Murder at the Opera: A Capital Crimes Novel

by Margaret Truman

  This all resulted in a massive intake of information, most of it useless, but which had to be analyzed nonetheless.

  Intelligence gathered by the FBI remained in the House That Hoover Built until someone got around to writing a report to send it to the Department of Homeland Security.

  The CIA’s treasure trove of intercepted communications remained in Langley, its importance to national security left in the hands of those who’d obtained it.

  And information that a Toronto talent agency, Melicamp-Baltsa, might be sympathetic to terrorist aims, joined thousands of other bits of information that was eventually shared with the FBI.

  Joseph Browning III finished his coffee and went back inside the house to shower and dress for the day.

  “Good morning,” Christine said as she came down the stairs to get her own coffee.

  “Good morning,” he said, accepting a feathery kiss on the cheek.

  “Heavy day lined up?” she asked.

  “The usual,” he said, truthfully. It would be business as usual at DHS, and that was the problem. His frown said as much.

  She disappeared into the kitchen as he started up the stairs.

  “Oh, before I forget,” she said, reappearing, “Rosie and George wonder if we’d like to go to the opera with them. They have two extra tickets—friends of theirs had to cancel.”

  “The opera?” he said from the landing, a smile on his face. “Chris, I appear in an opera every day I go to work.”

  “It’s Tosca,” she said. “We never go to the opera. I’d love to. The tickets are for opening night.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Let’s do it. I could use some original make-believe.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  “So, how’d it go?” Willie Portelain asked Sylvia Johnson.

  They sat in an interrogation room at headquarters, awaiting the arrival of Carl Berry and others. Their brief assignment to the Aaron Musinski murder was over, now that Grimes had been brought in and the contents of his office had been secured, his computer in the hands of forensic technicians capable of finding things on its hard drive that long ago had been assumed to have disappeared into the ether. They were back on the Lee case, joining the newly formed task force.

  “How did what go?” she asked.

  “Your date last night. Who is he?”

  “Willie!”

  “Just curious, lady. You have a good time?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. We had dinner at Georgia Brown’s, and caught the last set at Blues Alley.”

  “He pay?”

  “Of course he—How are you feeling?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “You taking your medicine and cutting down on the calories?”

  “What are you, my mother? Who’d you see at Blues Alley?”

  “A young pianist, Ted Rosenthal, and his trio. He was wonderful.”

  “So, tell me about this dude.”

  The door opened, to Sylvia’s relief, and Berry and the other detectives joined them.

  “Okay, what’ve we got?” Berry asked.

  They went around the table, each detective reporting.

  “We’ve talked to every student in that opera school they run out of Takoma Park,” one said.

  “Not for the first time,” said another. “We compared reports of the previous interviews with them with what they had to say this time around. Nothing new.”

  “What about Christopher Warren?” Berry asked.

  “Yeah, we talked to him again, too. Surly bastard.” He punched Willie in the arm and laughed. “He’s the one you coldcocked, huh?”

  “Ran into my arm, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Another detective said, “There’s one student who doesn’t have an alibi.”

  “Warren.”

  “No, besides him.” He consulted his notes. “A Korean named Lester Suyang. He was alone all night, he says, like he said in previous interviews. Nothing there. He doesn’t strike me as the murdering kind.”

  “What is ‘the murdering kind’?” Berry asked.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “A couple of the other students say Suyang didn’t like the deceased, that they had a few shouting matches.”

  “That’s new,” Berry offered. “What’s he say about it?”

  “He denies it, says he and the deceased were good friends.”

  “He’s big, man,” another detective said, “must go two-fifty, two-sixty. Got a voice like a one-man gang. If he doesn’t make it as an opera singer, he can always become a sumo wrestler.”

  “Even bigger than you, Willie,” one said. “But not as pretty.”

  The discussion continued. Eventually, it came around to Charise Lee’s agents, Philip Melincamp and Zöe Baltsa.

