Free Murder at Ford's Theatre by Margaret Truman

the aging process, I assure you I am still a virile man who is blessed with numerous female companions, none of whom are below the age of thirty. I have absolutely no interest in very young women, except perhaps to enjoy them in photographs, and I further ensure you that my interest in the young Ms. Zarinski was purely as someone she could look up to. No, my new friends, I never stayed close to her or touched her, as you so crudely stated. I barely knew her. She was there only occasionally at night. This is preposterous. I feel like John Wilkes Booth, being accused of some vile act.”
    “‘Accused of’ a vile act?” Klayman said. “He did kill Lincoln.”
    “And he had his reasons, I assure you. I have studied Mr. Booth in depth. A brilliant actor and dedicated activist. I don’t believe there is another person in this world who knows more about Booth, the inner man and great actor, than yours truly.”
    “I’m a bit of a Lincoln buff myself,” Klayman said.
    “Are you? How impressive. One would not expect that of a policeman.”
    “What do you expect of a policeman, Mr. Bancroft?” Johnson asked.
    “Certainly not scholarship, sir, and I mean no offense to you personally.”
    “That’s nice of you,” Johnson said. “By the way, how come you never showed up at the theatre for the meeting this morning? They say you called it.”
    “And they are mistaken, I assure you. I have little to do with the technical side of things. There must have been a miscommunication.”
    “Thanks for your time, Mr. Bancroft,” Klayman said, extending his hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
    “I am glad to have been of help.”
    Johnson didn’t offer his hand as the detectives left the apartment.
    “He’s a trip, isn’t he?” the doorman asked as they walked through the lobby.
    “Interesting gentleman,” Klayman said.
    “You ever see him bring young women up to the apartment?” Johnson asked.
    “Doorman-tenant privilege,” the doorman said, chuckling.
    Johnson glared at him.
    “Sometimes,” the doorman said. “Young. Old. You mean young like the kid who got it over at the theatre? No. No teeny-boppers. At least I can’t remember any.”
    “She wasn’t a teenybopper,” Johnson said sternly.
    “I didn’t mean anything by it,” said the doorman. “He’s really a pretty nice guy, polite and all, always holding the door for the women in the building.”
    “That’s nice to hear,” Klayman said, leading Johnson to the street.
    “What did you think?” Klayman asked once they were in their car.
    “Pain in the ass. Pretentious bastard. You catch that getup he was wearing? Man, there’s nothing sadder than an old guy trying to look young.”
    “I kind of liked him.”
    “You would. You starstruck, too? Only he’s no star. What’s he reduced to, working with teenagers at Ford’s Theatre? Some star.”
    “I wonder why.”
    “Why what?”
    “Why he works at Ford’s Theatre. Why he’d want to. Why they’d want him.”
    “We should ask.”
    “We will. What do you want to do now?”
    “Aside from cuddling up next to Etta? Let’s call this Saul Jones.”
    “Yeah, let’s.”
    “You think Bancroft might have done the girl?”
    “Done as in had sex with her, or done as in kill her?”
    “Either one. Or both.”
    Klayman said nothing as he pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket and dialed the number for Saul Jones that Bancroft had given them.

EIGHT
    R ICK K LAYMAN ENTERED his apartment on Wisconsin Avenue, not far from the National Cathedral, turned on a floor lamp, and looked across the room to his answering machine. The message light was flashing; he counted the blinks, seven messages. He checked his watch. Almost ten-thirty. Always a dilemma; too late to return calls, or early enough? Depended upon the caller, of course. Night people or day people? Early to bed or up watching late movies?
    He turned on a table lamp in his bedroom and slowly undressed, emptying pockets, blue blazer