Murder at the Opera (17 page)

“File a charge,” Berry said.

“Who was the arresting officer?” The attorney asked.

“William Portelain. He’s in intensive care at the hospital as we speak. He had a heart attack trying to subdue your client.”

Kendall looked at Warren.

“He hit me in the face,” Warren said, “and knocked me on the ground.”

“I’d like to speak with my client privately,” Kendall said.

“Sure,” Berry said, and left, instructing the uniformed officer on duty outside the room to shut off the concealed microphone.

After ten minutes, Kendall opened the door and asked Berry to rejoin them. “My client,” the attorney said, “is willing to drop any charges of police brutality in return for you dropping all charges of resisting arrest and assault on a cop.”

“I’ve got a veteran detective in the hospital clinging to life because of your client’s dumb behavior. All we wanted to do was question him, and he takes off like a three-strikes-and-you’re-out felon. Consciousness of guilt?”

“Can we talk privately?” Kendall asked Berry.

“Sure.”

Again outside the room, the attorney said, “Look, this is no killer, and he’s no tough guy who assaults cops. I spoke with the people at the program he’s in with the Washington Opera. He’s a sensitive, brilliant pianist, maybe a little high-strung, like most artists, but an okay kid. No record back in Canada. I checked. He’s minding his own business on a sunny afternoon and two detectives confront him on the street, scare the hell out of him. He bolts. Come on, Detective, let’s be reasonable here.”

Berry’s response was to hand Kendall the court order concerning Warren’s passport.

“This’ll never stand up,” Kendall said.

“I think it will,” Berry said. “We drop the charges on the condition that he reconsiders charging my detectives with brutality
and
he answers questions concerning the murder. Deal?”

“He doesn’t legally have to. Answer questions.”

“Right. He also doesn’t have to leave here as long as the charges are pending against him. A couple of nights in our five-star hotel until a judge gets around to arraigning him might help clear his high-strung head. Of course, we don’t have a baby grand for him to practice on, but…”

“I’ll encourage him to answer your questions.”

“Do more than just encourage him, Counselor. If he acts like the innocent person he claims to be, and if he makes sense, we have a deal.”

Kendall and Warren conferred again in the interrogation room. Kendall emerged and nodded at Berry, who rejoined them around the table.

“Okay,” Berry said, “let’s start over, Mr. Warren. Tell me where you were the night your roommate, Ms. Lee, was killed.”

Warren looked at Kendall, who nodded.

Warren avoided Berry’s inquisitive eyes. “I was—I was at a piano recital that night.”

“Where?”

“The Kennedy Center.”

“You were at the Kennedy Center that night?”

“Yes.”

“You told Detective Johnson that you’d been out drinking with friends.”

“I know, I…”

“Why did you tell her that if it wasn’t true?”

“I don’t know. I guess I thought it would sound better.”

Kendall’s eyebrows went up.

“Okay,” Berry said, “let’s get this straight. You weren’t out drinking that night but you were at a recital at the Kennedy Center. Sure
that’s
the truth?”

Warren nodded.

“What time was the recital?”

“Six, I think.”

“Where in the Kennedy Center?”

“The Millennium Stage.”

“What theater is that?”

“It’s not a theater. It’s a stage they set up in the lobby. They have performances just about every night there. It’s free.”

“Who was the pianist?”

“Boris Larkin.”

“What did he play?”

“I don’t know, different things, pieces from well-known operas.”

“Did you speak with him after the performance?”

“No.”

“What time did it end?”

“About seven thirty.”

“That’s pretty early. Did you see Ms. Lee at the Kennedy Center while you were there?”

“No.”

“What did you do after?”

“I had dinner.”

“Where?”

“A little Indian restaurant downtown.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t remember. I felt like Indian food and walked into the place. I never did catch the name.”

“You were alone?”

“Yes.”

“How did you pay?”

“Cash. I gave them cash.”

“They give you a receipt?”

“Maybe. I don’t remember.”

“And then?”

“Then I…then I went back to the apartment and watched TV.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“I understand your agent is in town and staying at the apartment. Was he there?”

“No. I never saw him that night.”

The questioning lasted another fifteen minutes. Berry ended the session by saying, “We’ll be keeping your passport, Mr. Warren.”

“You can’t do that,” Warren almost shouted. “I’m a Canadian citizen!”

Kendall calmed his client and explained that he and the Canadian Consulate would work on his behalf to get the passport back. The attorney reminded Berry that he and his detectives were not to question his client again without his being present.

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Berry assured. “You’re free to go, Mr. Warren, for the moment.”

After Kendall and Warren had left the building, Berry went to his office, where Sylvia Johnson had just arrived.

“What’s with Willie?” Berry asked.

“They’re keeping him overnight, but they ruled out a heart attack. The doctor read the riot act to Willie. His blood pressure is off the chart, and a test showed an enlarged heart.” She laughed. “They told him he has to eat a healthier diet, lose weight, exercise, the works. No more chili dogs, or pizza for breakfast.”

“He’s lucky. It’s a good warning.”

