“Seems our diva in this production is unhappy with the soft drinks. They’re using Coke onstage for the drinking scenes. She’s a Pepsi fanatic and refuses to go on unless they change to Pepsi.”
“So,” Mac said, enjoying a final bite of crab cake, “give her Pepsi.”
“My thought exactly,” Pawkins said. He looked at his watch. “I’d better go. I’ve got a busy afternoon on tap.”
“Don’t let me stop you.”
Mac’s cell phone rang. It was Annabel. When the brief conversation was over, Mac said to Pawkins, “Annabel has just come from a meeting of the Opera Ball committee. I have a bit of scuttlebutt to report, too.”
“Oh?”
“Not only are the president and first lady attending the opening night of Tosca, they plan to make an appearance at the ball.”
“How did the ladies get so unlucky? It’ll be crawling with Secret Service.”
“I’m sure they’ll manage. Go ahead and run, Ray. I’m going to have coffee. The check is mine.”
“If you insist.” He started to get up, but sat down again. “Mind a word of advice, Mac Smith?”
“Depends on what it’s about.”
“Opera,” Pawkins said. “I couldn’t help but notice that purple sweater you wore last night at rehearsal.”
“Actually, it’s plum-colored, but go ahead.”
“It looked purple to me,” Pawkins said. “At any rate, purple is considered bad luck in opera.”
“Why?”
“I feel like I’m back on the witness stand,” said Pawkins. “But to answer your question, Counselor, purple denotes religion, and operas were not to denote religion in their themes and stories. Samson and Delila broke through that prohibition, but purple is still considered bad karma onstage.”
“I’ll certainly keep that in mind, Ray. I have a wonderful pair of purple cashmere socks I intended to wear on opening night. I suppose that’s out of the question now. Any other admonitions?”
“Just one. Never whistle when you’re on the deck.”
“More bad luck?”
“Right.”
“Why?”
“I plead the Fifth, meaning I don’t know. Thanks for lunch, Mac. See you at rehearsal.”
Smith watched the former detective stride from the restaurant, turning a few female eyes as he passed their tables. Mac’s feelings were mixed. On the one hand, he enjoyed Pawkins’ company and respected what the man had accomplished—decorated cop elevated to detective status early in his career, and the lead investigator in high-profile cases; successful private investigator specializing in stolen art; and myriad personal interests, including opera to the extent that he volunteered to be an extra—a super—in various productions. All in all, a full and diversified life made richer.
On the other hand, there was a piece missing, one that Mac couldn’t identify at the moment. Annabel had picked up on it even sooner. The self-assuredness and easy banter seemed, at least to Mac, to cover up a void of some sort. An emotional vacuum? Possibly. Pawkins had never married. Did that indicate an inability to truly connect with another person, to engage in the give-and-take necessary for successful relationships, whether heterosexual or homosexual? Mac wasn’t a fan of cheap-shot, pop psychology and avoided indulging in it. But understanding other human beings was crucial to his success as a criminal lawyer. That’s what trial law was all about, anticipating the opposition’s moves and preempting them, getting under the skin of a witness by pushing his or her right psychological buttons, knowing what made people tick and how to throw them off their stride. He was good at it, sometimes so good that it caused him moments of guilt. Justice wasn’t always served in a courtroom, not when good attorneys plied their trade and used the system as advocates for a side or point of view, even if it represented a miscarriage of justice. But that was the game, the profession, and Mackensie Smith had played it as well as any lawyer ever has.
Ray Pawkins. What was it that had stirred Annabel’s interest and extended her antennae? What was it that caused Mac a minor-league discomfort as he sipped his coffee and abandoned his resolve against dessert for warm flourless chocolate cake?
He’d been tempted more than once during lunch to mention the call from Marc Josephson, but didn’t. He had no reason to think that Josephson’s sudden trip to Washington had anything to do with Pawkins. But something inside said it might well involve the retired detective, and he walked back to the apartment with that unsettling thought very much on his mind.
