Murder at the Opera: A Capital Crimes Novel

by Margaret Truman

“Come on, Genevieve,” someone urged. “Is it bad?”

  The coordinator cleared her throat, looked down at the review through half-glasses, and began reading.

  “The headline is, ‘Tosca Triumphs Over Double Murder.’”

  “Charise Lee,” someone said.

  “Of course,” responded a woman. “Some of the other reviewers mentioned it, too. It can’t be ignored.”

  Genevieve continued in her best British stage-honed voice.

  “‘The murder of aspiring opera singer Charise Lee, a promising member of the Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program, added heightened verismo to the Washington National Opera’s opening night production of Puccini’s tragic tale Tosca. The fact that the murder took place during rehearsals, and onstage, added substantial stir in the lobby of the Kennedy Center Opera House prior to the performance, as patrons speculated whether the dual deaths of Scarpia and Ms. Lee signaled a jinxed production.’”

  “Oh, my God,” someone said. “He’s calling it a jinxed production.”

  “No, no,” Genevieve said. “Listen!” She drew herself up to full height, which wasn’t very high at all, and continued. “‘Not to worry.’” She looked up from the page. “That’s what Mr. Shulson wrote. It’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Okay, we get it,” someone said. “Go on.”

  “‘Not to worry. True to form, the Washington National Opera’s Tosca rose above the mayhem created by the incident, bringing added drama to the tale of lust, love, and, of course, murder. Literally leading the way to success was General Director Plácido Domingo, who stepped in as a last-minute replacement for conductor and music director Heinz Fricke. Fricke fell ill the afternoon of the opening, only adding to this Tosca’s turmoil. However, the maestro’s strong hand and familiarity with the score, no doubt greatly enhanced by his having performed the role of Cavaradossi countless times, brought an unusually perceptive sense of drama, richness, and poignancy to the orchestra’s performance, and to the production itself.’”

  “He liked it,” a few guests said, joy in their voices.

  Genevieve continued: “‘Equally sure-handed was Anthony Zambrano’s direction, although one suspects he never anticipated the notoriety he would receive from this production when he signed on. Despite the real-life drama surrounding the murder and this production, Zambrano’s vision remained grounded and focused. Not surprisingly, Scarpia’s murder in Act II sent chills throughout the full house as Tosca plunged the knife into his chest, uttering, “That is the way Tosca kisses.” One wondered instinctively what the real-life murderer might have said when a similar knife was plunged into Ms. Lee’s chest on that very stage, her blood symbolically mingling with the blood of the slain Scarpia in an eerie and ominous close to the act.’”

  Genevieve surveyed her audience. No one moved, nor said anything. She read the rest an octave higher. “Listen to what he says next! ‘Despite the high-pitched hype surrounding the murder-performance, the entire cast deserves considerable praise for performing under duress and distress. It was not just a case of rising above the occasion, but a ringing musical example of excellent preparation, singing, finely crafted characterizations, and a dedication to an art form not always thought of in terms of reality—except in the case of murder. Don’t miss this Tosca at the Kennedy Center! Its power and majesty astounded even this reviewer.’”

  Genevieve jumped down from the chair and curtsied as applause broke out.

  Spirits were high at the Smiths’ that morning because of the rave reviews, and appetites were whetted. But no one lingered once they’d enjoyed a bagel or croissant, some salmon, caviar, juice, or coffee. There was the Opera Ball that evening to prepare for, and the apartment soon emptied. Mac and Annabel cleared the table of leftover food and filled the dishwasher. That chore completed, they took coffee to the terrace.

  “A success,” Annabel proclaimed.

  “Our parties are always a success,” Mac said. “You’re the perfect hostess.”

  “The host had something to do with it, too.” She sobered. “So, Mac, what was your read on Pawkins this morning?”

  “He seemed in good spirits, but that’s not unusual for him. I’ll face him about the Musinski murder once the ball is over with.”

  “The reviews were excellent.”

  “Yes, they were, although I was disappointed none of them singled me out for my performance.”

  “I thought you were an absolute star,” she said, kissing his cheek. “My star.” She got up from her chair. “I have to run. Another meeting.”

  “Your life is a series of meetings,” he said, not being critical.

  “Only until tonight is over.”

  Another meeting taking place that morning didn’t involve reviews, and there wasn’t a bagel in sight. It was held at the J. Edgar Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue, headquarters for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. A top official from that agency chaired the meeting. Also present were Joseph Browning and two aides from the Department of Homeland Security, a representative from the CIA, and Detective Carl Berry and his boss, Cole Morris. Morris read from a lengthy report, copies of which had been handed out to the others. Why is he reading it if we all have it? Berry silently wondered. When Morris finished, the ranking FBI special agent in the room asked, “And you believe everything this young man says? What’s his name. Warren?”

  “Christopher Warren,” Morris said. “Yes, we believe him. The pieces all fit.”

  “We have agents working with the New York police on this Melincamp murder,” the special agent said.

  “Any leads on who killed him?” Berry asked.

  “Not at the moment,” the FBI agent said. “Let’s go over your report more closely.”

