Murder at Ford's Theatre (28 page)

“That will be nice, Sydney. Now please, you must go.”

“Of course, dear. You’ve been through so much, but you’re strong, always have been.”

Her kiss on his cheek was unexpected.

“Good night,” she said.

She watched him leave the room, pausing in the doorway to throw her a kiss, and he was gone.

She went to a small bar in the family room, grabbed the nearest bottle, and poured some of its contents into a water glass. She drank half of it, coughed against its harshness, slammed the glass down causing some of the alcohol to spill over the rim, and picked up the phone.

“Annabel, it’s Clarise.”

“Hi.”

“I need to see you and Mac.”

“Of course. I have a relatively free day tomorrow and—”

“I need to see you now. I need—please. Can I come over?”

“Yes. We’re both here.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

THIRTY-THREE

T
HE BREAKING NEWS GRAPHIC
appeared on the screen at nine-fifteen the next morning, Tuesday. The CNN anchor explained.

“CNN has learned that Clarise Emerson, whose confirmation hearing was scheduled for tomorrow, has withdrawn her name from consideration as the next head of the NEA. Emerson, the former wife of Virginia Senator Bruce Lerner, whose son, Jeremiah, has been charged with the murder of the senator’s intern, Nadia Zarinski, released a prepared statement through White House chief of arts and humanities agencies, Joyce Drummond. In it, Ms. Emerson states that she’s withdrawn her name because of pressing personal commitments, and a desire to return to California to resume her career in television and movies, which she gave up three years ago to become producing director of Ford’s Theatre.

“In a second White House statement, President Nash said, ‘Claire Emerson would have made a superb leader of the NEA, and while I’m saddened at her decision, I certainly respect it, and wish her well in her future endeavors.’”

While the announcement came as a surprise, it did not send shock waves throughout official Washington, at least not initially. Interest in the National Endowment for the Arts, and who would lead it, did not rank high on the political meter. Of course, those for whom the arts were a passion, or who toiled in its vineyards, took Clarise’s decision seriously, but D.C.’s general public yawned. Eventually, by early afternoon, the talking heads began showing up to discuss not what her decision meant to the arts community, but whether it represented a refutation of President Nash and his administration, Washington being a place where nothing, not even the most mundane event, can escape potential political meaning and ramifications.

M
AC AND
A
NNABEL HAD DISCUSSED
Clarise’s decision with her for hours, and as they talked, her resolve seemed to harden by the minute. She told them repeatedly how burned out she felt, and how the situation with Jeremiah had drained every ounce of ambition from her. “When this is over, I want to take Jeremiah back to California with me,” she said. “Lord knows I’ll feel better there, and I think he will, too.”

It was almost midnight when she placed a call from the Smiths’ Watergate apartment to the home of Vice President Dorothy Maloney’s chief of staff. That put into motion a series of other calls involving various White House staff, culminating with a call from the vice president herself.

“There’s no way I can get you to change your mind?” Maloney asked.

“No, hon. It’s got to be this way. Someday, when we’re a couple of tottering dowagers looking back over our lives, I’ll tell you everything behind my decision. But for now, let’s just say I’m tired, beaten down, and in desperate need to leave this city. I thought Hollywood was bad, but it’s a fairyland compared with Washington. My only regret is letting you and the president down. You’ll just have to find a way to forgive me.”

“Okay,” the veep said. “I’ve spoken with the president. Naturally, he’s disappointed, but he says he understands how personal pressures can override career decisions, and wishes you nothing but the best.”

“That’s good to hear,” Clarise said, glancing at Mac and Annabel while wiping at a tear rolling down her cheek.

Clarise and the VP agreed that it would be Joyce Drummond who would release the news in the form of a written statement to the media. When the call from Maloney was ended, Clarise called her ex-husband, woke him up, and informed him of her decision. He didn’t sound especially disappointed, although it was hard to distinguish between true feelings and grogginess. Their conversation was brief and unemotional.

Annabel asked Clarise, “You’ll be leaving Ford’s Theatre, too? No chance of deciding to stay on there?”

“I meant it when I said I wanted out of Washington, Annie. The resignation I turned in to the board stays in effect. I’ll remain until they come up with a successor, as long as that process doesn’t drag on too long. I’ve got the
Festival at Ford’s
on Thursday night, and the financial question to be settled.”

“What financial question?” Mac asked.

“Irregularities the outside auditors have come up with. I’m not certain of the details, but Sol Wexler promised to fill me in once he has a better grasp of it. Exactly what I needed at the moment.”

“What’s your first step?” Mac asked.

“My first step?” Her laugh was rueful. “My first step is to go home, shower, and change. I feel like I’ve been in this outfit for weeks. Then head for the theatre and do my usual juggling act.”

Clarise offered to call a cab, but Mac insisted on driving her. It was after three in the morning. When he returned, he and Annabel sat on the terrace. Sleep was out of the question.

“Did she say anything in the car about what put her over the edge?” Annabel asked. “I keep having the feeling that there’s something beyond the ordeal with Jeremiah that prompted her decision to back away.”

“No, she didn’t, and I agree with you. We’ll probably never know.”

