Murder at the Opera (24 page)

“Christopher called in sick today,” Genevieve said. “He said he couldn’t make tonight’s rehearsal.”

“Maybe you’d better get a sub for him,” Annabel offered.

“That’s a good idea,” Genevieve said.

“No it’s not,” Pawkins said. “Let’s keep him close. I might learn something from him.”

“It couldn’t have been him,” Genevieve said, wrapping her arms about her as though the AC had suddenly been turned up. “He’s a lovely boy.”

“That may be,” Pawkins said, “but MPD has a different take on him.”

It was over cappuccino and a platter of small cookies and fruit that Annabel brought up the Musinski murder of six years earlier. “I was fascinated to read that you were the lead on that case, Ray,” she said.

“All part of my illustrious past,” he said lightly.

“They never found those scores, did they?” Mac said.

“No” was Pawkins’ reply.

“Or arrest anyone,” Annabel said.

“They had a prime suspect,” Pawkins said casually, “a grad student at the university. We all knew he did it, but we could never come up with enough evidence to convince the prosecutors to charge him.”

“This grad student knew the deceased, Professor Musinski?” Mac asked.

“Oh, yeah, he sure did,” Pawkins said. “He worked closely with him as an assistant. We grilled him pretty hard, but he never broke.”

“Where is he now?” Annabel asked.

“Still at the university,” Pawkins said. “My MPD source says they might reopen the case based on new forensic evidence.”

“That’s good to hear,” Mac said. “Do you think this grad student killed the professor to get his hands on the musical scores? What were they—Mozart?”

“Musinski was a Mozart expert, wrote books about him and his music,” Pawkins said. “But his primary interest was some string quartets supposedly written with Joseph Haydn.”

“Supposedly?” Genevieve asked.

“No one’s ever seen them,” Pawkins said, leaning back in his seat and dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. “They only exist because Musinski’s niece claims her uncle said he’d brought them back from overseas a couple of days before he was murdered. Know what I think?”

“What?”

“I don’t think those musical scores ever existed in the first place.”

“Then why was Musinski killed?” Annabel asked. “The scores would provide the motive.”

Pawkins laughed. “Maybe the kid got a bad grade from the prof and decided to even the score. This was great, but I have to get going.” He reached for his wallet.

“On me,” Smith said, waving him away.

“Not on your life. My turn.”

“Yes, but this is Cafe Milano,” Mac said.

“That makes it more special for me to treat,” Pawkins said, pulling a credit card from his wallet and motioning for the waiter.

“What an unexpected surprise,” Genevieve said as they parted outside the restaurant. “Thank you so much.”

“Thank Mr. Pawkins here,” Mac said.

“Yes, thank you, Raymond,” Genevieve said.

“Come on,” Pawkins said to her, “I’ll drive you back to Takoma Park.”

At home in their Watergate apartment, Annabel said, “Mr. Pawkins does quite nicely on a retired detective’s salary.”

“I didn’t want him to pay,” Mac said, “but he seemed determined. Bad form to argue over it.”

“Did you notice what he was wearing?” Annabel asked as they dressed for bed.

“He carries clothes well,” Mac said.

“That suit came straight from Savile Row,” she said, “and those shoes were custom-made, too.”

“Maybe he won a lottery we don’t know about,” Mac suggested, “or had an unmarried rich uncle who died and left his fortune to his only nephew.”

“Maybe,” Annabel said. “I think Genevieve is smitten with him.”

“No.”

“Yes. I can sense it.”

“Not a bad match-up,” Mac said. “She’s attractive and a culture-vulture, and he’s not without his own brand of erudition. They both love opera. By the way, Zambrano told us the story of
Tosca.
He had this wonderful tale of when a soprano playing Tosca jumped to her death, landed on a trampoline, and bounced back up for the audience to see.”

“I’ve heard it,” Annabel said with a laugh. “That’s a staple. Opera is full of such stories, real or imagined. I think that’s why everyone thinks operas, and the people who perform them, are crazy.”

“Well,” he said, “I like the soprano bouncing off the trampoline. Should go over well with my students, a few of whom I’d like to bounce off a trampoline—or a brick wall.”

“Good night,” she said, kissing him sweetly on the lips.

“It’s early,” he said.

“Not for me,” she said. “Meetings exhaust me.”

The strains of
Tosca
drifted into the bedroom from the den where Mac had put on the CD. Annabel turned over, fluffed up her pillow, and fell asleep, a contented smile on her face.

TWENTY-TWO

“B
ut you can at least
try
to eat healthier, Willie.”

Portelain and Sylvia Johnson had decided at the end of the day to have dinner together. He’d suggested a steak house; he was in the mood for a porterhouse and a baked potato with plenty of sour cream. Sylvia, while always enjoying a good steak, was aware of what the doctors had told Willie about the need to change his eating habits, and convinced him to try Bistro Med, a small, popular restaurant on M Street that featured “Mediterranean” food, much of it low calorie.

“You don’t need a beer, Willie,” she said. “Have a glass of red wine. It’s good for you. The French live a long time.”

“I’m not the wine type,” he protested, holding up a hand with his pinky extended.

“There is no such thing as a wine type, Willie,” she said, and ordered a bottle of inexpensive Cabernet from the waitress.

“Nice spot,” he said, looking around the small, functionally furnished and decorated room.

“It’s good food,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

“Feel good—only, this body of mine is telling me it needs nourishment.”

