Murder at the Opera (14 page)

He’d been introduced to her at a Canadian Opera Company’s production of Mozart’s
The Marriage of Figaro
at Toronto’s Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts. He was sipping white wine during intermission, bought for him by an opera critic for the Toronto
Globe and Mail,
when a mutual friend waltzed her over to him.

“You’re an agent, I understand,” she said.

“That’s right.”

“Representing opera singers.”

“Among others. I also have musicians and—”

“I was an opera singer,” she said.

Oh, God,
he thought,
what does she want from me, to resurrect her career, which was probably a dismal failure because she—

“I studied in the States and lived in Germany for three years. I studied there, too.”

“You sang there?” he asked.

“A few small roles. I went there because all the good roles here were going to European singers—Gawd, talk about outsourcing—and supposedly the German companies welcomed American sopranos, but it wasn’t so welcoming for me. Well, with one exception. I met my former husband there. He saved me from the trials and tribulations of being an unwanted opera singer.”

His mood brightened. “What was your husband doing in Germany?” he asked, not interested in the answer but looking to keep the conversation going until the ringing of the little bells, announcing that the second act was about to start, could save him.

“He owns companies there, and elsewhere.”

“Really. What sort of companies?”

“Big ones.” She smiled and batted her long, fake lashes at him. Her dress was cut low, exposing an ample amount of freckled bosom, and hemmed high enough to showcase a nice set of legs.

“Big ones?” he said with a wry smile, the double entendre not going over her head.

“Yes. Have you ever considered taking on a partner?” she asked.

“No. Well, it’s crossed my mind on occasion but I’ve never given it any serious thought.”

The bells sounded. She placed a well-manicured set of fingers tipped with crimson talons on his sleeve and said, “I’m looking for an investment that will bring me back into the opera world. Call me.”

“Your name is Baltsa?” he said. “Zöe Baltsa? Any relation to Agnes Baltsa, the soprano?”

“No. It’s my married name. My maiden name was Nagle. I’m keeping my married name—and his money. I’m in the book. No, I’ll call you. Melincamp? That’s the name of your agency?”

“Right.”

“You’ll hear from me. Enjoy the rest of the opera. The sextet at the end of Act Three never fails to delight me.”

He watched her wiggle away and thought that maybe this was his lucky night, not because he might end up in bed with her, but because her ex-husband had “big ones.” He reentered the theater with renewed vigor.

The infusion of money by his new partner worked wonders to turn around the Melincamp Artists Agency’s financial picture. Now the Baltsa-Melincamp Artists Agency, its run-down offices were abandoned in favor of space in a downtown high-rise more befitting a talent agency “of world renown.” Zöe hadn’t exaggerated about her husband’s money. It seemed endless, and she spent it freely, hosting expensive fetes for her rich friends and opera patrons, draping herself in the latest designer clothing, and traveling the globe to, she claimed, find the world’s most promising future opera stars. She forged alliances with arts centers in myriad countries—England, France, Italy, Norway, and Sweden, and some in the Middle East, including Egypt, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia, where she’d befriended a sheik reputed to be worth a couple of billion dollars, give or take a million. A full-time publicist was put on the payroll to extol Zöe’s exploits in the media. She was invited to opening nights in dozens of cities, invitations she gobbled up with glee, her publicist always at her side to generate local press.

For Melincamp, having taken her on as a partner proved to be both a blessing and a curse. The terms of their written contract, drawn by one of her attorneys, read like a prenuptial agreement. She named herself president and executive director of the agency in the contract, and had final say over all agency expenditures. In effect, Melincamp had been relegated to junior partner status, his role to run the office administratively, including a small division he’d started pre-Baltsa, “Reach for the Stars.” Talent was invited to submit tapes for “expert evaluation and a possible contract.” It was akin to literary agents charging a fee to read a manuscript, or alleged talent agents for kids collecting fees from hopeful parents in exchange for “professional photographs and possible modeling assignments.”

Although he often expressed dissatisfaction to friends, he wasn’t all that unhappy with the arrangement. Zöe was away most of the time burnishing her image, her absences welcome. She was, as far as Melincamp was concerned, the nastiest woman he’d ever known, and he’d known a few in his life. She was overbearing, demanding, and had a mean streak that resulted in his ducking more than one missile thrown his way. She was also one of the most prejudiced people he’d ever met, with a bad word for virtually every minority. She was antiblack and anti-Semitic, but reserved those judgments for when she and Melincamp were alone together. In public, she was amiable and all-embracing, a nonsinging diva with an outsized ego and a willingness to indulge it at every whim.

