He watched her wiggle away and thought that maybe this was his lucky night, not because he might end up in bed with her, but because her ex-husband had “big ones.” He reentered the theater with renewed vigor.
The infusion of money by his new partner worked wonders to turn around the Melincamp Artists Agency’s financial picture. Now the Baltsa-Melincamp Artists Agency, its run-down offices were abandoned in favor of space in a downtown high-rise more befitting a talent agency “of world renown.” Zöe hadn’t exaggerated about her husband’s money. It seemed endless, and she spent it freely, hosting expensive fetes for her rich friends and opera patrons, draping herself in the latest designer clothing, and traveling the globe to, she claimed, find the world’s most promising future opera stars. She forged alliances with arts centers in myriad countries—England, France, Italy, Norway, and Sweden, and some in the Middle East, including Egypt, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia, where she’d befriended a sheik reputed to be worth a couple of billion dollars, give or take a million. A full-time publicist was put on the payroll to extol Zöe’s exploits in the media. She was invited to opening nights in dozens of cities, invitations she gobbled up with glee, her publicist always at her side to generate local press.
For Melincamp, having taken her on as a partner proved to be both a blessing and a curse. The terms of their written contract, drawn by one of her attorneys, read like a prenuptial agreement. She named herself president and executive director of the agency in the contract, and had final say over all agency expenditures. In effect, Melincamp had been relegated to junior partner status, his role to run the office administratively, including a small division he’d started pre-Baltsa, “Reach for the Stars.” Talent was invited to submit tapes for “expert evaluation and a possible contract.” It was akin to literary agents charging a fee to read a manuscript, or alleged talent agents for kids collecting fees from hopeful parents in exchange for “professional photographs and possible modeling assignments.”
Although he often expressed dissatisfaction to friends, he wasn’t all that unhappy with the arrangement. Zöe was away most of the time burnishing her image, her absences welcome. She was, as far as Melincamp was concerned, the nastiest woman he’d ever known, and he’d known a few in his life. She was overbearing, demanding, and had a mean streak that resulted in his ducking more than one missile thrown his way. She was also one of the most prejudiced people he’d ever met, with a bad word for virtually every minority. She was antiblack and anti-Semitic, but reserved those judgments for when she and Melincamp were alone together. In public, she was amiable and all-embracing, a nonsinging diva with an outsized ego and a willingness to indulge it at every whim.
But as a practiced pragmatist, he’d put up with it. Why not? Although the terms of their agreement gave her the lion’s share of any profits, and he was on salary, he still had more walking around money than when he was scraping for funds to pay the rent. His love life had picked up, too. Occasionally, they’d end up in bed together when the mood struck her, which wasn’t often. There was no seduction involved. She wanted sex at that moment, and he was handy. Could be worse, he reasoned. He’d made a pact with a she-devil. So what? Sometimes you had to do what you had to do. But that didn’t need to be forever. There was a clause allowing him to buy back her stake in the agency, and he dreamt of one day invoking it. It was far out of his reach financially, and he didn’t know whether he’d ever have enough money to walk in one day, slap a fat envelope on her desk, and say, “Hasta la vista, baby. You’ve got until five this afternoon to be gone. Gone! Hee-haw!”
Zöe flounced into the restaurant twenty minutes later and joined him at the small bar. She pulled a cigarette from her purse and lit it, the smoke drifting and causing him to cough. It wouldn’t matter if they changed seats. The smoke would come his way no matter where he sat. Of the things he disliked about Washington, D.C., its liberal smoking policy in bars was high on the list.
“So,” she said after a series of rapid puffs and a determined crushing of the half-consumed cigarette in an ashtray, “tell me where you’ve been.”
“Where I’ve been? I’ve been at the apartment. I babysat Christopher until I got him to pull himself together and go to Takoma Park to rehearse with that no-talent Italian mezzo. That’s where I’ve been. Oh, and I spent a very unpleasant half hour with a big, black detective who grilled me like I was some drug dealer or child molester. I got out of there the minute he left.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him I hadn’t seen Charise since we arrived.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What did he say?”
