“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.”
Willie asked, “Where were you the night Ms. Lee was killed?”
“I was…Let me see. I believe I was right here at the hotel.”
“All night?”
“Most of it. I went out for dinner.”
“Where?”
“Oh, Lord, can I remember? Oh, yes, I had dinner at a lovely Thai restaurant. What’s the name? Oh, yes, Bua. It isn’t far from the hotel.”
“Were you with anyone?” Sylvia asked.
“No. I dined alone. Do you like Thai food?”
Sylvia shot a glance at Willie, whose expression said it all.
“Did you see Ms. Lee that night?” Sylvia asked.
“No,” Baltsa answered immediately.
“When did you arrive in D.C.?” Willie asked.
“On the afternoon of that fateful day. Tell me, have you made any progress in finding her murderer?”
“How come you didn’t get together with Ms. Lee?” Willie asked, ignoring her question. “Isn’t that why you came to D.C.?”
“Yes, of course it was. I—we couldn’t find her.”
“Nobody knew where she was?” Sylvia said.
“No. We checked with her roommate, Christopher Warren. He’s a pianist, another of our clients.”
“Yeah, we’ve met,” Willie said.
“He hadn’t seen her all day.”
“You flew in with your partner?”
“No. Philip came here the day before. He had some business at the opera that didn’t involve me.”
“He stays at the apartment Ms. Lee shares with the piano player.”
“That’s righ
t.”
“How come he doesn’t stay here?”
“You’ll have to ask him.” Her nicely plucked eyebrows went up. “We’re not lovers,” she said. “We’re business partners, that’s all.”
Talk turned to the victim and the sort of person she was. Baltsa had only praise for the young opera student, personally and professionally. Toward the end of her soliloquy, she mentioned Charise’s parents. “Her father is a horrible man,” she said. “He abused Charise terribly.”
“Physical abuse?” Sylvia asked. “Sexual?”
“I don’t know about sexual,” she replied, “but he was physically abusive. Psychologically, too. It’s a miracle she turned out the way she did. That’s why she moved out of her home and in with us.”
“Us?”
“Me. I took her in and provided a safe and secure home, a nurturing one in which she could focus on her talent and future in opera, voice and acting lessons, fitness training, anything she would need when she launched her professional career.”
Willie stood, stretched, and strolled around the large room. “Don’t mind me. I’ve got a bad back that acts up when I sit too long.” “Bad backs,” Zöe said, exhaling as though to expel the thought.
“Nothing worse. I’ve suffered with one for years. Thank God for my chiropractor, Dr. Tim. I see him almost daily when I’m in Toronto.”
The hour passed quickly, and was interrupted by Melincamp’s arrival.
“Stay away long enough?” he asked.
“We’re just about finished,” Sylvia said.
“And now I suppose you want me to leave,” Zöe said.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Sylvia replied.
She gathered her purse and was about to leave when Willie, who’d just come out of the bathroom, said, “How did you pay for your dinner at that Thai place? You use a credit card?”
“I think I did.”
“Got the receipt?”
She rummaged through her bag, found it, and handed it to him.
“Satisfied?” she said, annoyed.
“Thanks,” he said. “Anybody with you at the hotel after you came back from dinner?”
“No. I exercised here in the room, watched part of a dreadful movie, and—oh, I’m sure you want the name of the movie. I have no idea what it was. You can check the TV listings in the paper.”
She left, less sanguine than she’d been during the interview.
They went over the same ground with Melincamp.
He’d met with an administrator from the Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program on the day of Charise’s murder, and provided a name to the detectives. That night he’d had dinner at Tosca.
“Tosca?” Willie said. “That’s the opera.”
Melincamp laughed. “Yes, I know,” he said. “I’d not been there before and thought I had to try it, considering the name. The chef’s daughter, I was told, is named Tosca. I just hope she doesn’t meet the same fate as Madame Tosca in the opera.”
A receipt? “No, I paid cash.” Unusual to be on business and not document a meal with a credit card. “I try to pay cash whenever I can.” No receipt for your files? “I don’t remember whether I asked for one or not.” Anyone likely to remember you there? “Absolutely. I engaged in conversation with a few members of the staff.” The rest of the evening? A sheepish grin. “I went to a topless bar—please don’t tell Zöe, she wouldn’t understand. I find such places interesting. The sort of people who frequent them are fascinating.”
“I know what you mean,” Willie said. “And I always buy Playboy for the articles.”
Sylvia smiled at the ironic comment as she said, “Mr. Melincamp, about Charise Lee. What sort of young woman was she? Did you know her friends and boyfriends? Was Mr. Warren a lover?”
Melincamp turned to Willie, who stood by a window. “I believe I already told you, Detective, that Chris and Charise were far too busy pursuing their careers to become romantically involved.”
Portelain nodded. “Yeah, he told me that, Sylvia.”
“What about her family life?”
Melincamp raised his eyebrows. “Not a very wholesome one, I’m afraid. It got so bad that we had Charise move in with us.”
“You and Ms. Baltsa?”
“Well, she actually moved in with Zöe.”
“I see. What was wrong with her family life?”
