Murder at the Opera (44 page)

“What was in it for Melincamp?” Sylvia asked.

“Money. He wanted out of the partnership with Zöe and needed money, big money to buy her out. He and Zöe had some kind of agreement that gave him the right to do that. The terrorists promised him and Charise a ton of money if they would assassinate someone when they were in Washington.”

“When did you learn about this?” asked Berry.

“After we got here. I owed Melincamp money. He kept giving me advances. When it got to be a lot, he said he’d drop me and see to it that I didn’t have a career as a pianist. I believed him.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Willie said. “Hold on a minute. Are you telling us that you kept your mouth shut because you owed this slimeball money?”

“In the beginning,” Warren responded. “But it was more than that. When Charise told him she wasn’t going through with it, he—”

“She decided not to cooperate?” Berry asked.

“That’s right. She got cold feet. I don’t think she ever intended to do it. She might have been a little screwed up, preaching how the U.S. is out to conquer the world, keep people in poverty, dumb stuff like that. But she wouldn’t have tried to assassinate anybody.” He shook his head. “Man, when she told me about the plan, I just laughed. At first. She was supposed to get close to the president whenever she could and—and kill him. Kill somebody. Charise told me that the president and his wife were opera lovers, and attended a lot of operas. Melincamp and the terrorists figured she’d have it easy getting close, being young and pretty and Canadian, maybe even get to sing for them, and then shoot him.”

“She had a gun?” Willie asked.

“Melincamp did. He showed it to me whenever he threatened me about talking to people.”

“When did Charise confide in you about the plot, Chris?” Sylvia asked.

“Just before she was killed. I told her we should go to the police or Secret Service or somebody, but she said she wanted to talk to Melincamp first. She was supposed to meet him at the Kennedy Center the night he killed her.”

“And Melincamp admitted to you that he’d murdered her?” Berry asked.

Warren nodded. “That’s when he said the same thing would happen to me if I talked about it. He tried to get me to take her place and kill the president, but I told him no way. If Melincamp didn’t pull it off, they wouldn’t pay him the money he was promised.”

Berry halted the session to see whether Warren wanted anything to eat or drink.

“No. I just want to get this over with.”

“Fair enough,” Berry said. “Now, what about last night? You went to see Melincamp’s partner, Ms. Baltsa.”

Another nod from Warren. He kept his head lowered, his eyes focused on the table as he spoke. “I went to the hotel to tell her I wanted out of the program at Takoma Park, and was going back home.”

“Did she know about this scheme of Melincamp’s to kill an American official?”

“No.”

“Did she know he’d killed Ms. Lee?”

“She suspected, but didn’t know for sure until I told her last night. She said Philip was coming to see her later, after I left. I didn’t kill her. I swear I didn’t.”

The detectives said nothing in response; they knew that he was telling the truth.

“You still have him in custody?” the FBI agent asked Cole Morris.

“Yes. He’s in protective custody.”

“We’ll want to talk to him.”

“Of course.”

“Did he give you the names of this Arab boyfriend back in Toronto, and his terrorist friends?”

“Yes.” Morris provided another piece of paper with that information.

“We’ll take it from here,” Browning said from his spot at the end of the long table. “This goes far beyond just the murder of some opera singer. There’s national security at stake.”

“Until we’re told otherwise,” the FBI agent said, “it’s our jurisdiction.”

“I’ll get a reading from Justice,” Browning said. “This young man aided and abetted a terrorist plot to kill the president of the United States. He can be held as an enemy combatant until all the links have been explored, all the dots connected.”

Berry looked at Morris and raised his eyebrows.

“We’re happy to help in any way we can,” Morris said, “but until I get a reading from Justice that says otherwise, Mr. Warren will stay with us. He’s a material witness to two murders that occurred in
our
jurisdiction.”

“Maybe this will help you with the murder of the opera singer at the Kennedy Center,” Browning said, sliding badly wrinkled and folded sheets of yellow legal-size lined paper to Morris.

“What’s this?” Morris asked.

“Read it,” Browning said. “It was found on Melincamp in New York.”

Morris carefully unfolded the pages and ran his hand over them on the table to straighten the creases. Most of the handwriting was crude and in blue pen, difficult to read. A few lines at the top of the first page had been written in pencil, obviously added after the main section.

To whom it may concern:

In the event of my death, I want you to understand why I did what I did.

The writing in blue pen followed.

She died quickly and with a modicum of suffering.

This came as no surprise. Unlike so-called crimes of passion which are invariably messy, drawn out, and painful, I’d been planning her death for more than a week.

She had to be eliminated because she’d learned something that I preferred she not know, which raised the possibility that she would pass that newfound knowledge along to others. I couldn’t allow that.

Had knowing the victim made it easier or more difficult for me? Of course, having known her cast me as a suspect, along with dozens of others. Murderers who are strangers to their victims invariably stand a better chance of getting away with it. There was a brief temptation to enlist the aid of another person, someone outside our circle of acquaintances, but I quickly ruled that out. The fewer people who know about a murder, the better.

That the murder took place onstage at the Kennedy Center Opera House would lead one to believe that I have a flair for the dramatic. But that was not the reason the area was chosen as the place to ensure her silence. I’d considered a number of settings—her apartment, on the street, or in a secluded room in the Opera company’s rehearsal space at Takoma Park. She provided the answer by insisting that we meet on the stage that night, actually in the early morning hours, long after everyone was gone for the evening except perhaps for a couple of Kennedy Center security guards, who wouldn’t come into the theater unless given reason to, which I certainly didn’t intend to provide.