“Look, Zöe, this is not the time or place for me to give you a play-by-play of what happened. He’ll want to talk with you.”
“Why?”
“Because he—”
“You told him I was here in D.C.?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because—because he would have found out anyway. Are you hungry? I never had lunch.”
“No. There’s a flight from National to Toronto at nine. I suggest we be on it.”
“We can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because it will look suspicious if we leave. You know how cops think. If we leave, they’ll think we had something to do with Charise’s murder. Leaving is the worst thing we can do. We stay, talk to them all they want, and then we leave.”
She lit another cigarette. “Maybe you’re right,” she said.
“I know I’m right. They make a great shrimp Fra Diavolo here. It’s good with pizza bianca. Wine? Red or white?”
“How can you think of food?” she said, disgust in her voice and on her heavily made-up face.
Melincamp stared at her. The smoke from her cigarette still stung his eyes, and he turned away. He had two urges at that moment. The first was to punch her in the face. But that wouldn’t have been appreciated in a public place. The second was to announce to her that it wouldn’t be long before she was past-tense, that he’d soon have enough money to buy her out. Maybe he’d punch her before laying that news on her, he thought. That contemplation made him feel better. He called for a waiter and ordered shrimp Fra Diavolo and a small pizza bianca.
“Oh, Gawd!” she said.
“And red wine,” he said. “The house wine will be fine.”
Pizza was also on the menu at the Department of Homeland Security.
Immediately after his announcement, Secretary Murtaugh had left for a meeting at the White House with President Montgomery and members of his National Security staff. Those in the Nebraska Complex who’d crunched the intelligence for their boss took a breather. Pizza was ordered in, prepared by a neighborhood shop that had been cleared to deliver food to the offices. Over pepperoni and mushroom slices and soft drinks, they discussed the information they’d received, upon which they’d based their recommendation that the color be changed on the Lifesaver, known as the threat barometer.
“I hope it’s not another hoax,” one said as he tried to dab away tomato sauce.
“Not this time,” a colleague said. “Our guy in Amman—the Brit, M.T.—says his source is highly credible. We met the source, remember? The Arab kid who’d studied here. He went through the training, spoke really good English.”
“Yeah, I remember him,” said one of the men at the table. “Name was—ah, Gallop, something like that.”
“Right. Martone recruited him.”
Another analyst at the table laughed. “So M.T. says Gallop, or whatever the hell his name is, came up with good info from this Iraqi he turned. Why the hell is it that we put more stock in what British Intelligence says than we do in our own?”
“Because they talk better,” someone said. “They sound more believable, the King’s English and all.” He did a poor imitation of a British accent.
“Yeah, maybe so, but this guy’s been pretty good. He—”
Their banter was interrupted by a message
received over a secured line. The analyst who’d expressed confidence in the British contact in Jordan read it, scowled, and angrily tossed it on the table. It landed in the almost empty pizza box, picking up a greasy red stain at its corner, like blood. The others read it, too.
“Damn,” the first reader of the message said. “Looks like Mr. Gallop didn’t cover his tracks good enough. Our British friend will have to get himself another source.” He got up from the table, took the message from the last person to have read it, and started from the room.
“I’d better run this upstairs.”
FIFTEEN
Portelain and Johnson stopped at a fast-food outlet, where the portly Portelain downed a chili dog with relish (in both senses of the word) while his comely female partner sipped a Diet Pepsi and watched him enjoy his snack.
“Best in the whole damn city,” he proclaimed.
“If you say so,” she said. “Come on. Let’s pick up the Warren kid before he decides to cool off back in Canada.”
“I’ll bet it is cooler up there,” Portelain said, wiping perspiration from his brow as they headed for their car.
