Murder at the Opera: A Capital Crimes Novel

by Margaret Truman

  “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.

  “No, of course not.” He stepped aside to allow the lumbering detective to enter the small living room, which seemed even smaller when preempted by Willie’s large body. As he surveyed the room, Portelain asked, “When is Mr. Warren coming back?”

  “I don’t know. He’s playing a rehearsal at Takoma Park.”

  “I didn’t catch your name,” Portelain said, pulling out a notebook and pen.

  “Melincamp. Philip Melincamp.”

  “You knew the deceased pretty well,” Willie said.

  “Yes, of course. A good agent knows his clients. At least he’d better.” He made a sound that passed for a laugh.

  “You, ah, you live here in D.C.?”

  “No. Toronto. My agency is in Toronto. Charise and Chris are both from there.”

  “You’re visiting.”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Warren, he’s a piano player.”

  “He’s a pianist. A very fine one.”

  “I don’t see a piano here.”

  Melincamp sighed. “I was lucky to find this apartment for them, with or without a piano. He does all his practicing at Takoma Park.”

  “Uh-huh.” Portelain noted the agent’s comment. “His roommate gets killed and he’s off playing for some rehearsal?”

  “He didn’t want to, but I encouraged him. There was nothing to be gained by staying here. Music would be an escape from this dreadful thing that’s happened.”

  “Mind if I sit?” Portelain asked. “My back’s been acting up.”

  “No, of course not.”

  Melincamp removed a pile of sheet music from a well-worn, once-red love seat and motioned for the detective to sit. The couch’s cushions looked soft and puffy. Willie hesitated. He’d have trouble getting up from them, he decided, and remained standing. “When did you arrive in D.C.?” he asked, leaning against a windowsill.

  “Yesterday. My partner and I arrived yesterday.”

  “You have a partner?”

  “Yes.”

  “What hotel you staying at?”

  “I’m not staying at a hotel. I’m staying here.”

  Portelain raised his eyebrows for a sweep of the room. Melincamp grasped what the detective was thinking. “The couch,” he said. “Pulls out into a bed. Charise and Chris each have a bedroom back there.” He pointed to two closed doors off the living room. “Your colleagues—I suppose that’s what they’re called—were here last night and searched the bedrooms. They left a mess.”

  “That so?” Portelain said. “Evidence techs are usually pretty neat. You can lodge a complaint.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Your partner staying here, too?”

  “No. She prefers a hotel. There’s only room for one of us here.”

  Willie’s feet and back were bothering him now and he decided the couch would have to do. He sank into it, struggled to come forward, and managed a position that wasn’t too uncomfortable. “What’s your partner’s name?” He asked.

  “Zöe Baltsa.”

  He wrote the name in his notebook, spelling it phonetically. “So, tell me, Mr. Melincamp, when was the last time you saw the deceased?”

  “She may be dead,” the agent said, “but she still has a name. Ms. Lee, you mean.”

  “Okay. Ms. Lee.”

  Melincamp said, “I didn’t mean to offend.”

  “Takes a lot to offend me,” Portelain said. “Been offended by the best offenders. When you see her last?”

  “A week ago.”

  “A week ago? You didn’t see her last night? Yesterday?”

  “No. Zöe and I arrived yesterday with the intention to spend time with her. Chris was worried. Charise hadn’t shown up in class or for her costume fitting yesterday afternoon. I was worried, too. Looks like I had reason to be.”

  Portelain thought for a moment about the questions he’d intended to ask. “Did Ms. Lee and her roommate, this guy Chris, have more of a relationship than just sharing an apartment?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, were they boyfriend and girlfriend?”

  Melincamp guffawed. “Of course not. They were both focused on their careers. Chris aspires to become an accompanist for singers. He’s remarkably talented. Charise had the whole world in front of her. My God, what magnificent music came from that little girl. I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years as a singer’s agent.”

  “What about other guys? She must have had boyfriends.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Melincamp responded.

  “Sure you would,” Portelain said. “Like you told me, a good agent gets to know his clients real well.”

  “There are limits,” Melincamp said. “I don’t pry into their private lives.”

  Portelain jotted nonsense in his notebook, not because he needed a written record of what was said, but because he was deciding where to next take the conversation. He looked up at Melincamp. “I’d like to see her bedroom,” he said.

  “Why? They were all over it last night.”

  “Indulge me,” said Portelain, getting up with an audible “Oomph.”

  Melincamp pointed to one of the closed doors. “In there. That was her room.”

