It was the site of one of the most infamous assassinations in
American history. Now bestselling mystery master Margaret Truman
premieres a new murder at Ford’s Theater–one that’s hot off today’s
headlines.
The body of Nadia Zarinski, an attractive young woman who worked
for senator Bruce Lerner–and who volunteered at Ford’s–is
discovered in the alley behind the theatre. Soon a pair of
mismatched cops–young, studious Rick Klieman and gregarious veteran
Moses “Mo” Johnson–start digging int
關於作者：
Margaret Truman has won faithful readers with
her works of biography and fiction, particularly her ongoing series
of Capital Crimes mysteries. Her novels let us into the corridors
of power and privilege, poverty and pageantry, in the nation’s
capital. She lives in Manhattan.
From the Hardcover edition.
內容試閱：
Chapter 1
Travel guides claim that the average high temperature in
Washington, D.C., in September is seventy-nine degrees Fahrenheit.
But on this particular Tuesday, the day after a long Labor Day
weekend, the thermometer read eighty-one at seven in the morning,
which meant ninety was a possibility by noon, a hell of a time for
Johnny Wales''s air conditioner to decide to crash. It had ground to
a halt sometime during the night; it had to have been between two
in the morning when Wales returned from a night of drinking with
his buddies, and five a.m. when he was awakened by the sound of the
vintage window unit seizing up.
He rolled his sticky body out of bed at seven and stood in front
of an oscillating table fan, raising his arms to allow the moving
air to wash over his nakedness. Understandably, his mood was
palpably foul; his mutterings were mostly four-lettered as he
poured orange juice, washed down a handful of vitamins, and entered
the shower. The weather was bad enough, and you couldn''t do
anything about that. But Bancroft''s early crew call at Ford''s was
arbitrary. What was the big deal? he wondered as he readjusted the
faucets to add cooler water to the mix. It was only a teenage drama
workshop production.
As he moved about getting ready in his room above an army-navy
store on Ninth Street, not far from the Capitol City Brewing
Company, the final stop on last night''s toot, and only a few blocks
from Ford''s Theatre, where he''d been employed as a stagehand for
the past two years, his size--six feet four inches tall and 220
pounds--made the cramped studio apartment seem smaller. He pulled
on a faded pair of blue jeans, Washington Redskins T-shirt, slipped
tan deck shoes over bare feet, attached a black fanny pack to his
waist, and checked himself in the mirror. Building and erecting
stage sets hadn''t been his ambition when graduating from the
University of Wisconsin seven years ago. He''d been a leading man in
university productions, a big, handsome guy who might make it in
Hollywood one day if the chips fell right. He''d tried that for a
year, but left Tinseltown weary of failure and wary of tinsel and
followed a girlfriend to Washington, where his stagecraft courses
at Wisconsin landed him after a while membership in the union and a
job at the theatre. It wasn''t acting, but at least it was showbiz:
No jokes about following circus elephants with shovels, thank
you.
He stopped at a Starbucks, eschewing an effete latte at
scandalous prices for a large coffee light and sweet, and walked
through the stage entrance of Ford''s Theatre at precisely eight.
His pique at having to be there early was eased by the welcome
blast of AC. A uniformed park ranger stood backstage with some of
Wales''s fellow stagehands, drinking coffee and laughing about
something. The ranger in the drab brown uniform was one of many who
would conduct hourly, fifteen-minute lectures for tourists later
that day as they wandered into America''s most infamous theatre, the
three-storey, solid brick building where, not playacting, Abe
Lincoln had been shot to death by the actor John Wilkes
Booth.
"Hey, big guy, good weekend?"
"Yeah," Wales said, leaning against a piece of stage furniture
and sipping his coffee. "Over too soon." A pulsating headache had
developed between leaving the apartment and arriving at the
theatre. No sense mentioning it; he wouldn''t get any sympathy
anyway. "Where''s Sydney?"
"Who cares?"
"I care," said Wales. "He called this stupid meeting."
"Don''t speak ill of the famous Bancroft," someone said.
"Screw the famous Sydney Bancroft," Wales said, pressing
fingertips to his temple. "Besides, he''s not famous anymore. He was
famous."
"I sense a hangover, Johnny."
Wales laughed. "You sense it, I feel it."
"Snap to. Our leader has arrived."