She asked about Warren, and Berry filled her in on how the questioning had gone.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“I think we should keep close tabs on Mr. Warren. In the meantime, let’s call it a day. You up for dinner?”

“Sure. And a drink. I’m off duty.”

“So am I. Come on, let’s hoist one for Willie.”

SEVENTEEN

W
hen the rehearsal at the Kennedy Center was over, the director, Anthony Zambrano, assembled the supers for some last-minute comments, which quickly shifted into a discussion of
Tosca
and Zambrano’s vision of this particular production. Annabel had joined Mac on the stage, where he was sitting with his boss, GW’s president, Wilfred Burns, the other academicians-cum-supers, and Ray Pawkins in a semicircle around the director. It struck Mac that aside from him and his professorial colleagues, everyone else was well versed in
Tosca
and opera in general, and eager to display their knowledge. He felt a little out of it as Zambrano spoke in baroque terms about how he intended to break new ground and set a higher standard for future directors of the Puccini masterpiece.

“Is
Tosca
considered his best work?” Mac asked, wanting to have something to offer.

Zambrano’s face lit up. “An excellent question. But who is to judge which work by a genius is his best? For me, I find the raw emotional power and dramatic foundation of
Tosca
to be compelling. But he also wrote
Madame Butterfly
and
La Boheme,
among other magisterial works. Who can say?”

“Is
Tosca
the most widely produced opera?” another super asked.

“Strangely not,” Zambrano replied, chewing his cheek as he sought a basis for his response. “I believe—and correct me if you know better—that
Madame Butterfly
has been the most produced opera in the past ten years, at least in the United States.
La Boheme
? They are one and two, if I’m not mistaken. But
Tosca
is Puccini’s strongest work. Sarooodledum, as George Bernard Shaw termed it—he was fond of playing on the name of the playwright Victorien Sardou, whose play,
La Tosca,
was the basis for Puccini’s operatic version.”

It was enough of an answer for Mac, but Zambrano segued into his analysis of how Puccini’s operas stacked up against the operas of Mozart, Verdi, Bartók, and other familiar names, as well as some that weren’t. Mac’s mind wandered, his eyes going to that portion of the main stage where Charise Lee’s blood had been spilled. Someone had attempted to clean it, leaving a milky circle around where the stain had been.

Zambrano finished his dissertation, thanked everyone for coming, and announced that future rehearsals would be at Takoma Park, until the technical and dress rehearsals, which would be held at the Kennedy Center.

Genevieve Crier, who’d been there at the beginning of the rehearsal and quickly disappeared, returned as Mac and Annabel were about to leave with Pawkins.

“So glad I caught you,” Genevieve said in her lilting British accent. “Did it go well?”

“Sure,” Pawkins said. “How can a supers rehearsal go bad?”

“I can think of a way,” said Annabel as they walked through the Hall of Nations, the flags of every nation with which the United States has diplomatic relations lining the spacious public area.

“Gracious, yes,” said Genevieve. “Having a super murdered certainly ranks as…well, I don’t know, something going bad.”

“It didn’t happen at a rehearsal,” Pawkins said, sounding annoyed at having been challenged.

In her relentless cheerfulness, Genevieve didn’t seem to have picked up on the former detective’s shift in mood. As they stopped at one of the exit doors, she reached into her bulging shoulder bag and pulled out a magazine.

“May we have a drum roll, please,” she said, handing it to Pawkins. “Page one thirteen. You’re now famous, Mr. Pawkins.”

“What’s this?” Annabel asked.

“An advance copy of the latest
Washingtonian.
Our Raymond Pawkins, former Homicide detective on the city’s mean streets, more recently art and music connoisseur, is all over the place.”

Pawkins opened to the page Genevieve had cited and held it up for Mac and Annabel to see. Looking back at them was a large color photograph of Pawkins leaning casually against the set from Washington National Opera’s previous production, Mozart’s
Die Zauberflöte,
more popularly known as
The Magic Flute.

“Grrrr,” Genevieve growled. “I had to positively break his arm to get him to agree to the interview and photo shoot. The editor loved the idea, a profile of a hard-nosed Homicide detective pursuing the arts, including performing as a super in our productions. It’s such good press.”

“You didn’t tell us about the article,” Annabel said to Pawkins.

“My natural modesty wouldn’t allow it,” he said, hand to his heart.

“I can’t wait to read it,” Annabel said.

“Here,” Pawkins said, giving it to her. “I already know what I said. Anyone up for a drink?”

“Not us,” Mac said. “We need an early night.”

“Genevieve?” Pawkins asked.

“I thought you’d never ask—or forgive me.”

As Mac and Annabel started to walk away, Genevieve said, “Annabel, don’t forget the Opera Ball meeting tomorrow.”

“I won’t,” Annabel said over her shoulder. “It’s on the calendar.”

Mac walked Rufus, and mixed his own blend of coffee for the morning, before changing into pajamas and joining Annabel in bed.

“A nice early night,” she said. “Good book?” He’d picked up where he’d left off in E. L. Doctorow’s
The March.

“Excellent,” he replied, glancing at what she was reading, the magazine Pawkins had given her. “Any startling revelations about our gadfly detective?”