TWENTY-FIVE
It had been a busy and frustrating morning at MPD for Carl Berry.
His superior, Cole Morris, had informed him that he was being pulled from the Charise Lee case, at least for the time being.
“Why?” Berry had asked. “I think we’re making progress.”
“I’m sure you are,” Morris said, “but I take orders like you do. They want a task force assembled to focus on the Lee case.”
Berry started to respond but Morris waved him off. “I know, I know,” he said, “it’s all PR. But we’re getting pressure from Justice and the Canadians to solve this thing, to say nothing of the press. A task force sounds like it’ll make a full-frontal assault, waves of cops swooping down on the culprit. At least that’s the way the public will perceive it. Let them make the announcement, enjoy the accolades, and things will get back to normal. Meantime, I want you to bring in Grimes.”
“He’s being charged with the Musinski murder?”
“He’s being told he’s being charged. We’ll see if that breaks him. I don’t know, Carl, the new forensic evidence is shaky. A good lawyer will poke holes in it like Swiss cheese. But it’s better than what we had before. Bring him in and we’ll see what falls.”
“I’ll send Willie and Sylvia, now that they’re off the Lee case.”
“Good, but tell Willie to go easy. I don’t need the threat of another brutality charge hanging over us.”
At one, Berry, Johnson, and Portelain sat in an MPD interrogation room with Edward Grimes, an adjunct professor of music history at Georgetown University. Grimes was, he claimed, thirty-six years old, but he looked older. He was of medium height, and deathly pale. Totally bald on top, he’d grown his hair long on the sides and back and secured it into a ragged ponytail, which only highlighted his baldness. He wore wrinkled chinos, sandals over white sweat socks, and a burgundy T-shirt with GEORGETOWN U on it in white. His rimless glasses were round, thick, and too small for his face. All in all, Berry decided, he was not a college professor out of Central Casting. He looked positively frightened as he sat across the scarred table from the three detectives. Johnson and Portelain had found him in his office at the school and brought him in without incident.
“I appreciate you coming in like this to talk to us,” Berry said pleasantly, as if welcoming a long-lost friend into his home.
“I don’t understand,” Grimes said. “This is very embarrassing. My colleagues saw me being led from my office by two detectives. I just don’t understand why I’m here.”
“Well,” said Berry, “we just wanted to ask you a few questions about Professor Musinski.”
“I knew it,” Grimes whined, wringing his hands. “I knew it. Why do you want to talk to me again about that dreadful thing? Professor Musinski was my friend. He mentored me. I loved him like a father.”
“I’ll be straight with you, Mr. Grimes. Or is it Professor Grimes?”
“I am a professor. Adjunct.”
“Not full,” Johnson said.
“That’s right. Next year. If things go well, I’ll be offered a full professorship. That’s why this is so terrible, bringing me here like this. What will they think of me at the school?”
“They won’t think nothin’ of you if you didn’t kill Musinski,” Portelain said flatly.
An anguished groan came from Grimes.
“Did you?” Berry asked.
“What? Kill Professor Musinski? Of course not. I swear to you I had nothing to do with it. He wa
s revered. I loved him—”
“Like a father,” Johnson finished the thought. She was unsmiling.
“Yes. Why won’t you believe me?”
“It isn’t that we don’t believe you, Professor Grimes,” Berry said. “We want to believe you. But there’s new evidence that causes us to have some doubts.”
“What evidence?” Grimes asked. “What new evidence could there possibly be?”
“DNA,” Berry replied. “We’ve found some on the fireplace poker that killed the professor.”
“It isn’t mine,” protested Grimes. “It can’t be mine. You tested everything six years ago when it happened. You said you found nothing to link me to his death.”
“True,” Johnson weighed in, “but that was six years ago. We were looking for prints back then and couldn’t match the partials on the weapon with you or anyone else.”
Berry added, “But new and more sophisticated DNA tests now tell us that you had contact with that poker. Why would you have had contact with it?”