It should also be pointed out that my choice of a weapon had nothing—absolutely nothing—to do with the fact that the encounter took place on the Opera House’s main stage, where the Washington National Opera would soon present the latest production of Puccini’s warhorse,
Tosca.
Moments before dealing the fatal blow, I thought of the justified murder of the cruel, lecherous Scarpia in
Tosca
’s Act II. The major difference was that this slaying was committed in shadows and without onlookers, while Tosca’s stabbing of the cruel chief of the secret police would take place before thousands bearing witness to her defensible action. Of course, Tosca’s dramatic killing of Scarpia is make-believe. This one was very real; I did not break into the aria
“Vissi d’arte”
before completing the act, as Madame Tosca has done thousands of nights on grand stages around the globe.

The victim was eventually found, of course, although it took almost a full day. I’d placed the body in such a location where few would have reason to go under ordinary circumstances. When her body was discovered, there was a flurry of media and law enforcement activity, and much was made of the fact that the homicide took place inside the revered Kennedy Center, and in that institution’s Opera House, where betrayal, passion, intrigue, and murder take place on a regular basis—but only during performances on the main stage. The press had a field day with opera analogies, the weapon used, the setting, and the connection of the deceased with the Washington National Opera.

In the meantime,
Tosca,
and the larger comic opera that is Washington, D.C., itself—but that too often turns deadly—must, and did, go on.

And so must I.

Sincerely,

Philip Melincamp

Morris handed the papers to Berry. “Thanks,” he said to Browning. “We know Melincamp killed the singer, but it’s nice to have this. Dramatic, wasn’t he?”

“And screwed up,” Browning said. “A shame that he screwed up the young woman, too.”

Morris and Berry left the room and the building. Once outside, Morris said, “Warren’s in for a long, tough road once Homeland Security and Justice get hold of him.”

“The kid was scared,” said Berry as they walked to their car.

“It’ll be out of our hands soon, Carl.” Morris laughed. “You watch. They’ll take credit for this whole thing, use the kid as a feather in their cap, another terrorist plot foiled. All we did at MPD was—everything.”

As they drove back to headquarters, Berry said, “I have a request, Cole. A little favor.”

“Shoot.”

“Ray Pawkins got a couple of tickets to the opera last night for Sylvia Johnson and Willie Portelain. I had to pull the two of them out of the Kennedy Center early when the fax came in from New York. I’d like to buy them a couple of tickets so they can enjoy the whole show.”

“Willie Portelain at the opera?” Morris said with a chuckle.

“He said he liked it. I owe them.”

“Sure, go ahead. I’ll hide it under—under continuing education.”

FORTY

“T
oo many Americans have a misconception that German cuisine is brown, heavy, and blah. But Germany is actually the birthplace of organic farming. Modern German cuisine is fresh and flavorful.”

So stated Marcel Biró, one of Germany’s most celebrated chefs, cookbook author, and star of the Emmy-winning PBS reality-cooking series
The Kitchens of Biró.
He’d been brought to the German Embassy in Washington by the ambassador as a special treat for the fourteen guests dining there prior to attending the Opera Ball’s gala at the Brazilian Embassy. The menu had been created by him especially for the occasion, and he was on hand to explain and extol each course.

“Your entrée is a special favorite of mine,” he announced, “medallions of pork in a black cherry pepper sauce, with spatzle and braised fennel. The sweet tartness of the black cherries offsets the pork’s flavor, and the black pepper adds just the perfect bite to the dish.”

The evening had begun with tomato aspic with tiny shrimp, which Biró said was a typical northern German dish. The salad was asparagus tips with tiny slices of sweetbreads, a southern German dish. The wines he’d chosen for the evening were a white from the Rhine, and a red Bordeaux imported from the house of Tesdorpff, wine merchants since the 15th century. A parfait of Williams pear with beetroot sabayon, Malvasier, from the island of Madeira, was dessert.

“He’s absolutely charming,” Annabel remarked to Mac as they savored the pork entrée.

“That he is,” Mac agreed. He lowered his voice. “But I have to admit, my pedestrian palate is more attuned to sauerbraten, sauerkraut, and dumplings that sink immediately to the lower stomach.”

She giggled and put a finger to her lips. “Loose lips sink ships, and dumplings,” she said.

Everyone at the table agreed that the evening, at least the first portion of it, was a smashing success. The ambassador and his wife were a charming couple, and having the celebrity chef there only added to the sizzle.

They left the German Embassy and went to the evening’s main event, the party at the Brazilian Embassy. As they approached, pulsating samba and bossa nova rhythms could be heard, and felt, a block away. An overwhelming contingent of security people, uniformed and in plainclothes, made their presence abundantly evident. The Smiths’ invitations, accompanying photo IDs, and names from a computer printout were carefully checked, and they were allowed to enter the grounds on which the huge tent was the scene of a lavish, loud gala. Couples danced to the spirited music beneath rotating colored lights that painted an impressionistic swirl over everything, and everyone. Mac and Annabel made their way to a long table where uniformed staff poured cups of Brazilian coffee; they avoided the artfully arranged desserts. Costumed supers wearing elaborate masks were stationed at various spots around the dance floor to add color, and to chat with guests.