“What about Jeremiah, Mac? Why is he still in jail?”

“I spoke with Yale earlier today. Lerner is obviously dragging his feet with the bail, but he assured Yale that he’d have it to the court tomorrow afternoon—which happens to be this afternoon. The prosecution convinced the judge to place a lot of restrictions on Jeremiah, including an electronic monitoring ankle bracelet, but Yale managed to kill that. Clarise asked whether I could arrange for him to stay with her until the trial, instead of with his father.”

“Can you?”

“I’ll submit a motion today. The last thing Senator Lerner wants is to have Jeremiah living with him again. I’m sure he won’t balk at Clarise having custody. Let’s grab a few hours’ sleep.”

A few hours were all the sleep they enjoyed. The rising sun two hours later saw to that.

THIRTY-FOUR

B
ERNARD
C
ROWLEY HAD BEEN UP
for hours at his apartment in Silver Spring. A call from Clarise at five-thirty had not only jarred him awake, it had sent him into a prolonged bout of anxiety.

“You woke me,” he’d said.

“And I’ve been up all night. I received a call from Sol Wexler a few minutes ago.”

“Oh? So early?”

“Bernard, we have to talk, and I mean now.”

“On the phone?”

“No. At the theatre. What time were you planning to come in today?”

“The same time I always do. Nine.”

“It will have to be later. Noon. In my office.”

“Clarise, I—”

“Noon, Bernard,” she said firmly, and hung up.

Crowley sat stunned, staring at the phone. She’d sounded so angry, so uncharacteristically harsh. He’d often marveled at her even temperament when under pressure, at least where he was concerned. He’d seen flashes of anger directed at others, but those incidents were infrequent and usually of short duration.

After showering and dressing in suit and tie, he went to the kitchen, where he sat at a small table, a small glass of orange juice in front of him, a small radio tuned to an all-news station.

He called the theatre at nine and told the person who answered that he wouldn’t be in until noon: “No, I’m not ill, just personal things to catch up on.”

Which wasn’t exactly true. His stomach churned, and acid rose to his throat. He thought he might vomit, but the waves of nausea came and went. He made himself a cup of tea and a slice of dry toast, hoping that would calm his stomach, and it seemed to help.

Until . . . the voice from the radio’s tiny speaker announced that Clarise Emerson had withdrawn her name from consideration to head the NEA, intended to honor her resignation as producing director of Ford’s Theatre, and return to California.

Crowley was stunned. The newscaster’s voice, now intoning another story, hung in the kitchen like smoke from a burning pan. He wanted to turn a dial on the radio to hear it again, to confirm it had ever been said.

Why hadn’t she told
me
?
Was that why she had demanded a noon meeting? No, of course not. He knew why, and it had nothing to do with her leaving. The larger question was how her announcement would impact her reason for demanding—yes, she’d demanded it, hadn’t suggested it—that he meet with her.

As he watched the minutes pass on a wall clock, he fought to keep his emotions in check. Sol Wexler kept coming to mind. Crowley had been convinced from his first day on the job that Wexler had disliked him, and was working to undermine his authority. He was certain the accountant had counseled Clarise to not hire him. “That bastard!” he exclaimed to the empty room.

He turned on the TV and again heard the news about Clarise and the NEA, although the stories were now considerably shorter than when first announced, and were buried deeper in the newscasts. He ignored his ringing phone, left the apartment, went into the basement parking lot, got in his 1996 Honda Accord, and went up the ramp. It was ten-thirty, an hour and a half before the meeting. He drove aimlessly, eventually parking in the almost empty lot of a seafood restaurant on Water Street in the city’s southwest quadrant. If there was ever a time for clear thinking, it was now.

B
ERNARD
C
ROWLEY WASN
’
T THE ONLY PERSON
in Washington who’d been deeply affected by the news about Clarise.

Sydney Bancroft became absolutely frantic.

He’d started the morning in an ebullient mood.

After leaving Clarise’s home and receiving what he perceived to be her agreement to fund him through the NEA, he’d considered calling his former London agent, Harrison Quill. But it was the middle of the night in England. He waited until three that morning—eight
A.M.
in London—and called Quill’s home number. The agent’s wife answered.

“Sydney Bancroft here,” he happily announced, “with good news, very good news indeed, for your hubby. Put him on.”

“He’s sleeping.”

“Wake him up, woman. I am about to make him the most important agent in London—again.”

It seemed an eternity before a sleepy Quill came on the line.

“What do you want, Sydney?”

“I have the money, Harrison, old boy. I have the money for my show.”

There was silence.

“Did you hear me, Quill? I said I have the backing for my show.”

Quill responded with a fit of cigarette-induced morning coughing. When it had subsided, he said hoarsely, “That’s wonderful, Sydney. Congratulations.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear, Harry. It will take a few weeks for the funds to flow. When they do, I’ll be in London and we can begin lining up a theatre, production team, the works.”

“Sydney, I’m out of the bloody agenting business. I’m closing up shop. You’ll have to—”

“Fine,” Bancroft said. “Just as well. I’ll need someone fresh and with more energy, a young Turk with vision. No hard feelings, Quill. But remember, I gave you first shot.”