  The report was based upon an hour-long interrogation of Chris Warren following the fax informing Washington’s MPD that Melincamp had been found dead in New York. That news had shaken Warren badly; Berry wondered whether he might have a breakdown before they could question him. But Warren pulled himself together and began to talk, and soon words and thoughts were flowing as though an internal dam had broken.

  “…and I’m glad that Philip is dead,” Warren said, drawing in gulps of air. “He deserved to die.”

  “Why is that?” Sylvia Johnson asked.

  “Because of what he did to people. I wanted to kill him myself, but I was…”

  “You were what?”

  “I was afraid of him. That’s why I didn’t say anything when he killed Charise. He told me that if I talked to anybody about it, the same thing would happen to me.”

  “If you talked about what?” Berry asked. “Charise’s murder?”

  “That, and the plan, too.”

  “What in hell plan are you talking about, Warren?” Willie asked, his impatience showing.

  “The plan to kill the president or some other big shot. It was going to be part of a larger plan, a bunch of American political big shots killed the same day.”

  That statement brought a hush to the dimly lighted room. The tape recorder ran silently.

  “Go on,” Berry said softly.

  The three detectives sat back and allowed Warren to continue, which he did for the better part of the hour.

  He told of how Charise had fallen under the spell of the young Arab student she’d started dating, and how that student had introduced her to a terrorist cell in Toronto with plans to strike another blow against the United States. Melincamp, he said, also exerted a strong hold over Charise, and she brought him into her new sphere of terrorist friends.

  “What was in it for Melincamp?” Sylvia asked.

  “Money. He wanted out of the partnership with Zöe and needed money, big money to buy her out. He and Zöe had some kind of agreement that gave him the right to do that. The terrorists promised him and Charise a ton of money if they would assassinate someone when they were in Washington.”

  “When did you learn about this?” asked Berry.

  “After we got here. I owed Melincamp mone
y. He kept giving me advances. When it got to be a lot, he said he’d drop me and see to it that I didn’t have a career as a pianist. I believed him.”

  “Whoa, whoa,” Willie said. “Hold on a minute. Are you telling us that you kept your mouth shut because you owed this slimeball money?”

  “In the beginning,” Warren responded. “But it was more than that. When Charise told him she wasn’t going through with it, he—”

  “She decided not to cooperate?” Berry asked.

  “That’s right. She got cold feet. I don’t think she ever intended to do it. She might have been a little screwed up, preaching how the U.S. is out to conquer the world, keep people in poverty, dumb stuff like that. But she wouldn’t have tried to assassinate anybody.” He shook his head. “Man, when she told me about the plan, I just laughed. At first. She was supposed to get close to the president whenever she could and—and kill him. Kill somebody. Charise told me that the president and his wife were opera lovers, and attended a lot of operas. Melincamp and the terrorists figured she’d have it easy getting close, being young and pretty and Canadian, maybe even get to sing for them, and then shoot him.”

  “She had a gun?” Willie asked.

  “Melincamp did. He showed it to me whenever he threatened me about talking to people.”

  “When did Charise confide in you about the plot, Chris?” Sylvia asked.

  “Just before she was killed. I told her we should go to the police or Secret Service or somebody, but she said she wanted to talk to Melincamp first. She was supposed to meet him at the Kennedy Center the night he killed her.”

  “And Melincamp admitted to you that he’d murdered her?” Berry asked.

  Warren nodded. “That’s when he said the same thing would happen to me if I talked about it. He tried to get me to take her place and kill the president, but I told him no way. If Melincamp didn’t pull it off, they wouldn’t pay him the money he was promised.”

  Berry halted the session to see whether Warren wanted anything to eat or drink.

  “No. I just want to get this over with.”

  “Fair enough,” Berry said. “Now, what about last night? You went to see Melincamp’s partner, Ms. Baltsa.”

  Another nod from Warren. He kept his head lowered, his eyes focused on the table as he spoke. “I went to the hotel to tell her I wanted out of the program at Takoma Park, and was going back home.”

  “Did she know about this scheme of Melincamp’s to kill an American official?”

  “No.”

  “Did she know he’d killed Ms. Lee?”

  “She suspected, but didn’t know for sure until I told her last night. She said Philip was coming to see her later, after I left. I didn’t kill her. I swear I didn’t.”

  The detectives said nothing in response; they knew that he was telling the truth.

  “You still have him in custody?” the FBI agent asked Cole Morris.

  “Yes. He’s in protective custody.”

  “We’ll want to talk to him.”

  “Of course.”

  “Did he give you the names of this Arab boyfriend back in Toronto, and his terrorist friends?”

  “Yes.” Morris provided another piece of paper with that information.

  “We’ll take it from here,” Browning said from his spot at the end of the long table. “This goes far beyond just the murder of some opera singer. There’s national security at stake.”

  “Until we’re told otherwise,” the FBI agent said, “it’s our jurisdiction.”

  “I’ll get a reading from Justice,” Browning said. “This young man aided and abetted a terrorist plot to kill the president of the United States. He can be held as an enemy combatant until all the links have been explored, all the dots connected.”

