spend a nickel on her. That makes you pretty mad, huh, like you’re being played for a sucker.”
“Joe felt like he was being played for a sucker?”
They nodded in unison, a matching pair of toy dogs in the rear window of a moving car.
“What did he tell you about the weekend?” Klayman asked.
Shrugs, then, “He took her to this nice Italian restaurant and goes back to her place to make it with her. He says the minute they were through, she starts talking about another guy she’s seeing who she tells Joe is a better lover than him. What do you think of that?”
“He mention who this other guy was?”
“You don’t know?”
Klayman wrote in his notebook and ignored the question.
“Big deal. So he’s a senator’s kid and all. He’s a bum.”
Klayman looked up from his notebook. “What senator?”
“Lerner.” It was spoken as though the world knew. “His son, Jerry. Him and Nadia have been getting it on for months.”
Klayman was tempted to correct his grammar but didn’t. “Nadia was dating Jeremiah Lerner?” he said.
“Right, along with a dozen other guys. Man, what a slut.”
“Are we finished here?” Marcia asked Klayman.
He nodded, wrote down their home addresses, closed the notebook, thanked them for their time, and left the building with Marcia.
“I must say I’m shocked,” she said as they returned to the Hamilton Building, where Klayman had parked his car. “I trust you won’t judge all our students by those two.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” Klayman responded. “Mr. Jessup said I could speak with Nadia’s faculty adviser.”
“Yes. Would you like to do that now?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
J OHNSON WAS SITTING in his car in front of the Thai restaurant when Klayman pulled up. He got into Johnson’s vehicle.
“How’d it go?” Johnson asked.
“Good. Better than that. The victim was dating Senator Lerner’s son, Jeremiah.”
Johnson whistled. “How’d you find that out?”
“A guy who was also dating her, Joe Cole. Cole was angry because she was seeing Lerner. Cole had a date with her Saturday.”
“Angry enough to do her in?”
“I’d say so. Let’s go inside and check on Bancroft and his pal, Jones.”
“We should have a picture of Bancroft,” Johnson said, opening his door. “To show the manager.”
“Yeah, but we don’t have one. Maybe he’ll remember him because he’s—well . . .”
Johnson laughed. “Strange.”
Klayman laughed, too. “I prefer ‘eccentric.’”
“You would.”
A picture of Sydney Bancroft wasn’t necessary.
“Oh, yes,” the manager of Duangrat’s and Rabieng said pleasantly. “Mr. Jones is a regular. Mr. Bancroft comes here often with him.”
“They had dinner here Monday night?” Johnson asked.
“Yes. Excuse me, please.”
He returned moments later with the waiter who’d served them. “Sajing waited on them.”
“You remember what time they came and left?” Klayman asked the small, achingly thin waiter.
He flapped his hands as though such a question were beyond the capability of mere mortals.
“Approximately,” Johnson helped.
“Maybe seven. Maybe seven-thirty, they come. That table over there. Mr. Jones, he always sit at that table.”
“He’s a regular,” the manager repeated.
“How long did they stay?” Johnson asked.
“Is Mr. Jones in trouble?” asked the manager.
“No.”
“They left at ten,” the manager said. “I remember because Mr. Bancroft, he—he had a great deal to drink and was entertaining people at other tables near them.”
“Entertaining them?” said Johnson.
“Saying speeches from William Shakespeare, acting for them. He has done that before—when he has had too much to drink. Very funny. The other customers enjoy him.”
“Yeah, I bet they do,” Johnson muttered.
“Mr. Jones, he had
bhram,
” the waiter said. “He always has
bhram.
”
“A specialty,” the manager said. “Chicken with shallots, cabbage, and peanut sauce. Very
“Joe felt like he was being played for a sucker?”
They nodded in unison, a matching pair of toy dogs in the rear window of a moving car.
“What did he tell you about the weekend?” Klayman asked.
Shrugs, then, “He took her to this nice Italian restaurant and goes back to her place to make it with her. He says the minute they were through, she starts talking about another guy she’s seeing who she tells Joe is a better lover than him. What do you think of that?”
“He mention who this other guy was?”
“You don’t know?”
Klayman wrote in his notebook and ignored the question.
“Big deal. So he’s a senator’s kid and all. He’s a bum.”
Klayman looked up from his notebook. “What senator?”
“Lerner.” It was spoken as though the world knew. “His son, Jerry. Him and Nadia have been getting it on for months.”
Klayman was tempted to correct his grammar but didn’t. “Nadia was dating Jeremiah Lerner?” he said.
“Right, along with a dozen other guys. Man, what a slut.”
“Are we finished here?” Marcia asked Klayman.
He nodded, wrote down their home addresses, closed the notebook, thanked them for their time, and left the building with Marcia.
“I must say I’m shocked,” she said as they returned to the Hamilton Building, where Klayman had parked his car. “I trust you won’t judge all our students by those two.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” Klayman responded. “Mr. Jessup said I could speak with Nadia’s faculty adviser.”
“Yes. Would you like to do that now?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
J OHNSON WAS SITTING in his car in front of the Thai restaurant when Klayman pulled up. He got into Johnson’s vehicle.
“How’d it go?” Johnson asked.
“Good. Better than that. The victim was dating Senator Lerner’s son, Jeremiah.”
Johnson whistled. “How’d you find that out?”
“A guy who was also dating her, Joe Cole. Cole was angry because she was seeing Lerner. Cole had a date with her Saturday.”
“Angry enough to do her in?”
“I’d say so. Let’s go inside and check on Bancroft and his pal, Jones.”
“We should have a picture of Bancroft,” Johnson said, opening his door. “To show the manager.”
“Yeah, but we don’t have one. Maybe he’ll remember him because he’s—well . . .”
Johnson laughed. “Strange.”
Klayman laughed, too. “I prefer ‘eccentric.’”
“You would.”
A picture of Sydney Bancroft wasn’t necessary.
“Oh, yes,” the manager of Duangrat’s and Rabieng said pleasantly. “Mr. Jones is a regular. Mr. Bancroft comes here often with him.”
“They had dinner here Monday night?” Johnson asked.
“Yes. Excuse me, please.”
He returned moments later with the waiter who’d served them. “Sajing waited on them.”
“You remember what time they came and left?” Klayman asked the small, achingly thin waiter.
He flapped his hands as though such a question were beyond the capability of mere mortals.
“Approximately,” Johnson helped.
“Maybe seven. Maybe seven-thirty, they come. That table over there. Mr. Jones, he always sit at that table.”
“He’s a regular,” the manager repeated.
“How long did they stay?” Johnson asked.
“Is Mr. Jones in trouble?” asked the manager.
“No.”
“They left at ten,” the manager said. “I remember because Mr. Bancroft, he—he had a great deal to drink and was entertaining people at other tables near them.”
“Entertaining them?” said Johnson.
“Saying speeches from William Shakespeare, acting for them. He has done that before—when he has had too much to drink. Very funny. The other customers enjoy him.”
“Yeah, I bet they do,” Johnson muttered.
“Mr. Jones, he had
bhram,
” the waiter said. “He always has
bhram.
”
“A specialty,” the manager said. “Chicken with shallots, cabbage, and peanut sauce. Very
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