“I didn’t mean the weather,” she said, slipping into the passenger seat while he wedged himself behind the wheel. They drove to N Street and parked at a hydrant in front of the four-story gray building.
“This is it?” Johnson asked, her eyes automatically sweeping the scene in search of potential trouble.
“This is where the man lives,” said Portelain. “Where the victim lived, too. And their manager when he’s in town.”
“The apartment’s that big?”
“No. Tiny little place, but it’s got two bedrooms—closets used as bedrooms is more like it—and a pullout couch in the living room.”
“Cozy,” she said.
“Crowded,” he corrected. “Let’s go. Hope the dude’s home.”
Portelain was about to open his door when Johnson’s hand on his arm stopped him. “There he is,” she said, pointing to Warren, who’d come around the corner.
“Doesn’t look like a piano player to me,” Portelain said.
“What’s a piano player supposed to look like?” she asked.
“I don’t know, little and nerdy, long hair, weird.”
She didn’t bother debating the stereotype as Warren reached the building’s entrance, paused, and noticed the unmarked, illegally parked vehicle. He squinted to see through the tinted glass.
“Let’s take him,” Portelain said.
“Looks like we won’t have to,” Johnson said as Warren approached the car.
Johnson lowered her window. “Hello, Mr. Warren.”
“What are you, following me?” Warren asked, his lip curled.
“Just need to ask you a few questions,” Johnson replied.
“I’ve already told you, I have nothing to say.”
“That may be,” she said, “but we’d like to hear you say it again—for the record. Come on, get in. We’ll spend a few pleasant hours at headquarters and that’ll be it. Our boss is anxious to meet you.”
Warren guffawed, without humor.
“This my partner, Detective Portelain,” Johnson said. “He wanted to meet you, too.”
Warren, who cradled a thick file folder to the Mozart on the chest of his T-shirt, looked at Portelain. The detective smiled. The young Canadian stepped back from the open window, his expression reflecting his ambivalence. Portelain opened his door and got out. Warren continued backing away.
“Hey, man, don’t do somethin’ silly,” Portelain said as he came around the front of the car. Johnson, too, slipped out of the vehicle.
“Grab him,” Johnson said as Warren turned and started walking up the street at a brisk clip.
Portelain took off after him, taking heavy steps, walking as fast as he could. Johnson ran by him. Seeing her, Warren, too, began to run. Portelain progressed from walking to a lope. He stopped to pull his gun from its shoulder holster, and to take in some air. As he did, he saw Warren disappear around the corner, with Johnson close on his heels. “Oh, man,” Portelain said as he started moving again, hoping his partner could corral Warren. “Get him, baby,” he muttered as he reached the corner and peered down the cross street. Johnson stood on the sidewalk a hundred feet away. “He’s down there,” she yelled at her partner, pointing to a narrow alley that ran between buildings.
Portelain reached her, his breathing labored.
“In the alley,” she said, pointing again. “No way out.”
Portelain peered down the alley. It ended thirty feet away, at the rear wall of an apartment or commercial building. Both sides were lined with walls high enough to make scaling them virtually impossible unless the Canadian was Spider-Man.
People on the street became aware of the commotion and surrounded the two detectives. Portelain still held his revolver.
“Put it away, Willie,” Johnson said.
He followed her suggestion.
“He’s not armed,” she said.
“Hope not. We call for backup?”
“No.”
She stepped into the alley, with Portelain close behind.
“I made a collar in here once,” she said. “There’s that Dumpster and some garbage cans.”
“I see ’em,” Portelain confirmed, still breathing heavily, and wincing at a stitch in his side and a dull ache in his left arm.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Me? Hell, yes. Let’s go. We got a crowd.”
They took slow, tentative steps into the alley, each staying close to a wall and twelve feet from each other, eyes and ears on alert.
“Hey, dude,” Portelain barked. “Let’s not have anybody get hurt here. Let’s wise up and play it cool.”
There was no response.