“The food here is nourishing,” she said.

“Filling, too?”

“If you eat enough of it.”

“So,” he said after the wine had been poured and he’d clinked his glass against hers, “what’s your take on those two clowns this afternoon?”

It had taken them most of the day to catch up with Melincamp and Baltsa.

Their first stop had been the apartment, where they encountered only Christopher Warren. He was watching TV when they arrived, and upon seeing Willie through the door’s peephole, said loudly, “No way, man. You’re not beating up on me again.”

“Hey, son,” Willie said in a loud voice, “we’re not here to see you. Your agents in there with you?”

“No.”

Willie banged on the door, louder this time.

“Let’s go, Willie,” Sylvia said.

“Man’s not going to dis me,” Willie said, his large fist striking the door again.

The door opened.

“Well, well,” Willie said, “look who’s here. Got yourself a shiner there, boy. Walk into a wall or somethin’?”

Warren stepped back, out of Portelain’s range. An old black-and-white movie played on the TV behind him.

“Calm down, son,” Willie said. “Sorry that we had that little run-in. Fact is, you shouldn’t have taken off like that.”

“Come on, Willie,” Sylvia said, afraid that things would escalate.

“Where’s your agents?” Willie asked.

“I don’t know,” Warren said.

“They been here today?”

“No. Yes. Zöe was here earlier.”

“Where’d she go?”

Warren shrugged. “Maybe back to her hotel.”

“Hotel Rouge?” Willie said.

“Right. Look, Detective, I’m sorry I ran like that. I was scared, that’s all.”

“We didn’t mean you any harm,” Willie said. “Next time, keep your wits about you. A fine piano player like you must have plenty of wits, huh?” He flashed a wide grin.

Warren, too, smiled. “I guess I do.”

“All right, son,” Willie said, “no hard feelings. But don’t go nowhere.”

“I won’t.”

Willie looked past him at the TV set. “Humphrey Bogart,” he said. “One a my favorites. You take care.”

Back in the car, Sylvia asked, “Why did you bother getting into all that talk with him?”

“I don’t know. Feel bad about what happened, his face getting busted up like that. Put me in the hospital, too.”

“Speaking of that…”

“Rather not. Let’s get over to that hotel and see if those agents are there. Hope one a them doesn’t decide to run. Don’t look forward to another night wearin’ one of those little gowns that don’t cover Willie’s black butt, and gettin’ stuck with needles. Man, how can anybody get into drugs, stickin’ themselves with needles? Got to be sadists is the way I read it.”

“Masochists,” Sylvia said with a laugh.

“Yeah, them, too.”

The Hotel Rouge, on 16th Street NW, was one of many smaller, upscale boutique hotels that had recently sprung up around Washington. A former apartment building, which the Kimpton Hotel Group had converted into a trendy property, with the color red, of course, dominating everything. It had become especially popular with visiting celebrities, notably musicians and actors.

Sylvia used a house phone in the small lobby to call Zöe Baltsa’s room. The agent answered.

“Ms. Baltsa, this is Sylvia Johnson, Washington MPD. My partner and I would like to talk with you.”

“I’ve been expecting you,” Baltsa said. “I meant to contact the police and offer to come there for an interview.”

“Well,” Johnson said, “we’ve saved you cab fare. May we come up?”

“Of course.”

“Is Mr. Melincamp with you?”

“As a matter of fact, he is.”

“We’ll want to interview each of you separately. Perhaps Mr. Melincamp has a few errands to run while we speak with you.”

Sylvia heard Baltsa pass along that message to Melincamp, who said, “Sure. Why not?”

They rode the elevator to the third floor, where Melincamp was waiting to ride downstairs.

“Hello there, Mr. Melincamp,” Willie said. “This is my partner, Detective Johnson.”

“Hello, Detective. How long do you want me to be gone?”

“An hour?” Johnson said.

“Sure.”

The room occupied by Zöe Baltsa was surprisingly large for a hotel, probably someone’s living room when the building was apartments. Red was everywhere, on the walls, in the carpet, on a floor-to-ceiling faux-leather headboard, on the bedding and velvet drapes. Soft mood lighting gave it the appearance of an elegant brothel from another era.

Sylvia pegged Baltsa as a woman who thought highly of herself and worked hard to maintain that self-image. The agent exuded sexuality, not in an obvious, glamorous way, but through a look in her eyes and the way she manipulated her full, red lips. She wore a pair of tight jeans, a lightweight orange sweater cut short to expose her bare midriff—
it clashes with the red in the room,
Sylvia thought—and sandals. Her hair was pulled back into a chignon, secured in back by what looked like a piece of American Indian jewelry. After introductions, she invited Willie and Sylvia to take the red love seat in front of the flat-screen TV.

“So,” she said, “I am glad to be able to talk with you. I can’t tell you how upsetting Charise’s brutal murder has been for me and for Philip. It’s like having lost a daughter. That’s how close we were.”

Had Sylvia and Willie spoken to each other at that moment, they would have said the same thing:
Take everything this lady says with a grain of salt.

“I imagine it was quite a shock when you got the news,” Sylvia said, a notepad on her lap, pen in hand.

“To say the least,” Baltsa said, slowly shaking her head. “I mean, here she was, this immensely talented and beautiful young woman, in Washington to study with the best there is in the opera world, and to have some madman take her life and dreams from her in an instant. That’s what it had to be, a madman. No one in their right mind could do such a thing.”