Murder at the Opera (9 page)

“Right again.”

“The dude who did the deed was a pro,” Portelain said.

“Or a damn talented amateur, the son-of-a-bitch,” said Berry. “Either of you ever see something like this before?”

They shook their heads.

“Crocker was with me last night at the scene,” Berry said, “but he’s been pulled to work a drive-by in Southwest. Looks like the three of us caught this one.”

“Opera, huh?” Portelain said, tossing the photos he’d been examining onto the table, like a poker player folding his hand. He yawned loudly and scratched the back of his head. “These opera types are strange, man,” he said. “You ever been to one?”

Johnson was still busy looking at the photographs and didn’t respond, but Berry said, “A couple of times. Not my thing. I’m a Steely Dan and Pink Floyd guy, but I kind of enjoyed it. Hey, by the way, guess who’s also working the case.”

Portelain looked up at Berry through thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “Who?”

“Ray Pawkins.”

It was a duet from Portelain and Johnson: “Pawkins?”

“He’s retired, man,” Portelain said.

“He’s coming back?” Johnson asked.

“No,” Berry replied, “he’s working as a PI for the Washington Opera.”

“He’s a fruitcake,” Portelain said, chuckling.

“Ray is—was—a good detective,” Berry said. “Damn good.”

“Why is the Opera hiring a private eye?” Johnson asked.

“I spoke to Ray,” said Berry. “According to him, the Opera board wants to resolve it themselves. I told him we’d work with him, within limits.”

“Ray Pawkins, huh?” Portelain said, standing and hitching up his trousers. “He was always into opera and stuff like that.”

“That’s right,” Berry concurred. “He was at the Kennedy Center last night when the victim was discovered. He’s in the next show.”

“He sings, too?” Sylvia Johnson said.

“An extra, a spear carrier,” said Berry. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll go his way and we’ll go ours. The deceased had a roommate, another student from the school.” He consulted his notes. “Name’s Christopher Warren, a piano player. Start with him, Willie. See where he was last night, try to get a handle on his relationship with her. Maybe they were more than roommates. Ask him about any guys she might have been involved with.” He handed Portelain an address. “Carlos was there at Warren’s last night with two evidence techs. They cleaned the place.”

Portelain nodded.

“Sylvia, get together with somebody from that program she was in at the Washington Opera. The…” He consulted his notes again. “Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program. Get an idea of what she was like, who she hung out with, other singers who might have been jealous of her, stuff like that. Maybe somebody doesn’t like Asian-Canadians who hit the high notes. Or miss them. I’ll get a rundown from the ME on the sponge used to plug the wound.”

“And we canvas every store that sells sponges,” Portelain said. “Shouldn’t take us more than a couple a years.”

Berry ignored him. “I’m meeting the parents in an hour. We’ll hook up back here at two—unless you get lucky.”

He heard Johnson ask Portelain on their way from the room, “Can they pull prints from a sponge?”

“Hell, no. What are you doin’ for dinner tonight? I found this great new ribs joint that serves…”

Berry smiled and shook his head. Maybe his father was right, he should have gone into investment banking, or become a lawyer. Too late for that now, he thought, which didn’t dismay him. Carl Berry loved being a cop. Just that simple.

The assistant medical examiner assigned to autopsy Charise Lee’s body had just completed that task and was relaxing in his office with coffee and a raspberry turnover when Ray Pawkins called his office.

“Hello, stranger,” the ME said. His name was, fittingly, Les Cutter. Everyone thought it was a joke when first introduced to him. “How’s retirement?”

“Wonderful,” Pawkins said. “I never knew I could be so busy. Hear you got the opera singer case.”

“What a wonderful town this is,” Cutter said. “‘My secrets cry aloud, I have no need for tongue. My heart keeps an open house, my doors are widely flung.’”

“Nice,” Pawkins said. “Who wrote it?”

“I forget. What can I do for you, my friend?”

“Tell me about the sponge you found in the deceased’s chest.”

“How did you know about that?”

“‘My secrets cry aloud, I have no need for’—the story’s around. What kind of sponge is it?”

“It’s a sponge, Ray.”

“Like I have on my kitchen sink?”

Cutter paused. “As a matter of fact, the answer is no. It’s different than that.”

“When can I see it?”

“You can’t. It’s evidence.”

“I never would have guessed that. I’m working the case.”

“You retired.”

“Not as a PI. The good folks over at the Washington Opera have hired me to look into it. I won’t touch. I just want to see.”

“No can do,” Cutter said, taking a final bite of turnover and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s already with the evidence techs.”

“You have a picture, of course,” Pawkins said.

“Of course. More than one.”

“Make a print for me, Les?”

Cutter exhaled loudly, which made his point better than any words could have.

“Les? I’ll owe you.”

“Maybe.”

“That’s all I can ask. Here’s my address.” He gave the ME a post-office box number in downtown D.C. “I know you’re busy, Les, but take a minute to describe it for me. How big. Usual kitchen-sponge size?”

“Bigger, Ray. Not square like kitchen sponges. Round.”

“Is that so? Color?”

“White, but discolored.”

“How so?”

“A cream-colored stain. The sponge has some sort of velour on both sides.”

“I definitely owe you. Looking forward to the photo. Everything good with you and the family?”

“Everything’s fine. I have to go.”

