Murder at the Opera (40 page)

“The police can call Josephson.”

“To what end? If Ray paid Josephson off, he undoubtedly bought his silence. Josephson doesn’t give a damn about who killed Musinski. He opted to not go to the police while he was here because that would muddy the waters about the money from the musical scores, and who it belongs to. Frankly, I wonder if he’s even entitled to half of it. He never showed us any piece of paper between him and Musinski regarding the scores.” He downed the remainder of his cognac.

“There’s only one approach,” he said, “and that’s for me to confront Pawkins.”

“For
us
to confront him, you mean,” she said.

“No, you stay out of it, Annie.”

“Absolutely not. I was there when Josephson told his tale, and I’ve been in the loop ever since.”

“Which doesn’t mean you have to stay in it. If Ray is to be approached, I’m the one to do it.”

“It was my idea to bring him into the Charise Lee murder.”

“And I was the one who actually did it. Speaking of Charise Lee, I haven’t heard another word about it except what the papers say, and that isn’t much anymore.”

She, too, finished her drink. “Maybe we should ask Pawkins about that—not what he’s come up with, but whether he killed her, too.”

“Let’s not get carried away, Annie. We have no reason to suspect that of him.”

A vision of the Asian woman waiting for Pawkins at rehearsal came and went.

They thanked the manager for the drinks and walked back to their apartment, where Rufus greeted them with rowdy enthusiasm.

“I’ll call Ray tomorrow and try to set up a date with him,” Mac said after returning from walking the “beast,” the Great Dane.

“Maybe you should wait,” she said.

His face mirrored his surprise. “I thought you were anxious for me to do it,” he said.

“I was anxious for
us
to do it. But dress rehearsal is tomorrow night, opening night after that, and then the ball. I don’t want to do anything to taint those things.”

“All right,” Mac said. “We’ll give it a few days, let the show go on, and then deal with it. As long as he doesn’t know we know, there’s no reason to rush it.”

They climbed into bed and Mac turned off the bedside lamp.

“By the way,” Annabel said, “you looked splendid in your costumes tonight.”

“Thank you. I have to admit, I’m enjoying it.”

“I knew you would. Good night.”

“Good night, Mrs. Smith.”

Both slept fitfully that night.

THIRTY-FIVE

“H
ow come we’re pulling this duty, Carl?”

Willie Portelain and Sylvia Johnson sat in Berry’s office. They’d been assigned to a contingent of metropolitan police working security for the Opera Ball at the Brazilian Embassy.

“Supply and demand, Willie,” Berry said. “We have to provide X number of cops to the event, uniformed and plainclothes. That’s the demand. We’re shorthanded. That’s the supply. Think of it this way. Plácido Domingo himself might spot you, recognize your talent, and make you an opera star.”

Sylvia laughed. “You’re sure built like one, Willie,” she said playfully.

“Lost two pounds,” he said proudly.

“Yeah, I noticed right away,” said Berry, shooting a bemused glance at Sylvia, who lowered her head and smiled.

Before Portelain and Johnson had arrived, he’d been reading that morning’s paper, including a long article about the production of
Tosca.
According to the writer, a relatively new addition to the
Post
’s Entertainment section, the dress rehearsal she’d been invited to attend gave promise of a spectacular production the following night.

Aside from a few rough spots that I’m sure the director, Anthony Zambrano, will smooth out before the opening, this particular reincarnation of the Puccini classic has all the trappings of greatness. The Washington National Opera has slowly but surely worked its way into the top tier of American opera companies. This
Tosca
will go far to cement its well-earned, lofty position.

“You read this?” Berry asked his detectives, pointing to the article.

“I don’t read that section,” Willie said.

“I read it,” said Sylvia. “I’d like to see the opera.”

“I’ll call Ray Pawkins and see if he can arrange for a comp ticket.”

“See if he can come up with two,” she said.

“Got another date?” Willie asked.

“No, but I—”

“Take me,” he said, grinning. “Like Carl says, we might get discovered and end up singin’ those arias together.”

“You’ll be missed here,” Berry said. “The opera world’s gain, MPD’s loss. I’ll see what I can do. If Ray doesn’t pan out, Public Affairs gets freebies from the Kennedy Center now and then.”

He opened a thick file folder and passed out sheets of paper from it. “Here’s everybody who was at the Kennedy Center the night Ms. Lee was killed. The check marks indicate they’ve been interviewed.”

“A lot of missing check marks,” Sylvia commented as she quickly went through the pages.

“Another case of supply and demand. We narrowed down the list into priorities, and ruled out certain people. They’ll still have to be questioned, but we’ve left them for last.”

“Wilfred Burns, the president of GW, huh?” Willie said. “I don’t figure him for a killer.”

“Or the other supers on there from universities,” Berry said. “There’s also a half-dozen people from the opera company we haven’t talked to.”

“Who’s this Mackensie Smith?” Sylvia asked.

“One of the supers. Teaches law at GW. His wife’s listed there, too. She’s on the Opera board.”

“Ray Pawkins,” Sylvia muttered, still going over names.

“I’ve spoken with Ray a few times,” Berry said, “but we should do a formal interview, cover all the bases.”

“Cover all the butts, you mean,” growled Willie.

“If you say so. I’ve got others tracking them down. I want you to interview those two agents again, Melincamp and Baltsa.”

“What in hell for?” Willie said. “We’ve already questioned them twice.”

“Maybe the third time will be the charm,” Berry said.

“Does this have to do with that dispatch from Homeland Security?” Johnson asked.

“No,” Berry said. “I ran it by Cole. It’s strictly an FBI matter. Maybe if they lived here, we’d get involved, but
not our job.
You said they claim that the woman, Baltsa, took Ms. Lee in after her father had abused her. But Melincamp debates that. Right?”