  “Willie and Sylvia have interviewed them a couple of times. Ray Pawkins—he’s working as a PI for the Opera company—says Melincamp and his partner have a shady reputation back in Toronto.”

  “How shady?” someone asked.

  “They run a smarmy operation, according to Ray. He says—”

  The door opened and a uniformed officer working desk duty in the Detective Division entered. He handed Berry a piece of paper. “Thought you might want to see this,” he said.

  Berry read it and passed it to Sylvia.

  “What’s up?” Portelain asked.

  “Joey pulled this from the latest intelligence report from Homeland Security,” Berry said as it was passed around.

  “Interesting,” Sylvia said, “but what does it have to do with the Lee case?”

  “Probably nothing,” Berry said. “Any ideas?”

  There weren’t any.

  “I want to run this by Cole,” Berry said, picking up the intelligence report and ending the meeting.

  Carl Berry’s meeting may have just ended, but Annabel Lee-Smith’s was just getting started.

  Everyone on the Opera Ball committee gathered for a final run-through of the “Battle Plan,” a thick book in which—hopefully—every conceivable base had been covered, and every possible contingency accounted for. Annabel willed herself to concentrate on the business at hand, but was unable to keep her thoughts from straying back to the dinner with Marc Josephson and what had come out of it. She still wanted to believe that there was something wrong with Josephson’s claim, and his behavior with Mac on the phone that morning helped her in that regard. The man was certainly skewed; hopefully, his claim and alleged supporting evidence was, too. But try as she might to take umbrage in that thought, she knew down deep, felt it in her heart and bones, that Ray Pawkins had stolen the musical scores from Aaron Musinski’s home and…

  Conceivably had murdered Musinski.

  “You okay, Annabel?” someone asked as they prepared to break for an hour’s lunch.

  “Oh, sure. I’m fine. I never dreamed putting on a fund-raiser of this magnitude involved so much planning and detail. You all deserve a medal.”

  “We, you mean. It couldn’t have been done without you. It’s so good that you agreed to act as liaison with the White House. Isn’t it wonderful that the president and first lady will be at the ball?”

  “Yes, it’s wonderful,” Annabel said. As far as she knew, her meetings with the various security forces involved had gone well, and all was in place to ensure a safe visit by President and Mrs. Montgomery.

  “Grab a bite?” Genevieve Crier asked Annabel as they filed from the room.

  “Sure,” Annabel said. “I’m famished.”

  “Meetings like this always make me hungry,” Genevieve said, punctuated by her lilting laugh. “The tension eats away at your stomach lining.”

  Annabel laughed, too. “I hadn’t quite thought of it that way, but I think you’re right.”

  They popped into the nearest luncheonette and found a vacant booth, where both ordered salads and iced tea. Genevieve, always verbose, was especially talkative this day, and entertained Annabel with a succession of stories about her life, first as an act
ress in London and Hollywood, and more recently her job with the Opera.

  “…and finding supers for every production can be a bloody nightmare,” she said. “I have my own techniques.” A wicked laugh. “I haunt health clubs and gyms. I want my supers to be in good shape—so do most directors, and I try to accommodate. You might have noticed that many gays are particularly fond of opera. I’ve gotten some wonderful supers at the yearly Miss Adams Morgan Pageant. And, there’s always church.”

  “Church?”

  “I watch single men go up for Communion and make mental notes which ones would be good supers.”

  “You’re a mobile talent scout, Genevieve.”

  “I suppose I am. Of course, when children are involved it can be really dicey. Thank God for our volunteers who are willing to play backstage nanny. And the parents!” She rolled her eyes and made a dismissive sound through pursed lips. “Most are okay, but some can drive you mad. Like last year when I was providing supers for Die Walküre.”

  “I saw that,” Annabel said. “Were there children in it?”

  “No. I’m not talking about children anymore. These were adults. I went mad, absolutely tore my hair out trying to please the director. Gawd, he was impossible. But I came through.”

  “You always do, it seems.”

  “Yes, and I love it!”