“You’re my favorite ME, Les.
Ciao!
”

Pawkins had parked his car near the restaurant where he and Smith breakfasted. He’d made the call to Les Cutter from his cell phone in the front seat of his Mercedes. Now he paid the parking fee and headed across the Anacostia River to the District’s Southeast quadrant, where he found a metered spot on Eighth Street. After taking a moment to decide whether he’d parked the car in a relatively safe place, he walked up the street and entered a shop bearing the sign
BACKSTAGE INC
. A woman greeted him and asked what he was looking for.

“Just a sponge,” he said. “A makeup sponge.”

“We have a variety of them,” she said, offering him a tray on which assorted sponges were neatly arranged. “We have Ben Nye, Kryolan—”

He picked one up from the tray and examined it. “Is this the largest you have?” he asked.

“Yes. It’s over three inches. It’s velour, perfect for applying foundation quickly to large areas.”

He nodded. “How much?”

“Seven dollars.”

He paid her in cash, left, climbed into his car, and took the sponge from its paper bag, holding it at various angles. He formed a small circle with the index finger and thumb of his left hand, wadded up the sponge in his right, and wedged it into the circle. He glanced in the rearview mirror. A group of teenagers with overalls hanging low and wearing baseball hats at various angles swaggered along the cracked sidewalk in his direction, laughing loudly and punching one another. Pawkins started the engine, reached beneath his seat, and withdrew a licensed 9mm Glock, which he placed next to him on the passenger seat, his right hand resting easily on it. The group stopped abreast of the car. One of them leaned over and asked, “What’s up, man? You looking for something?”

“No,” Pawkins answered.

“Those are some wheels, man,” another member of the gang said. He came around the back of the car and placed his hand on the open window on Pawkins’ side.

“Get your hand off,” Pawkins said quietly.

The youth pulled back his hand and said, “Oh, I’m sorry, mister.” With that, he put his hand there again.

Pawkins lifted the Glock from the seat and held it inches from the young man’s face. The teenager raised both hands and backed away. One of his friends saw the gun from the sidewalk side and said, “Man’s crazy. Hey, no offense, man.”

Pawkins watched them move quickly down the street and disappear around a corner. He replaced the Glock beneath the seat, raised the window, turned the AC on full blast, and pulled away, thinking as he did of John Dillinger’s alleged comment,
Kindness and a gun will get you further than kindness alone.

“How true,” he said aloud, and laughed.

TEN

W
illie Portelain stopped for a slice of pepperoni pizza on his way to interview Charise Lee’s roommate. Although he’d eaten a big breakfast only two hours earlier—eggs over easy, well-done sausage, hash browns, and whole wheat toast—he was hungry almost as soon as he’d finished that first meal of the day. His prodigious appetite was a running joke among colleagues and friends. Some suggested he cut down on his intake and drop some weight. “Body needs fuel,” he’d answer, “like a car or plane. My body tells me what it wants, I don’t argue with it.”

“As long as he doesn’t have to chase some perp on foot,” other detectives said behind his back, laughing at that visual. Willie would have agreed with them. His greatest fear when on duty was to be called upon to run after someone.

The apartment shared by Charise and Warren was on N Street, between Logan and Thomas circles. Once an elegant enclave of Richardsonian and Victorian townhouses, it had deteriorated over the years into a troubled neighborhood, until a determined gentrification was launched. Still, it was one of those D.C. areas best avoided late at night.

The apartment was on the ground floor of a four-story gray stucco building, its windows covered by heavy, black wrought-iron bars. A warning label affixed to one of the windows proclaimed that the premises were protected by an alarm company. Portelain read it and grinned. The decal was store bought, just a piece of paper, not connected with any alarm company that he’d ever heard of.

He stood at the front door and took in his immediate surroundings. Not a bad block, he thought. He’d been on worse ones. He remained standing there, not attempting to enter the building, formulating the questions he would ask. Satisfied that he’d mentally covered all the bases, he leaned close to a panel on which the building’s flats were listed, pushed the buzzer next to
WARREN
/
LEE
, and heard it sound inside.

“Yes?” a tinny male voice said through the small speaker.

“Police,” Portelain announced. “I’m here to talk to Mr. Christopher Warren.”

“He’s not here.”

“Who are you?”

“Who did you say you were?”

“Detective Portelain, First District Homicide.” Despite the official change of nomenclature from Homicide to Crimes Again Persons, no cop used the new term.

“Just a minute,” the voice from inside said. A minute later the harsh sound of the metal lock being disengaged prompted the detective to push through the now unlocked door and go to the apartment. He knocked. No one responded. He knocked again. Someone on the other side of the door coughed. Willie’s fist was raised for yet another assault on the door when it opened.

Facing him was a man of medium height with a puffy face the color of bleached flour. His hair was brown bordering on blond, with long strands hanging limply over his ears and neck. He wore a rumpled tan summer suit over a pink polo shirt, and sandals.

“Detective Portelain,” Willie said, showing his badge.

The man nodded. “You’re here to see Chris. He’s not here. He’s—”

“I’m here about what happened last night at the Kennedy Center,” Portelain said. “You are?”

“I’m Chris’ agent. Charise’s agent, too, until this happened. God, what a shock.”

“You mind if I come in?” Portelain asked.