“That’s what he said,” Johnson replied.

“And he lied about when he came to Washington. Right, Willie?”

“I don’t know if the dude actually lied. Maybe he got a little mixed up.”

“Yeah, well, getting a little mixed up in a murder investigation might mean something bigger. Check in with me this afternoon about the tickets, Sylvia.”

Johnson and Portelain first stopped at the Hotel Rouge. Their call to Zöe Baltsa’s room went unanswered. Willie asked the desk clerk whether he’d seen Baltsa that morning. Answer: no.

“Let’s try the apartment,” Sylvia suggested, heading for their car.

“Who’s there?” Melincamp asked through the intercom.

“Police,” Johnson said. “Detectives Johnson and Portelain.”

“Just a moment.”

Melincamp buzzed them in, and stood in the doorway to the apartment. He was dressed in a blue summer-weight suit, a blue-and-white checkered shirt, and a maroon tie.

“How are you?” Willie asked as they walked past Melincamp.

“I’m all right,” he answered, not sounding at all sure. “Why are you here?”

“Just checking back, that’s all,” Willie said, his eyes taking in the room, where two suitcases stood in a corner.

“Taking a trip?” Sylvia asked.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Melincamp said. “I’m going back to Toronto.”

“You and your partner?” Willie asked.

“No. I mean, she’s already left.” He wiped perspiration from his upper lip with the back of his hand.

“Is that so?” Willie said. “We just left the hotel. Nobody said she’d checked out.”

“She probably hasn’t yet. Her flight is later today. She’s probably running last-minute errands. I don’t know where she is. Look, I have to leave.”

Johnson ignored him. “The reason we’re here,” she said, “is to see whether you’ve had any additional thoughts about Ms. Lee’s murder, came up with anything you might not have told us the last time we spoke.”

Melincamp screwed up his face in exaggerated thought. “No,” he said, “I can’t think of anything. Maybe I should ask you the same question. Have you come up with anything new about her murder?”

“We’re making progress,” Willie said. He grunted, and swung his left arm in a circle.

“You okay?” Sylvia asked.

“Yeah, yeah, just some arthur-itus.”

“We’ve been going back over the notes of our previous conversations, Mr. Melincamp,” Johnson said, “and there’s a discrepancy we’d like to clear up.”

“A discrepancy? What do you mean?”

“Well,” she said, “when Detective Portelain first interviewed you—I believe it was here at the apartment—you said that you’d flown to Washington the day of the murder. But Ms. Baltsa said you came a day earlier than that.”

“She did? I don’t understand. What difference does it make when I arrived?”

“It could make a lot of difference. What did you do that first day in town?”

He forced a laugh. “How can I remember? There’s always so much to do, so many people to see.”

“Well, maybe you can try to remember,” Willie said. “You know, put your mind to it.”

“I’m sorry,” Melincamp said, “but it’s all a blank. Look, I’ve stayed here in Washington because I wanted to be of help in solving Charise’s murder. But now it’s time for me to get back to Toronto and my work. I don’t want to miss my plane, so unless you have a reason for me to stay, I have to go.”

“You’re free to go, Mr. Melincamp,” Johnson said. “Is something bothering you? You seem uptight.”

“No, I’m fine. Excuse me.” He grabbed the luggage.

“We might have to contact you again with follow-up questions.”

“Good. That will be fine. I wish you both well in solving this horrific thing that’s happened to Charise.”

They followed him outside, where he looked for a taxi.

“Where’s your other client, the piano player?” Willie asked.

“At Takoma Park, naturally, rehearsing the chorus for tonight’s opening of
Tosca.
The director wants some last-minute changes.”

A cab turned the corner and headed for them. Portelain and Johnson watched Melincamp toss his luggage in the backseat and climb in beside it. He waved as the driver pulled away.

“Waste of time,” Willie grumbled.

“Most of what we do is a waste of time, Willie. But this wasn’t. The guy’s a nervous wreck.”

“Those artsy types always are” was Willie’s take on it.

Her cell phone rang. It was Carl Berry. “Where are you?” he asked, his voice tinny through the small speakerphone.

“At Warren’s apartment, talking to Melincamp. He’s on his way back to Toronto, just got in a cab.”

“Yeah, well, you might as well head back here. We’re on call. Oh, Sylvia, Ray Pawkins came through with a couple of tickets for the opera tonight.”

“That’s great. Thanks.”

“Thank him when you see him.”

“Well?” Willie asked after she’d clicked off.

“Well what?”

“The man says Pawkins got you a couple a tickets. That means two. How about it, you take your favorite partner along? I’ve never been to an opera.”

Sylvia knew what was coming. She didn’t have a date that night; her latest romantic interest was out of town on government business.

“Sure, Willie, we’ll go to the opera together.”

His white teeth glowed against the contrasting blackness of his round face. “Damn,” he said, “now I’ll have to stay awake. I saw an opera once on TV. Can’t remember what it was, but I know I fell asleep before the first act was over. And those suckers can be long,
real
long.”

“I’ll keep you awake, Willie,” she said as they got in their green, unmarked MPD car. “And if you do fall asleep, and snore, I’ll shoot you dead right there in the theater.”

He insisted on stopping on their way back to headquarters for a take-out sandwich from Subway, which he started to eat during the ride. They parked in the lot reserved for MPD vehicles, then entered the station through a rear door as two detectives were exiting.

“What’s up, man?” Willie asked one of them.

“Homicide over on 16th, Northwest. Hotel Rouge.”

“Hotel Rouge?” Willie and Sylvia said in concert.

“That’s what the dispatcher said.”

“Let’s go, Willie,” Sylvia said, leading him and his half-eaten sandwich back to their car.