Attention turned to an open yellow door linking the theatre to
the adjacent attached building in which the Ford''s Theatre Society
offices were housed. While the National Park Service maintained the
theatre as an historic site, it was the nongovernmental Ford''s
Theatre Society that used the venue to mount its ambitious schedule
of theatrical productions. Heading that society, and coming through
the door, was the theatre''s producing director, Clarise Emerson, a
former Hollywood TV producer who''d been recruited three years
earlier to replace the departing Frankie Hewitt. Hewitt had been
brought in almost thirty-five years before by then Secretary of the
Interior Stewart Udall to help develop a plan for the theatre
following its most recent renovations, and to choreograph
fund-raising efforts. Hewitt was a tough act to follow. The former
wife of 60 Minutes producer Don Hewitt, Frankie had guided Ford''s
Theatre from being solely a government museum chronicling the
Lincoln assassination to one of America''s preeminent resident
theatres, a living tribute to Lincoln''s well-known love of the
performing arts. More than twenty musicals had received their world
premieres there since the beautifully restored theatre opened in
January 1968, including Don''t Bother Me, I Can''t Cope, and Your
Arms Too Short to Box With God, many moving on to Broadway. And
hundreds of plays had been performed, all adhering to Ford''s stated
mission: "To produce musicals and plays that embody family values,
underscore multiculturalism, and illuminate the eclectic character
of American life."
"Dull theatre!" some critics said.
Certainly noncontroversial. Avant-garde playwrights need not
apply. Nothing to ruffle the feathers of members of Congress who
decided how much to include for the theatre in the yearly
congressional budget, particularly eighty-six-year-old Alabama
Senator Topper Sybers, chairman of the Senate Committee on Labor
and Human Resources. Unlike some "reviewers" who never saw a play
or painting or book they didn''t like, Sybers had never seen a play
or piece of art that wasn''t lubricious. But Clarise had more than
financial reasons these days for not wanting to provoke the
elderly, feisty senator from Alabama. The president, Lewis Nash,
Clarise''s lifelong friend, had recently nominated her to chair the
National Endowment for the Arts NEA. Sybers''s Labor and Human
Resources Committee would conduct her confirmation hearing.
Clarise''s appearance that morning was surprising to the
assembled. She seldom set foot inside the theatre, delegating
virtually every creative aspect to others. Her time was better
spent, she often said, squeezing money out of wealthy patrons,
individuals and corporations alike.
"Good morning," she said brightly to the half-dozen stagehands
marking time.
"''Morning, Clarise," they responded.
Because of her status on the Washington scene--not only was she a
personal friend of the president and headed for the NEA, she''d once
been married to Bruce Lerner, senior senator from Virginia, a
handsome, sixty-year-old bachelor often seen on the arm of
beautiful, high-profile women--there was the natural tendency for
younger people at Ford''s to address her as Ms. Emerson. But she''d
put an end to that shortly after taking up her post there, and
everyone called her Clarise.
That she was youthful in appearance and manner helped. People
took her to be considerably younger than fifty-four. Good genes had
given her not only beauty but boundless energy; Clarise didn''t
walk, she moved at an almost constant trot, up on the balls of her
feet, looking as though she might suddenly decide to become
airborne. She stood military erect, like her father, who''d served
twenty years in the air force, retiring to their small farm in Ohio
to die of a coronary three years after exchanging his blue uniform
for coveralls. She was, in fact, like her father, Luke Emerson, in
almost all ways, physically and philosophically, except for her
sense of humor, which was decidedly her mother''s, a short, plump
woman better suited to the role of farmer''s wife than military
spouse, subservient to her dour husband when in his presence, but
wickedly prankish about him when chatting with women friends.
"Early start," Clarise said. "What''s the occasion?"
"Sydney called a meeting," a stagehand said.
"Oh?"
"The teenage show, I guess," Wales said.
"Is there a problem with it?"
"Not that we know of, Clarise."
"Sydney''s not even in town," she said.
"That''s just terrific," Wales said, dropping his empty cup into a
trash can. "Anybody got an aspirin?"
"Do you know why Sydney called a tech meeting?" Clarise
asked.
Shrugs all around.
"Well, sorry you''re here so early for nothing. I''ll speak with
Sydney when I see him."
Clarise turned and retraced her steps to the door connecting the
buildings. The four men and one female apprentice watched her
retreat from where they stood backstage, the men appreciating the
attractive sway of her tall, lithe figure, a gazelle in an
expensive, tailored gray pantsuit, neck-length reddish blond hair
bobbing, hips moving in perfect rhythm with her long strides.
"That is one good-looking woman," the oldest of the stagehands
said quietly. He''d been at Ford''s for twenty-two years.
"Yeah, I''ve noticed," Wales offered.
"Hate to see her go," the older man said.
"Better Sydney should go," Wales said. "We going to hang
around?"
"Might as well."
"I''m going out for a cigarette," Wales said. He''d cut back on his
smoking, limiting himself to ten cigarettes a day, except when he
was out drinking. He didn''t keep count on those occasions.
"I''ll go with you," said the young female apprentice.
As Wales and the girl headed for a door at the rear of the stage
leading to a narrow area behind the theatre called Baptist Alley,
the older stagehand laughed and said to the others, "She hangs
around Johnny like a puppy dog. Really got the hots for him."
"He could do worse. She''s a fox."
"I''ll take Clarise," the older man said. "Women aren''t any good
until they''ve got a little wear and tear on them."
"''You''ll take Clarise?'' Fat chance. She''s strictly money and
power."