  Portelain o
pened Ms. Lee’s bedroom door and observed without entering. It was a tiny space. A single twin bed took up one half. He noted that the bed was stripped, probably by the evidence techs, who would want the sheets and pillowcase for analysis. He stepped inside, and banged his shin against the bed’s footboard, eliciting a burst of four-letter words under his breath. A small, white dresser was against the wall. He opened its drawers. Empty. He turned and looked at the opposite wall, on which opera posters were attached with pushpins. He recognized one name, La Boheme.

  “Anything else?” Melincamp asked from the doorway.

  “No, that’s about it,” Portelain said. “I’d like to talk to your partner, and Mr. Warren.” He handed Melincamp his card. “Have them call me to set up an interview.”

  “All right,” the agent said, “although I assure you, they know nothing that would be of help to you.”

  Portelain ignored the disclaimer, thanked Melincamp for his time, and returned to his car, parked a half block away. He squeezed behind the wheel and made further notes before turning the ignition and pulling into traffic. It was almost eleven, which posed a dilemma. He was hungry, but wanted to wait until noon—conventional lunchtime—before eating again. Stopped at a light, he opened the glove compartment, found a Snickers bar, and savored it.

  ELEVEN

  Sylvia Johnson extracted cash from an ATM before heading for Takoma Park. Dressed in tight, cream-colored slacks, a cinnamon T-shirt, a rust-colored button-down shirt worn loose and open, and black pumps, she garnered her usual number of turned male heads as she walked down the street and entered the bank. Her ebony coloring—face, body, and hair—was exotic, memorable, and altogether stunning. She walked with purpose, long-legged strides, head held regally, a woman to be reckoned with, a splendid specimen. She’d once been approached by a photographer who’d spotted her at a Maryland beach and wanted to feature her in a Playboy spread. She declined, not because of modesty or morality, but for three more pragmatic reasons: her mother would be horrified; MPD brass wouldn’t be pleased; and she didn’t want her cop colleagues to see her in the buff. Other than that, the offer had a certain appeal.

  With a fresh hundred dollars in her purse, she returned to First District headquarters, where she checked out an unmarked blue Chevy sedan from the motor pool, headed up 16th Street to the Opera’s rehearsal space, took a right at Walter Reed Medical Center, soon to be demolished in favor of a more modern veterans’ health facility, and arrived at WNO’s Takoma Park building. She’d considered calling ahead but decided there might be more to gain by simply showing up. It was often more productive that way.

  A marked patrol car with two uniformed officers sat near the entrance to the parking lot adjacent to the building. Johnson pulled up next to it and rolled down her window.

  “Hey, Detective Johnson, you caught this case, huh?” the driver asked.

  “Looks like it, with Willie Portelain. Carl Berry’s the lead. Anybody inside?”

  “Nah. A couple of evidence guys were here earlier, cleaning out her locker, stuff like that. They told us to sit here.” He laughed. “That’s it, just sit here.”

  Johnson knew why they were here. Department brass had recently initiated a policy of dispatching marked cars to places under investigation to create a visible police presence, more for PR purposes than anything. A TV remote truck and a couple of cars containing print reporters were parked across the street. Hopefully, video of the police vehicle on the evening news would establish that MPD was on the case.

  She left her vehicle next to the squad car and entered the building, where she displayed her badge as an introduction. “I’d like to speak with whomever’s in charge of the Young Artist Program.”

  “Is anyone expecting you?”

  “No, but that’s okay.”

  The receptionist placed a call. When she hung up, she said, “Ms. McCarthy will be out shortly.” She lowered her voice. “Have you found the killer yet?”

  “We’re working on it,” Johnson said. “Did you know the victim?”

  “Sure. She was here every day. She was so nice, a really great gal. And talented, too.”

  “So I understand. But she must have had some enemies, someone she didn’t get along with.”

  The receptionist’s face twisted in thought. “I can’t think of anybody,” she said.

  “Did you socialize with her?” Johnson asked.

  “No. Well, we had coffee together sometimes, and I got to go to some events where she was performing.”

  “I’ve seen pictures of her,” said Johnson. “She was very pretty, must have had plenty of guys hitting on her.”

  The receptionist started to reply, when a woman entered the area and extended her hand to Johnson. “I’m Louise McCarthy, assistant to the director of the Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program.”

  “Can we speak privately?” Johnson asked.

  “Sure. We’ll go to my office.”

  After some preliminary conversation about the program and Ms. McCarthy’s role in it, Johnson got to the point. “I need to know everything there is to know about Charise Lee.”

  “Whew,” McCarthy said. “Everything?”

  Johnson nodded, a notebook on her lap, pen poised.

