Murder at the Opera (27 page)

But at the moment he had other, more pressing things on his mind. He had work to do.

He’d called a friend in Toronto a few days ago, a private detective for whom he’d done a few favors over the years, including having rescued a small Raphael still life that had been stolen from a Canadian collector, who’d hired Pawkins’ Toronto buddy to get it back. The thief, a barbarian with no appreciation of art, had cut the painting from its frame on the wall, which in Pawkins’ mind raised the crime to a capital offense, punishable by lethal injection. Pawkins traced the painting to a fat cat in Bethesda known to have a particular fondness for Raphael. Pawkins confronted the Bethesda collector and cut a deal: Give back the painting or face jail time. He delivered the work to his Toronto colleague and split a hefty fee with him. Of course, this was after Pawkins had retired from the MPD. It would have been a dicey deal had he still been a D.C. cop.

Pawkins had asked his Canadian friend to dig into the background of Charise Lee. He’d learned over his years as a Homicide detective that it was usually the victim who gave up the most useful clues. Know the victim and you know why someone would want him—or in this case, her—killed.

“Ms. Lee was an interesting young lady,” his friend reported on the phone. “Little girl, big talent—and a fiery disposition.”

“Fiery? How so?”

“Big on causes. Hung around with a group of like-minded wackos. Attended protests, carried signs, wants world hunger ended, protested your government’s invasion of Iraq. By the way, Ray, I agree with
that.
”

“Go on.”

“Had her share of boyfriends, none of whom she was likely to bring home to meet Daddy. Had a thing going with a piano player who, I’ve learned, went with her to Washington to study in this opera program you’ve got down there.”

“Christopher Warren.”

“Right. Anyway, after she played footsie with this Warren guy, she hooked up with an Iranian student at McGill U. He’s been linked to some organization that our government considers a possible terrorist sympathizer, fundraiser—feed the children but make sure there’s a little left over for belts that blow up. Of course, our government still hasn’t figured out what to do with mad cow disease, so its so-called war on terror is suspect.”

Pawkins was silent.

“Ray? You there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I’m trying to process all this. What the hell is a beautiful, young future opera star doing with that bunch of losers?”

“Hey, I don’t analyze. I just report. Just the facts, ma’am, like your TV guy Webb used to say on
Dragnet.
I loved that show.”

“So did I. What about the agents I told you about, Melincamp and Baltsa?”

“I’m working on that. I only have two hands, you know.”

“Was Christopher Warren involved with these wackos, too?”

“Evidently. By the way, you made this Charise Lee out to be a young kid. Young, hell. She was twenty-eight.”

“That’s young from my vantage point,” Pawkins said.

“I mean,” said his friend, “it’s a little old to still be marching for old left-wing causes.”

“No it’s not,” Pawkins said. “Lots of domeheads and guys with artificial knees marching these days. Gives them something to do, I suppose, makes them forget they have one foot in the grave. Thanks, buddy. Get back to me when you check out the agents.”

“They’re
both
coming!”

“Who?”

“The president and first lady.”

“We already knew that.”

“No, no, no, I don’t mean opening night for
Tosca.
They’re both coming to the
ball.
”

Annabel was one of a dozen women that morning attending a meeting of the Opera Ball committee, at which the announcement was made by chairwoman Nicki Frolich.

Frolich’s enthusiasm wasn’t shared by everyone else in the room. One spoilsport was the chair of the executive committee, Camile Worthington. “I’m not sure I’d be so excited about it,” she said. “Do you realize what it will mean having the president there? It was enough of a security nightmare with the first lady making an appearance. The president? It will be chaos, sheer chaos.”

“We can handle it,” Frolich said.

“We’d better handle it,” Laurie Webster, the opera company’s PR director, chimed in. “This is great. No president has ever attended the ball. We’ll get tremendous press out of it.”

“And have Secret Service people tasting all the food,” Camile said. “Look, I know this represents a coup of sorts, and we don’t have any choice but to make it work. But I’m an old hand at these things. I’ve been involved before in events at which the president showed up. You have no idea what it entails.”

“I’ve had my share of those experiences, too,” Nicki said, not about to be trumped. Camile Worthington wasn’t the only woman in the room to have partaken in affairs important enough for the president to lend his name and presence. “It just involves more planning, that’s all, and coordination with the White House. Let’s not put blinders on. Laurie is right. We’ll have wonderful press coverage.”

“Sell lots of tickets, too,” someone offered.

“We’re already sold out,” said another.

“What do you think, Annabel?”

