps.
“I’m sorry,” he said, realizing she was there and turning to look at her.
“The music. I don’t understand why people think others should be subjected to their taste in music.”
“It wouldn’t bother you so much if it were Mozart,” he said, returning his attention to the city’s lights visible in the distance.
“It wouldn’t bother me so much if it were anything other than what it is. You were saying before about the media calls.”
“Oh, yes. They won’t let it go, those damn rumors about Nadia and me.” His voice was low and well modulated, and he spoke with deliberate slowness, a southern pace that he tended to exaggerate at times.
The woman, Shirley Lester, had been seen frequently with Lerner at myriad social functions over the past six months. They’d been friends for years. Lerner had been especially close to Shirley’s deceased husband, Vice Admiral Nelson Lester, the navy department’s inspector general. After her husband died, Shirley forged a closer friendship with the bachelor senator that quickly led—too quickly, some said—to a romantic one.
“Nelson used to say Shakespeare was wrong,” she said. “It isn’t the lawyers who need killing. It’s the journalists.”
“He was right, considering I was a lawyer.” He drew on his drink. “Nadia was flirtatious, Shirley. I don’t doubt she would have entertained an affair with me.”
“She flirted with you?”
“Yes. Hung around after hours a lot. Liked to squeeze in tight spots with me. She was damned tempting.”
Shirley didn’t ask how tempting Nadia had been. Truth was, she wasn’t sure whether she would believe his denials, any more than she had when the rumors first started floating over Washington. It might have been important to her if she had designs on Lerner as a potential husband. But she knew that wasn’t in the cards, nor did she want it to be. She was content being the attractive blond woman on his arm, reflecting in his stature, being on the A List of invitees, and enjoying the speculation that went with the role. She didn’t have illusions about Bruce Lerner. He liked women, and wouldn’t be content with only one. He was on the downside of life, as handsome and virile as he might be. So many women, so little time. She would enjoy his company for as long as it lasted.
“Her parents called me,” he said.
“When?”
“Earlier this evening. They flew up from Florida.”
“What did they say?”
“I didn’t speak with them. My AA took the call. They want to meet to talk about Nadia.”
“You’ll have to, won’t you?”
“At some point.” His sigh was pained. “I suppose they want to rehash the rumor.”
“You can’t blame them, Bruce. They’ve just lost a daughter.”
“Because someone murdered her. That has nothing to do with me.”
“Have you heard from the police?”
“No. That’s next. My press officer is preparing a statement for the press.”
The sound of loud music abruptly stopped, leaving them in silent darkness, which neither of them violated. That was left to a housekeeper who came to the deck and said to Lerner, “A call, sir. In the library.”
“Excuse me, Shirley.” To the housekeeper: “Please refresh Mrs. Lester’s drink, Maria.”
Lerner’s library was downstairs. He descended the wide, carpeted staircase, crossed a spacious tiled foyer, passed through open double doors, and settled behind a leather-inlaid desk. The room’s only light came from a brass gooseneck lamp. One of two buttons on a phone was lighted.
“Hello?”
“Bruce, it’s Clarise.”
“How are you?”
“I’ve been better. You?”
“Just fine. You’re calling about Nadia Zarinski.”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not, although it’s not as though it isn’t on my mind. God, Bruce, what dreadful timing.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“I envy you, it not interfering with your life.”
He laughed quietly. “Oh, it interferes all right, Clarise, but I’ve learned to ignore distractions. If you aren’t calling about Nadia, it must be Jeremiah. Has he done something stupid again?”
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