The agent painted a picture that was basically in tune with what his partner had told them. But he added, “Frankly, I never really believed that Charise’s father abused her. I mean, he’s an old Jewish guy with old-world ideas and values. Always citing the Holocaust. At least that’s what Charise said. I think he tried to impose strict standards on Charise and she rebelled, like kids do. I mean, that’s my own personal opinion. Zöe, she—well, she wanted Charise to live with her so she could keep an eye on her night and day, so she bought her claims that the father was abusive. I’d just as soon Zöe not know I said that. Look, Charise was high-strung, as most gifted artists are, especially female artists. She was hanging around with the wrong crowd and…”
“And what?” Johnson said.
“I shouldn’t be talking this way,” Melincamp said.
“Why not?”
“I don’t like to be judgmental.”
They continued the interview until Baltsa returned. “Did he say nice things about me?” she asked pleasantly.
“We didn’t talk about you,” Willie replied. “Thanks for your time. We’ll be in touch again.”
“Are we now free to leave Washington?” Baltsa asked.
“You always were,” Johnson said.
“We have no intention of leaving,” Melincamp said, eliciting a harsh look from Baltsa. “The least we can do is stand by to be of help to law enforcement in every way possible. We owe that to Charise.”
“Well,” Sylvia Johnson said, “that’s admirable. Have a nice evening.”
“Let me order for you,” Sylvia offered when Willie complained that nothing on the menu at Bistro Med appealed. She ordered an appetizer—to share—of fried zucchini pancakes with yogurt garlic sauce; two entrées of steamed pinto beans tossed with carrots, celery, tomatoes, and fresh dill; and “Very Berry and Apple Kiwi” salads. Willie’s face indicated his unhappiness.
“I know one thing,” he said when the waiter left to put in their orders and they returned to discussing their interview with Melincamp and Baltsa, “claiming they don’t get it on together is bull. You pick up on all those slips? ‘We’ instead of ‘me’? ‘Us’?”
“Yup.”
“Besides, there’s men’s clothing in the closet. I checked.”
“I knew you would.”
“And his not wanting her to know he hit a topless joint after dinner. Why would she care if they’re just business partners? There’s lots he doesn’t want her to know. You pick up on that?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Also took a look in the bathroom. Man, that lady’s got enough makeup stuff to do a thousand clowns.”
“Don’t exaggerate, Willie.”
“I’m not. Whoever killed that Ms. Lee shoved a sponge in the wound to keep her from bleeding all over everything. Am I right?”
“Of course you’re right.”
“So, that Ms. Baltsa has got herself a few sponges of her own.”
“So what? Lots of women have some sort of a sponge to apply makeup.”
“You use a sponge to put on your makeup?”
“No.”
“See what I mean?” He pulled a large sponge from his raincoat pocket and handed it to her. “I figured it wouldn’t hurt to check hers against what was stuffed in that poor kid.”
“Willie, you didn’t!”
“Sure did. Let me tell you something else. Somebody’s lying about when Melincamp arrived in D.C. He told me the first time I talked to him that he flew in the day she was murdered. Baltsa says he came a day before.”
“Why didn’t you bring it up with him?”
“Didn’t think of it
until just now. Here’s the appetizers. Looks…uh, good.”
He tried to kiss her good night when he dropped her in front of her apartment building, but she evaded his lips. “Cool it, Willie,” she said.
“Invite me up for a nightcap?”
“Sorry,” she said.
His laugh was more of a growl. “Like I always say, pretty lady, when Willie’s body says it needs something, I always try to accommodate.”
“Well, you’ll just have to accommodate it with someone else. Thanks for picking up the tab for dinner. Enjoy it?”
“I feel healthier already.”
As she watched him drive away, she wondered whether he’d turn the corner and pull into the first fast-food restaurant he could find. She had to smile. She liked Willie Portelain, liked him a lot. He was a good man and a good cop. Not her type, but she’d been having trouble lately finding “her type.”
She dressed for bed and settled in a chair in the living room to watch television. She was restless. She would have liked to find her soul mate and settle into a long-term, loving relationship, maybe get married and have a couple of kids before it was too late. She’d recently met a couple of men who were her type—at least they seemed to be at first blush—but the minute she mentioned that she was a cop, things changed. Out came the lame jokes about a female packing heat (Ho, ho, ho), and dumb questions about what it was like to shoot somebody. Truth was, she’d never even unholstered her weapon since becoming a cop, at least not with the serious intent of shooting someone.
Tired of such ruminations, and hungry, she went to the kitchen, where she smeared peanut butter and jelly on Ritz crackers and poured a glass of milk. Like Willie Portelain was fond of saying, when your body says it needs something, you have to oblige.
TWENTY-THREE
Arthur and Pamela Montgomery, president of the United States and first lady, returned to their living quarters in the White House after having hosted a state dinner for Canada’s prime minister. The first couple enjoyed such events. President Montgomery was a gregarious host who took pleasure in bantering with guests, especially peers from other nations. His wife was equally at ease with a roomful of strangers. Her social secretary was adept at preparing a talking points list for the couple prior to social affairs, complete with a dossier on each guest that included special interests to be woven into conversations. The White House hadn’t had as smooth and erudite a couple in decades, or one as good-looking. Montgomery was movie-star handsome, his wife possessing the sort of quiet, staunch beauty that graced films in the forties and fifties. A formidable pair.
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