Annabel laughed. “I don’t think it matters what anyone thinks,” she said. “If the president of the United States says he’s coming to the Opera Ball, you can’t very well call and uninvite him. He’s coming, we know he’s coming, and that’s that. I’m sure he and the first lady will make every attempt to disrupt as little as possible.”

“Annabel is right,” Nicki said. “Let’s view this positively and enjoy the honor it means to us and the opera. I also suggest that we immediately select someone to coordinate the president’s appearance. Annabel? It sounds like a job you’d be more than qualified to handle.”

Annabel started to demur, but others seconded the suggestion.

“Will you do it, Annabel?”

“I’ll give it my best,” she said.

“All right, then,” Nicki said, “let’s get down to the other business at hand. I’m pleased to announce that the strike has ended at the manufacturer of our velvet goodie bags. He’s confident he’ll be able to meet our deadline. I might also say that…”

Pawkins headed for Takoma Park, where he found Chris Warren accompanying a young, black soprano from the Domingo-Cafritz Program. Pawkins sat quietly in a corner of the otherwise empty rehearsal room and listened to her tackle
“Marten aller Arten,”
a challenging aria from Mozart’s
Abduction from the Seraglio. Not bad,
he thought, although he considered her voice to be characteristically light. Too many light voices being developed in America, he mused, too many young sopranos being fed a diet of Mozart arias to develop airy, nimble voices; constricted, compacted voices; “sausage sopranos,” as they were snidely called. He preferred bigger voices, the kind European opera audiences responded to, older voices—but not too old—capable of filling a large opera house while plumbing the depths of their roles.

When the soprano and Warren finished the piece, Pawkins applauded, startling the performers and causing them to squint to better see into the dark recess where he sat. He approached. “Bravo!” he said, his hands still coming together.

“Thank you,” the singer said.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Pawkins said.

“You aren’t. I’m off to a class.”

Warren started to walk away with her, when Pawkins said, “Got a minute, Mr. Warren?”

The pianist turned. “Who are you?”

“Raymond Pawkins,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m investigating the murder of Charise Lee for the Washington National Opera.”

“I’ve already been interviewed by the police,” Warren said.

Pawkins cocked his head and leaned a little closer to Warren. “Accident?” he asked, referring to Warren’s facial bruises.

Warren shook his head.

“I’m a private detective, former Washington MPD. Let’s sit over there.” He indicated a well-worn, red velour couch against a wall behind the Steinway.

“I have nothing more to say,” Warren protested.

“Maybe, maybe not,” replied Pawkins. “Come on, indulge me a few minutes.”

They sat side by side on the couch. Warren’s nerves were on the surface. He kept intertwining his long fingers, and there was a tic in his right eye. Pawkins said nothing, allowing the pianist’s nerves to come full-blossom. Finally, he said, “So, Mr. Warren, tell me about this radical group you and Ms. Lee were involved with back in Toronto.”

Warren’s expression was a mix of surprise and confusion.

“You know what I’m talking about, and I know about it, too. So, let’s make this a short and sweet conversation. How involved was Ms. Lee in the group’s activities?”

“She—she was into it, I suppose.”

“‘Into it’? Be a little more specific.”

“She was always latching on to some new cause. Seemed like whoever she talked to last was the one she listened to.”

“A Dionysian personality,” Pawkins said.

“Huh?”

“Easily influenced, probably easily hypnotized, too. What was her latest cause before coming here to D.C.?”

Warren shrugged. “The war, I guess.”

“Iraq.”

“Yeah. She was really hot over that. Look, I have to go. I have a class, too, and—”

“Sure,” said Pawkins. “You go ahead.”

Warren stood, cradling sheet music to his chest, and took a step away.

“One last thing,” Pawkins said.

Warren turned.

“How did you react when Ms. Lee dumped you for the Arab guy?”

“She didn’t—I didn’t—I wasn’t dumped.”

“I hear different.”

“Oh, man, I can see where you’re going with this,” Warren said. “For your information, I was the one who broke off the relationship, not Charise.”

“Because she was seeing the Arab guy behind your back?”

Warren seemed to be searching for something intelligent to say. Failing, he left the room, causing Pawkins to grin. He’d gotten to him, and he had no doubt that there had been bad blood between the pianist and Charise over the breakup of their romance. Motive to kill her? You bet. Hell hath no fury like a piano player scorned.

He called Carl Berry’s office at MPD and was told the detective was unavailable. “Tell him Ray Pawkins called and was hoping to have lunch with him. I’ll try again later.”