  “Have you spoken with Ray Pawkins lately?” Annabel asked.

  “That darling man? As a matter of fact, I have. Yesterday. We’re grabbing a bite tonight before tech rehearsal.”

  “Do I detect a budding romance?” Annabel asked.

  “No, silly. We’re just good friends. How many men do you find in this city who love opera?”

  Annabel thought of Mac. “Not many,” she said. “Does he ever talk about his life as a Homicide detective?”

  Genevieve screwed up her face in thought. “Hmmm. No.”

  “I’m fascinated with that famous case he investigated six years ago, the one involving the Ph.D. musicologist from Georgetown, Aaron Musinski.”

  “Wasn’t that something? Everyone was buzzing about it.”

  “And Ray never mentions it?”

  “No. I asked him once about that case. He said that was then, and this is now. I understand.”

  “Well, we’d better get back. The afternoon session will be starting.”

  They were approaching the entrance to the building when Genevieve stopped Annabel. “What do you think of Ray, Annabel?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. He certainly is…interesting. Why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered if you or Mac have noticed anything unusual about him.”

  Was this an opportunity to share with someone other than Mac what Josephson had claimed? She thought not.

  “He seems very self-confident,” Annabel substituted.

  “Yes, he is that. He seems to have two sides, two personalities. But maybe that’s what makes him so attractive. Forget I even asked. Let’s get inside.”

  Speaking of Ray Pawkins.

  He spent the rest of the morning at his home, music pouring from the speakers in his elaborate study, and through wireless ones he’d placed in other areas of the house—Verdi, Wagner, Mozart, and Strauss. The volume was loud, louder than even he was accustomed to. He paced from room to room, still in his robe and slippers, and sang along with the sopranos and tenors, stopping every now and then to gesture dramatically in a particularly strong or poignant section of the score. At times, he conducted the orchestra, holding an imaginary baton and urging the musicians to instill more spirit into their playing, pointing at the brass section for emphasis, lowering the volume with outstretched hands, palms down, nodding his head in approval at how they’d followed his directions. It was a fatiguing performance, and by the time lunchtime rolled around, he was bathed in sweat, and hungry. He showered and dressed in gray slacks, a lightweight black mock turtleneck, and black sneakers. He slipped into his shoulder holster, which hung in the closet, donned a tan cotton safari jacket, and went to his study. He opened a small wall safe and removed not his licensed 9mm Glock that was there, but an unregistered .22-caliber he’d confiscated years ago from a drug dealer during a raid. He secured it beneath his armpit in the holster, and checked that the cats had water and food in the kitchen before leaving the house and sliding behind the wheel of his silver Mercedes. His first stop was the 600 Restaurant, across from the Kennedy Center, where he enjoyed a shrimp cocktail, steak sandwich, and a Bloody Mary at the bar.

  “You’re looking fine, Mr. Pawkins, real fine,” Ulysses said while serving him. “You look like you’re in the game, and you’ve got to be in the game if you’re gonna win.”

  Pawkins laughed at Ulysses’ favorite bit of philosophy. “You are right, my friend. I am in the game, and I intend to win. Let me have the check.”

  Pawkins stepped outside. It was an unusually cool day for that time of year in Washington, with a cloudless, cobalt-blue sky, and a breeze light enough to ruffle hair but brisk enough at times to tease the cheeks. He left his car where he’d parked it in the Kennedy Center’s underground garage and walked up New Hampshire to the Watergate complex, passing through the central open space with its gushing fountains, inviting benches, and tranquil greenery, until reaching the entrance to the hotel. He was greeted by the doorman. “Hello, sir.”

  “Hello,” said Pawkins. “Beautiful day.”

  “Yes, sir, it most certainly is that.”

  He meandered the length of the lobby in the direction of the elevators, and beyond them the check-in desk on the left, the entrance to the bar on the right. He’d almost reached the elevators when he saw Josephson emerge from one. Pawkins pretended to admire a print on the wall, but his peripheral vision took in the little Englishman. Josephson came halfway to where Pawkins stood, his eyes going from one side of the lobby to the other. He kept checking his watch as he retraced his steps, then turned and again walked in Pawkins’ direction.