  “Where do I begin? You must understand that any knowledge I have of Charise is from my dealings with her in the program. We weren’t friends in the usual sense. My role is as an administrator.”

  “Let’s start there,” said Johnson. “What sort of a student was she?”

  “In what way?”

  “Serious? Not so serious? A rule breaker? In trouble? Abrasive? Get along with others?”

  McCarthy’s responses were uniformly positive.

  “Did she have any friends? Close ones?”

  “I, ah—I suppose so.”

  “The reason I ask is that from what I’ve heard about opera singers, they tend to be temperamental and high-strung.”

  McCarthy laughed. “I suppose some are,” she said, “but our students are encouraged to get along with one another.”

  “But there has to be some jealousy among them,” Johnson offered.

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” McCarthy replied, not sounding as though she meant it.

  Johnson decided to change the subject. “When did you last see Ms. Lee?”

  “I really don’t remember. I know she didn’t show up for classes yesterday, because one of her instructors reported it to the office.”

  “Did she miss many classes?”

  “No” was accompanied by a shake of the head. “Her attendance record was good, I think. I can check.”

  “Please do.”

  McCarthy opened a file drawer behind her desk, removed a folder, and looked at it. “No,” she said, replacing the file and closing the door. “Her attendance record is about average.”

  Johnson smiled. “You make it sound as though an average attendance record means missing a lot of classes.”

  “I don’t want to mislead you,” McCarthy said. “Singers in the program—all opera singers, for that matter—are naturally concerned with their voices. They’re blessed with wonderful voices and take very good care of them. Charise missed her share of classes for medical reasons. She’d been seeing one of the physicians at George Washington University’s Voice Treatment Center. They’re tops in their field. Many of our students have doctors there.”

  “I see,” Johnson said, noting what McCarthy had said. “Who else can I talk to, someone who was particularly close to Ms. Lee.”

  “Let me think,” McCarthy said. “There’s Chris Warren. He and Charise are both from Toronto. They roomed together.”

  Johnson nodded. Warren was who Portelain had been told to interview.

  “Their agent would probably have more to offer than anyone. He’s from Toronto, too. His name is Melincamp. Philip Melincamp. He has a partner, who might be able to help you. Her name is Zöe Baltsa.”

  Johnson noted the names, closed her notebook, and stood. “I apprec
iate your time, Ms. McCarthy. Here’s my card. Please call if you think of anything that might be of interest, if anyone else goes missing.” She’d picked up the “gone missing” elocution from a British cop show.

  “Of course. All I can say is that I hope you find who killed Charise, and do it fast. Having some nut wandering around the Kennedy Center killing young women is setting everyone on edge.”

  “We’ll do our best. Now, I’d like to see the facility.”

  “I’ll be happy to show you anything you’d like, Detective.”

  After an impromptu half-hour tour, which included the costume rooms, they ended up in one of the rehearsal spaces, where a young woman practiced an aria, accompanied by a pianist.

  “That’s Christopher Warren,” McCarthy told Johnson, referring to the pianist.

  “Ms. Lee’s roommate.”

  “Yes.”

  Obviously Willie wasn’t questioning him. Next thought: What was he doing here playing the piano so soon after his roommate had been murdered?

  “I’d like to speak with him,” she told McCarthy.

  “I’ll go tell him.”

  “No,” Johnson said, “I’ll wait until they’re finished. I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

  She and McCarthy took seats across the large space from the performers.

  “It’s beautiful,” Johnson said. “I don’t know that song.”

  “It’s an aria from Donizetti’s Lucia. ‘Regnava nel silenzio,’ I believe.”

  Like most Americans, Johnson’s exposure to opera was nonexistent, aside from those occasional snippets that managed to slip into the public vocabulary. She closed her eyes and allowed the sheer power and beauty of the singer’s voice to penetrate her senses. She loved music, and had enjoyed the usual teenager’s dream of becoming a rock star. But she didn’t like rock ’n’ roll, nor did hip-hop or rap appeal. Her tastes tended to female jazz singers like Ella Fitzgerald and Sarah Vaughan, Nancy Wilson and Billie Holiday. But while listening to the opera singer she recognized that this was, indeed, something special. How could anyone, male or female, produce such sounds? Singers like this must be aberrations, physical freaks, their superior vocal apparatus a gift from above. From God? Her mother would claim that, although Matilda Johnson’s daughter wasn’t sure, and probably never would be. It was hard to believe in a God while working Washington, D.C.’s mean streets, on which lives were taken for a pair of sneakers, or over petty jealousies.