A small, crooked smile suddenly came to Grimes’ lips. “You’re lying to me,” he said. “Even if I had touched that poker, my hands wouldn’t leave any DNA traces.”
“Maybe you drooled on it,” Portelain said.
“Sweat,” Johnson added.
“Why would you be handling a fireplace poker in that weather?” Berry asked.
“Unless—” Johnson said.
“I probably touched that poker other times when I visited with Dr. Musinski. Don’t you understand? I did not do this!”
“Some of your colleagues at the school say you and Musinski didn’t get along too good,” Willie said, basing the claim on nothing.
“Who said that?” Grimes asked.
“You read Professor Grimes his rights?” Berry asked.
“Yup,” Willie grunted.
“You want a lawyer, Professor Grimes?”
“Please, don’t do this to me,” Grimes said, and began to cry.
“Yeah, I think you need a lawyer,” Berry said, standing. “You think about it, Professor. We’ll be back.” The detectives left the room and joined their boss, Cole Morris, behind the one-way mirror.
“That dude did the deed, man,” Willie said. “Bet my pension on it.” He started to walk away.
“Where are you going, Willie?” Berry asked.
“Get something to eat, a candy bar or something. I’m feeling dizzy. Must have low blood sugar or somethin’.”
Berry shook his head. Johnson laughed.
“Next time you’re in there with him,” Morris told Berry, “ask what he did with that music Musinski’s niece claims was stolen. There’s our motive, a million dollars’ worth of little black notes on paper with lines. Damn, I’m in the wrong business.”
Despite his request for a lawyer, the questioning of Grimes continued until one thirty, when a young attorney from Legal Aid arrived and put a stop to it. Grimes was held as a suspect in the murder of Dr. Aaron Musinski, over the objections of the attorney, who insisted that his client either be formally charged or released.
“That’s up to the prosecutor,” Berry told the attorney as he, Willie, and Sylvia returned to Berry’s office, where Ray Pawkins had just arrived.
“Hey, Ray, have a seat,” Berry said.
“A blast from the past,” Portelain said. “How’ve you been, man?”
“Couldn’t be better,” Pawkins said. “You?”
“Tip-top, babe. ’Course, the man here has been working us into the ground. No rest for the weary.”
“Still cracking the whip, huh, Carl?” Pawkins said with a gentle laugh.
“You know that’s not true,” Johnson said. “Carl uses a carrot, not a stick.”
“And you’re as beautiful as ever, Sylvia,” Pawkins said.
“I’m not easily flattered,” she said. “Say it again.” They all laughed.
“What’s new with the Lee case?” Pawkins asked.
“I was just telling Willie and Sylvia earlier today what you told me about the two agents, Melincamp and Baltsa. They interviewed them.”
“Charming couple, huh?” Pawkins said.
“From what Carl tells us,” Sylvia said, “they don’t have the world’s best reputation.”
“That’s for sure,” Pawkins concurred. “I’ve got somebody in Toronto digging a little deeper into them and their operation. I’ll fill you in when I get something.”
“We’d appreciate that,” Berry said. “How’re things in the opera world?”
“Exciting. Nothing like the murder—a real one—of a beautiful young soprano to spice things up.” To Willie and Sylvia: “You know I’m working for the Washington National Opera.”
“Yeah,” Willie said. “Got your picture in a magazine, too.”
“How’d I look?”
“Ugly as ever,” Willie said, guffawing to take the edge off his comment.
“Willie and Sylvia brought in Grimes this morning, the professor over at Georgetown U,” Berry said. “We’ve talked to him. Naturally, he swears he had nothing to do with Musinski’s murder. Legal Aid sent someone to represent him.”
“He say anything incriminating?” Pawkins asked.
“No,” Berry answered.
“I say he did it,” Willie offered.
“You’re probably right,” Pawkins said. “We had him pegged back when it happened, but we couldn’t put him away.”
