Free Murder at Ford's Theatre by Margaret Truman Page A

first, which he carefully placed on a hanger in the closet facing in the same direction as other jackets; then inserted wooden shoe trees into black loafers which he returned to their designated empty space on the closet floor; gray trousers joined other pants in their own section; tie carefully unknotted and nested with others on a battery-powered rotating tie rack; and blue button-down shirt removed and held up to the light to ascertain its usefulness for another day. It passed muster and was draped over the back of a desk chair. He deposited his underwear into a hamper, got into pale blue short pajamas, slippers, and a white terry cloth robe, and went to the answering machine, where he wrote down the callers’ names, numbers, and messages. The seventh call was from Mo, which surprised Klayman. He’d seen him just a half hour ago, when they’d signed out at headquarters.
    “It’s Rick.”
    “Yeah, Ricky, thanks for getting back so soon. You got home okay, huh?”
    “Of course.”
    “You alone?”
    Johnson meant whether there was a woman with him. “Yes, I’m alone.”
    “Ricky, you buy this guy Saul Jones’s story?”
    “So far. He says he and Bancroft were together all night, never lost sight of each other. They both said they had dinner at Duangrat’s and Rabieng, in Baileys Crossroads. Jones had the AmEx receipt to prove it.”
    “Yeah. So how come Bancroft said he had a bellyache from too much Indian food?”
    “Meaning?”
    “It’s a Thai restaurant, Rick. Etta was there a month ago.”
    “So Bancroft got his cuisines confused. They’re all the same when your stomach’s on fire. We can stop by the restaurant and see if anyone remembers them together.”
    “I think they got together on their story. Too pat. Know what I mean?”
    “Yeah, I do.”
    “I didn’t like either of ’em.”
    “So I gathered. Look, I’ve got a bunch of calls to return. See you in the morning. We’ll head over to American University and scout up her friends.”
    “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