Quill’s announcement didn’t diminish Bancroft’s sense of jubilation. He’d meant what he’d said, that his former agent was over the hill, a dinosaur from another era. It was time for new blood to be infused into Sydney Bancroft’s return to the stage and stardom.

His elation lasted until nine-fifteen, when he heard the news on TV about Clarise. At first, he sat slack-jawed, unable to process what he’d heard.
Not heading the NEA?
But she’d told him she’d give him the money once she was ensconced as head of the arts agency.
She’d bloody well promised!
He screamed at the TV, his words decidedly not Shakespearean. He shook his fist at the tube, and at one point fell to his knees and cursed not only Clarise but the whole human race as well.

His first attempt to call Clarise resulted in a misdial; his hand shook as he sought the numbers on the keypad. He drew deep breaths to calm himself and correctly dialed her number. Her voice on the answering machine spoke to him: “Leave a message if you wish.”

He slammed down the receiver and paced the living room before calling Ford’s Theatre: “Clarise isn’t here, Sydney,” he was told.

“When is she coming in?”

“I really don’t know. She has a noon appointment with Bernard.”

“Does she? I must speak with her.”

“About the news?”

“Yes. Is she serious?”

“I think so. Yes, of course she’s serious.”

“She mustn’t do this.”

“I don’t think we have anything to say about it.”

“Well, I do. Oh, yes, I certainly do have something to say about it. When you see her, tell her I shall be there within the hour, and I must speak with her.”

“All right, Sydney. I’ll tell her.”

He spent the next half hour rehearsing what he would say to her, the words he would use to persuade her to change her mind, the emotions he would evoke, the reasoning he would employ to reach her senses. But while he engaged in this exercise, the futility of it was apparent, and his mood and tone gradually evolved into anger, then rage at her. The truth was, he told himself, she’d lied to him, knowing she’d never intended to go through the confirmation process and provide him the funds needed to launch his comeback. She’d played him for a fool, as she’d been doing all along. The question of whether Jeremiah was his son, or Senator Bruce Lerner’s boy, was now moot. She’d stripped him of whatever potency he might possess, and had probably laughed loudly the minute he’d left her house.

He poured himself a large water glass of scotch and downed it, and then drank another as he walked into his bedroom, opened the closet door, and frenetically shoved clothing in his closet back and forth on the rod, pulling out an occasional piece and disgustedly throwing it to the floor. He settled on a pale green linen jump-suit, and white loafers, stripped off his pajamas, and dressed. He brushed his teeth, popped a breath mint into his mouth, and grabbed his leather shoulder bag from where he’d dropped it near the bed the night before. He ran his hand through the bag’s contents, talking to himself, not making any sense, speaking nonsense, lines he intended to use to convince Clarise to change her mind, coupled with obscenities, curses at a God he didn’t believe in, snippets of Shakespearean dialogue, mumbles and grunts, the ranting of a man consumed by frustrated fury.

He returned to the closet, got down on his knees, and pulled shoes and shoeboxes from its floor. He finally reached what he was seeking: a cigar box wrapped in a discarded shirt. He removed the shirt and opened the box. In it was a Colt .32 caliber revolver. He stood, stared at the weapon for a moment, held it at arm’s length, placed it in the shoulder bag, and hurried from the apartment.

“A beautiful day, Sydney,” Morris, the doorman said as Bancroft crossed the lobby.

“What? Yes, lovely day. I need a taxi.”

Bancroft was dropped in front of Ford’s Theatre. He handed the driver a twenty-dollar bill, far more than the fare, but didn’t ask for change. He stood on the sidewalk and looked up and down the nearly deserted street. The cancellation of tours at the theatre had sent tourists elsewhere in search of history and culture.

“Hello, Mr. Bancroft,” said the park ranger on lobby duty.

“Hello, hello. Splendid day out there.”

“So they say but you can’t prove it by me, cooped up here inside.”

Bancroft didn’t continue the pleasantries. He entered the theatre, where the stage crew and TV technicians were hard at work preparing for the telecast of
Festival at Ford’s
the next night. They ignored Sydney, which was fine with him. He went backstage and into a small room used for props. He paused inside. Confident no one was about to join him, he closed the door and stood before floor-to-ceiling metal shelving holding labeled boxes:
WIGS, GLOVES, JEWELRY, SHOES, BOOKS, GLASSWARE, DRIED FLOWERS, KNIVES, TABLECLOTHS, PHOTOS WITH FRAMES
—and
FIREARMS.
He took the firearms box down from where it sat on a top shelf, opened it, again checked that no one was about to come through the door, removed the Colt .32 from his shoulder bag, and placed the revolver in with the replicas of pistols and other handguns, nestling it beneath them at the box’s bottom. He returned it to the shelf, stood on his toes, and delivered to the otherwise empty room one of Brutus’s lines from
Julius Caesar
in a deliberate, harsh whisper, “‘Between the acting of a dreadful thing and the first motion, all the interim is like a phantasma or a hideous dream.’”

Waiting would be the hardest part.