"You never know," the older guy said, chuckling. "My wife''s too
good at homicide anyway. Let''s put this furniture in place as long
as we''re here."
Wales and the girl, Mary, had paused at the door to the alley
while he fumbled in the fanny pack for his cigarettes. "Just got
ten," he said. "You owe me one."
She punched his arm and turned the security lock on the
door.
"Got ''em," Wales said, retrieving the crumpled half pack and
pulling two cigarettes from it.
"Every time I go through this door," she said, "I think of
Booth."
"John Wilkes? Crazy bastard. Got his fifteen minutes of
fame."
"He escaped through this door. He had his horse tied out in the
alley."
"I know, I know. I''ve heard the tourist pitch a thousand
times."
Wales grasped the doorknob and pushed on the door. It opened only
a few inches. Something was blocking its way. He pushed harder,
resulting in another inch or so.
"What the hell?" he muttered.
He leaned his body against the door and exhaled a rush of air as
he tried again. This time the opening was wide enough through which
to poke his head.
"What is it?" Mary asked.
He''d been looking straight ahead, up the long alley that forked
left and exited onto F Street. He wedged his shoulder into the gap
and twisted his head to look down at whatever was preventing the
door from swinging open.
"What is it?" Mary repeated, envisioning some drunk sleeping it
off against the door. Baptist Alley had become a downtown lovers''
lane for couples looking for smooch time, drug addicts shooting up,
or alcoholics deciding to nap.
"Jesus!"
"What is it?" she repeated.
"Jesus!"
"Johnny."
"It''s Nadia," he managed, his voice raspy and higher than normal
as though the horror on the dead girl''s face had reached up and
gripped his throat.
Chapter 2
When the call came in to the MPD''s First District Headquarters at
415 Fourth Street, SW, the duty officer that morning put out a
notice of a body behind Ford''s Theatre. This was picked up by all
vehicles in the area, including an unmarked patrol car manned by
two detectives from the Crimes Against Persons Unit. Rick Klayman
and Mo Johnson were parked a block from Ford''s Theatre drinking
coffee and comparing notes about their long weekend.
Their celebration of Labor Day had taken different turns. Johnson
had had Sunday and Monday off with the family. Klayman had
worked, paperwork mostly, catching up on what seemed to be a
mountain of forms to be filled out. MPD''s upper echelon had
instituted what it termed "project paperwork simplification," which
somehow resulted in more forms rather than fewer, more complicated,
too, shades of the IRS''s claims of tax simplification. Klayman
really didn''t care. He''d had little else to do anyway that weekend,
and could use the overtime. He''d also gone over investigative files
on a Congressional intern, Connie Marshall, who''d disappeared a
year earlier, one of many missing persons in D.C., but a case that
had become, according to some of his colleagues, an obsession.
Klayman didn''t debate their view of his immersion in the case
because they were probably right. His weekend review of the files
represented the tenth time he''d done so--or thirtieth?
"You get to see your pretty little lady friend over the weekend?"
Johnson had asked his partner as they sat in the unmarked
car.
"Yes," replied Klayman. "We had dinner last night."
Johnson''s laugh was low and deep and rumbling, like a poorly
tuned outboard engine. "Candlelight and all that?"
"Come on, Mo, why are you always asking me about Rachel? We had
dinner. No big deal."
"Uh-huh."
"Why do you care whether I get married or not?" Klayman
asked.
"Just looking out for your best interests, my man," said Johnson.
"Married men live longer. You never heard that?"
Klayman looked over at his partner, smiled, and shook his
head. He''d been hooked up with Mo Johnson since making
detective a year ago after only five years on the force. Johnson
was a twenty-two-year veteran, skilled, black, a good teacher,
who''d seen it all: "The kid is bright, Mo, but wet behind the ears.
Show him the ropes," Johnson''s supervisor had said after the
veteran''s partner of many years had retired, and Johnson had been
told he was to be paired with the rookie detective.
Mo wasn''t happy being handed Klayman as a partner. As he''d told
his wife, Etta, that night, "Out of thirty-six hundred cops, most
of ''em black, I end up with a skinny little Jewish kid from New
York. Maybe it''s time to grab the pension and walk."
Which he didn''t do. The truth was, he''d come to like Rick
Klayman, even respect him. Klayman had proved his mettle on more
than one occasion, facing down dangerous situations with steely
resolve and audacious fearlessness. "The kid may look like a nerd,"
Johnson told friends in the department, "but he''s all right.
He-is-all-right!"
That was when the female voice crackled through the speaker:
"Reported unconscious person, alley behind Ford''s Theatre, Tenth
and F."
"Seventeen responding," Johnson barked into the handheld
microphone as Klayman pulled from the curb and turned the corner
down Tenth, coming to a hard stop a minute later in front of the
theatre. They bolted from the car and entered, flashing their
badges at two uniformed park rangers standing at an interior door
leading down into the theatre itself.
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