  Pawkins looked at his watch. Three forty-five. What was he doing in the lobby? Pawkins was expected at four. Josephson should be in his room awaiting a phone call.

  Josephson passed Pawkins this time and stepped outside, where he leaned against a column and drew deep breaths. Pawkins took the opportunity to sit in a yellow slipcovered chair that afforded him a view of the lifts, but that was partially obscured by a large potted plant. He had to smile; he felt like a movie version of a hotel’s house detective spying on a guest.

  Josephson returned inside and walked to the elevators. Pawkins turned so that only his profile was visible. Not that the Brit would know what he looked like, although his photograph had made some publications at the height of the Musinski investigation. The doors slid open, Josephson stepped inside, and the doors closed behind him.

  Pawkins waited a few minutes before going to a house phone and asking to be connected to Mr. Josephson’s room.

  “Hello?” Josephson sounded breathless. His voice was barely above a squeak.

  “Josephson. This is Pawkins.”

  “Are you…? Where are you?”

  “Downstairs. I’ve been watching you.”

  “You have? Are you—are you coming up?”

  “Yes. I know your room number. I’ll be there in a few minutes. You are alone, I assume.”

  “Yes, of course I am. Why would I—”

  Pawkins lowered the phone into its cradle and stepped into a waiting elevator, pressing his elbow against the holstered .22 as the doors closed. The doors opened at Josephson’s floor. Pawkins walked down the long, red-carpeted hallway until he stood outside Josephson’s door. Was the Brit observing him through the peephole? He smiled for Josephson’s benefit, and knocked. The door opened.

  “Mr. Pawkins,” Josephson said.

  Pawkins ignored the greeting and walked past him into the center of the room. He’d stayed at the Watergate Hotel on a few occasions. This wasn’t one of its most expensive rooms. He went to the window and looked out over the city, aware of Josephson behind him. He h
eard the door close, and sensed Josephson nearing him across the thick carpeting.

  “So,” Pawkins said, not turning. “What is it you want?”

  “My money. You stole my money.”

  “Is that so?”

  Now the former detective slowly turned and faced Josephson, who stood only a few feet from him.

  “Tell me how I stole your money.”

  “You…you took the musical scores from Aaron Musinski. He and I were partners. We were to share the money from them.”

  “I see.”

  Pawkins went to a small couch. “Sit down,” he said, pointing to a chair across from a coffee table. Josephson did as he’d been told. Pawkins leaned forward, a smile on his face. “Let’s get a few things straight here, Mr. Josephson. I don’t care what you claim I did. I don’t care whether you lost money, as you claim. I came here as a favor. No,” he said, waving his hand, “I came because I was curious to see what a conniving little Englishman looks like. Now I know.”

  Josephson got to his feet. “I have the proof,” he said, going to the manila envelope on the desk, extracting its contents, and waving them at Pawkins. “It’s all here,” he said, agitated, sweating, eyes darting back and forth from Pawkins to the window, to the door, back to Pawkins. “I know what you did. I hired an investigator. I know how you killed Aaron to get the scores and went to Paris to sell them to Saibrón, how the money went to your secret bank account in the Cayman Islands, how you—”

  He stopped in mid-sentence as Pawkins calmly pulled the .22 from his holster. Josephson’s eyes widened at the sight of the weapon, which Pawkins pointed directly at him. “Give me that stuff,” he commanded.

  Josephson pressed the papers to his chest and stepped back.

  “Come on, come on, hand it over. I want to see this so-called evidence you say you have.”

  “Please, put that away,” Josephson pleaded.

  Pawkins looked down at the weapon. “This?” He laughed. “Nice little gun, Mr. Josephson. Doesn’t make a lot of noise, and leaves a relatively small hole.” The smile left his face. “Give me those papers, goddamn it, before I show you how small a hole it really does make.”