“I know,” said Berry. “Willie and Sylvia are going to work the case for a while.”
“I thought you were on the Lee case,” Pawkins said.
“Don’t ask,” Berry said, not attempting to keep the frustration from his voice.
“We’re digging into Grimes’ life, friends, whoever might know something.” To Portelain and Johnson: “Speaking of that, you’d better get started.”
“Good luck,” Pawkins told the two detectives as they left the room.
“So, what’s up?” Pawkins asked when he and Berry were alone. “You said you had some loose ends on the Musinski case.”
“Yeah, we do, Ray. I’ve gone over all your reports from six years ago. You did a good job.”
“Not good enough. He’s been walking around free for six years.”
“And never left D.C.”
“Why should he? He was never charged.”
“But you put a lot of heat on him. I don’t know, if I were in his shoes, I think I’d look for a teaching job someplace far away.”
“You can’t figure people.”
“Did you know him?”
“Sure. I must have done half a dozen interviews with him.”
“No, I mean before the murder. You were taking courses at Georgetown around the time Musinski was killed, weren’t you?”
“As a matter of fact, I was. I’d just started my master’s program, thanks to the Metropolitan Police Department’s largesse. That education program really helped.”
“You never ran across Grimes while you were there?”
“No.”
“But you must have known Musinski. He’d been there a long time, a high-profile guy.”
“I might have met him once or twice. He was in the Music Department, I was art history. But yeah, I think I was introduced to him once.”
“I never saw that in any of your reports.”
“Never occurred to me to include it. Didn’t have any bearing on the investigation.”
“Right. Despite Willie’s conviction that Grimes is guilty—you know Willie, he’s never met a suspect who wasn’t guilty—”
“Not a bad way to police,” Pawkins said.
“That aside, what I can’t figure is why Grimes would have killed Musinski.”
Pawkins thought for a minute and shrugged. “Those missing musical manuscripts aren’t a bad motive.”
“I have a problem with that.”
“Why?”
“A couple of reasons. To begin with, you indicated in your reports—and I remember having conversations with you about it—yo
u questioned whether there ever were such manuscripts.”
“I still do. All we had to go on was a letter from Musinski to his niece, and her claim that he came back from London with them. I never saw them. Neither did anyone else I know of.”
“There was his partner over in Europe, wasn’t there?”
Pawkins nodded. “I spoke with him a couple of times. He mentioned the scores but didn’t press it. If anybody had a reason to raise hell about them disappearing, it was him. The fact that he didn’t raise hell tells me that maybe they never existed in the first place.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Berry said, “but there’s something else that bothers me.”
“I’m all ears.”
“If anybody took those manuscripts—what were they, string quartets written by Mozart and Haydn?”
“So they say.”
“If anybody took them, they would have sold them as fast as possible.”
Pawkins pondered Berry’s analysis. “Not necessarily,” he said. “There are art lovers who steal paintings, or pay to have them stolen, who just want them to look at them every night over a snifter of brandy. Gives them some sort of solace.”
“I can understand that with works of art, Ray, but musical scores? Not much to look at there, brandy or no brandy. I could understand recordings, or if whoever stole them plays the piano. By the way, Grimes doesn’t play—the piano, that is.”
“Still.”
“I’m not ruling out what you said.”
Berry did a decent impression of TV’s Columbo about to leave a scene but having a sudden new thought. “What bothers me, Ray, is that Grimes doesn’t live like a man who’s sitting on a million dollars’ worth of rare manuscripts. He, his wife, and two kids live in university-subsidized housing, nothing fancy. He drives a beat-up old car. His bank account gives him maybe a couple of months of living expenses. No savings, aside from a self-funded pension plan at the university. If he murdered Musinski to get his hands on those scores, what the hell did he do with them?”
“Beats me,” Pawkins said. “What about the niece? Maybe she grabbed them the night she reported her uncle murdered.”
Berry shook his head. “We checked her out, too, recently. Another modest liver, nothing to point in her direction.”
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