They reached a point only a few feet from the Dumpster, overflowing with fragrant garbage, and glanced at each other. The sound of something hitting the Dumpster’s metal side caused them to stiffen.
“Look out!” Portelain yelled as Warren burst from behind the trash container and attempted to run between them. His sudden move caught Johnson by surprise, but Portelain reacted quickly, extending his sizable arm and catching Warren in the face, on the nose, sending the young man tumbling backwards, his head making hard contact with the Dumpster. Johnson immediately pulled cuffs from her belt and jumped on him, her knees pinning his arms to the concrete alley floor. Portelain stood over the fallen man’s head and said, “See what you done now, you dumb bastard? See the trouble you put us to?”
Warren’s response was an anguished cry, a combination of sob and fury. Portelain helped Johnson turn Warren over and she secured his wrists with the cuffs.
“Don’t hurt my hands,” he blubbered as they yanked him to his feet. Blood ran from his nose down over his mouth and chin and bloodied Mozart. They propelled him out of the alley, to where dozens of people watched.
“What did he do?” someone yelled.
“Who is he?”
Johnson and Portelain ignored the onlookers and pushed Warren down the street in the direction of their car.
Warren balked, and shouted, “Police brutality!”
A tall, heavyset man with a white beard and ponytail yelled to someone else in the crowd, “They beat the crap out of the guy.”
The detectives urged Warren forward. They turned the corner and were almost to the car when Portelain suddenly stopped.
“What’s the matter, Willie?” Johnson asked, her right hand gripping Warren’s cuffed wrist.
Portelain released his grasp of the manacles and sat heavily on a low stone wall. “Don’t feel good,” he rasped.
He’s having a heart attack, Johnson thought. “Wait here.” She pushed Warren to the car, where she opened a rear door and shoved him inside, facedown. She slammed the door shut and came around to the driver’s side, stopping only to glare at people who’d followed them. “Get away!” she commanded. With one eye on Warren, who struggled to right himself, she called Dispatch an
d asked for backup and an ambulance. Her request confirmed, she looked to where Portelain was still on the wall, head lowered, hands pressed against the top of the wall to support himself.
“I want a lawyer,” Warren said from the backseat. He now sat upright, his hands behind him. “I want somebody from the embassy. You can’t do this to me.”
“Shut up!” Johnson snapped. She was torn between staying with him and going to where Portelain sat.
She didn’t have to ponder that decision long because two squad cars and a city ambulance roared down the street, lights flashing, horns wailing, and came to a haphazard stop, blocking all traffic. Johnson grabbed the first uniformed officer she could and told him to watch Warren while she went to where two EMTs were talking with Portelain.
“You all right, Willie?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m all right,” he said. “Just got a pain, that’s all. Damned arthritis.”
Johnson took one of the EMTs aside and said, “Don’t listen to him. I think he’s having a coronary.”
“Why do you say that?” the EMT asked.
“Because—damn, just get him to a hospital.”
A few minutes later, Portelain, despite a series of vocal protests, was being slid on a gurney into the recesses of the ambulance. By now, the crowd had grown considerably and included a reporter from the Post and a TV crew. Johnson heard the female TV reporter ask no one in particular, “What happened here? What did you see?”
The big man with the white beard pushed his way to the front of the crowd and said, “This white guy was just minding his business when these two cops jump him and beat the living crap out of him.”
Someone else confirmed it.
The reporter spotted Johnson and started toward her. The detective waved her away and said to the uniformed cop standing guard over Warren, “Take him in and book him for resisting arrest and assaulting an officer. I’m going to the hospital with Willie.” She stopped the ambulance driver who was about to leave and said, “I’m his partner. I’m going with him.” She ran around to the rear, opened the door, and joined Portelain and the second EMT inside. “You’ll be okay, Willie,” she said, touching his hand. “You’ll be just fine.”
Murder at the Opera: A Capital Crimes Novel Page 10