But as a practiced pragmatist, he’d put up with it. Why not? Although the terms of their agreement gave her the lion’s share of any profits, and he was on salary, he still had more walking around money than when he was scraping for funds to pay the rent. His love life had picked up, too. Occasionally, they’d end up in bed together when the mood struck her, which wasn’t often. There was no seduction involved. She wanted sex at that moment, and he was handy. Could be worse, he reasoned. He’d made a pact with a she-devil. So what? Sometimes you had to do what you had to do. But that didn’t need to be forever. There was a clause allowing him to buy back her stake in the agency, and he dreamt of one day invoking it. It was far out of his reach financially, and he didn’t know whether he’d ever have enough money to walk in one day, slap a fat envelope on her desk, and say, “
Hasta la vista,
baby. You’ve got until five this afternoon to be gone. Gone! Hee-haw!”

Zöe flounced into the restaurant twenty minutes later and joined him at the small bar. She pulled a cigarette from her purse and lit it, the smoke drifting and causing him to cough. It wouldn’t matter if they changed seats. The smoke would come his way no matter where he sat. Of the things he disliked about Washington, D.C., its liberal smoking policy in bars was high on the list.

“So,” she said after a series of rapid puffs and a determined crushing of the half-consumed cigarette in an ashtray, “tell me where you’ve been.”

“Where I’ve been? I’ve been at the apartment. I babysat Christopher until I got him to pull himself together and go to Takoma Park to rehearse with that no-talent Italian mezzo. That’s where I’ve been. Oh, and I spent a very unpleasant half hour with a big, black detective who grilled me like I was some drug dealer or child molester. I got out of there the minute he left.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I hadn’t seen Charise since we arrived.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What did he say?”

“Look, Zöe, this is not the time or place for me to give you a play-by-play of what happened. He’ll want to talk with you.”

“Why?”

“Because he—”

“You told him I was here in D.C.?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because—because he would have found out anyway. Are you hungry? I never had lunch.”

“No. There’s a flight from National to Toronto at nine. I suggest we be on it.”

“We can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because it will look suspicious if we leave. You know how cops think. If we leave, they’ll think we had something to do with Charise’s murder. Leaving is the worst thing we can do. We stay, talk to them all they want, and
then
we leave.”

She lit another cigarette. “Maybe you’re right,” she said.

“I know I’m right. They make a great shrimp Fra Diavolo here. It’s good with pizza
bianca.
Wine? Red or white?”

“How can you think of food?” she said, disgust in her voice and on her heavily made-up face.

Melincamp stared at her. The smoke from her cigarette still stung his eyes, and he turned away. He had two urges at that moment. The first was to punch her in the face. But that wouldn’t have been appreciated in a public place. The second was to announce to her that it wouldn’t be long before she was past-tense, that he’d soon have enough money to buy her out. Maybe he’d punch her before laying that news on her, he thought. That contemplation made him feel better. He called for a waiter and ordered shrimp Fra Diavolo and a small pizza
bianca.

“Oh, Gawd!” she said.

“And red wine,” he said. “The house wine will be fine.”

Pizza was also on the menu at the Department of Homeland Security.

Immediately after his announcement, Secretary Murtaugh had left for a meeting at the White House with President Montgomery and members of his National Security staff. Those in the Nebraska Complex who’d crunched the intelligence for their boss took a breather. Pizza was ordered in, prepared by a neighborhood shop that had been cleared to deliver food to the offices. Over pepperoni and mushroom slices and soft drinks, they discussed the information they’d received, upon which they’d based their recommendation that the color be changed on the Lifesaver, known as the threat barometer.

“I hope it’s not another hoax,” one said as he tried to dab away tomato sauce.

“Not this time,” a colleague said. “Our guy in Amman—the Brit, M.T.—says his source is highly credible. We met the source, remember? The Arab kid who’d studied here. He went through the training, spoke really good English.”

“Yeah, I remember him,” said one of the men at the table. “Name was—ah, Gallop, something like that.”

“Right. Martone recruited him.”

Another analyst at the table laughed. “So M.T. says Gallop, or whatever the hell his name is, came up with good info from this Iraqi he turned. Why the hell is it that we put more stock in what British Intelligence says than we do in our own?”

“Because they talk better,” someone said. “They sound more believable, the King’s English and all.” He did a poor imitation of a British accent.