  Berry looked at Morris and raised his eyebrows.

  “We’re happy to help in any way we can,” Morris said, “but until I get a reading from Justice that says otherwise, Mr. Warren will stay with us. He’s a material witness to two murders that occurred in our jurisdiction.”

  “Maybe this will help you with the murder of the opera singer at the Kennedy Center,” Browning said, sliding badly wrinkled and folded sheets of yellow legal-size lined paper to Morris.

  “What’s this?” Morris asked.

  “Read it,” Browning said. “It was found on Melincamp in New York.”

  Morris carefully unfolded the pages and ran his hand over them on the table to straighten the creases. Most of the handwriting was crude and in blue pen, difficult to read. A few lines at the top of the first page had been written in pencil, obviously added after the main section.

  To whom it may concern:

  In the event of my death, I want you to understand why I did what I did.

  The writing in blue pen followed.

  She died quickly and with a modicum of suffering.

  This came as no surprise. Unlike so-called crimes of passion which are invariably messy, drawn out, and painful, I’d been planning her death for more than a week.

  She had to be eliminated because she’d learned something that I preferred she not know, which raised the possibility that she would pass that newfound knowledge along to others. I couldn’t allow that.

  Had knowing the victim made it easier or more difficult for me? Of course, having known her cast me as a suspect, along with dozens of others. Murderers who are strangers to their victims invariably stand a better chance of getting away with it. There was a brief temptation to enlist the aid of another person, someone outside our circle of acquaintances, but I quickly ruled that out. The fewer people who know about a murder, the better.

  That the murder took place onstage at the Kennedy Center Opera House would lead one to believe that I have a flair for the dramatic. But that was not the reason the area was chosen as the place to ensure her silence. I’d considered a number of settings—her apartment, on the street, or in a secluded room in the Opera company’s rehearsal space at Takoma Park. She provided the answer by insisting that we meet on the stage that night, actually in the early morning hours, long after everyone was gone for the evening except perhaps for a couple of Kennedy Center security guards, who wouldn’t come into the theater unless given reason to, which I certainly didn’t intend to provide.

  It should also be pointed out that my choice of a weapon had nothing—absolutely nothing—to do with the fact that the encounter took place on the Opera House’s main stage, where the Washington National Opera would soon present the latest production of Puccini’s warhorse, Tosca. Moments before dealing the fatal blow, I thought of the justified murder of the cruel, lecherous Scarpia in Tosca’s Act II. The major difference was that this slaying was committed in shadows and without onlookers, while Tosca’s stabbing of the cruel chief of the secret police would take place before thousands bearing witness to her defensible action. Of course, Tosca’s dramatic killing of Scarpia is make-believe. This one was very real; I did not break into the aria “Vissi d’arte” before completing the act, as Madame Tosca has done thousands of nights on grand stages around the globe.

  The victim was eventually found, of course, although it took almost a full day. I’d placed the body in such a location where few would have reason to go under ordinary circumstances. When her body was discovered, there was a flurry of media and law enforcement activity, and much was made of the fact that the homicide took place inside the revered Kennedy Center, and in that institution’s Opera House, where betrayal, passion, intrigue, and murder take place on a regular basis—but only during performances on the main stage. The press had a field day with opera analogies, the weapon used, the setting, and the connection of the deceased with the Washington National Opera.

  In the meantime, Tosca, and the larger comic opera that is Washington, D.C., itself—but that too often turns deadly—must, and did, go on.

  And so must I.

  Sincerely,

  Philip Melincamp

  Morris handed the papers to Berry. “Thanks,” he said to Br
owning. “We know Melincamp killed the singer, but it’s nice to have this. Dramatic, wasn’t he?”

  “And screwed up,” Browning said. “A shame that he screwed up the young woman, too.”

  Morris and Berry left the room and the building. Once outside, Morris said, “Warren’s in for a long, tough road once Homeland Security and Justice get hold of him.”

  “The kid was scared,” said Berry as they walked to their car.

  “It’ll be out of our hands soon, Carl.” Morris laughed. “You watch. They’ll take credit for this whole thing, use the kid as a feather in their cap, another terrorist plot foiled. All we did at MPD was—everything.”

  As they drove back to headquarters, Berry said, “I have a request, Cole. A little favor.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Ray Pawkins got a couple of tickets to the opera last night for Sylvia Johnson and Willie Portelain. I had to pull the two of them out of the Kennedy Center early when the fax came in from New York. I’d like to buy them a couple of tickets so they can enjoy the whole show.”

  “Willie Portelain at the opera?” Morris said with a chuckle.

  “He said he liked it. I owe them.”

  “Sure, go ahead. I’ll hide it under—under continuing education.”

  FORTY

  “Too many Americans have a misconception that German cuisine is brown, heavy, and blah. But Germany is actually the birthplace of organic farming. Modern German cuisine is fresh and flavorful.”

  So stated Marcel Biró, one of Germany’s most celebrated chefs, cookbook author, and star of the Emmy-winning PBS reality-cooking series The Kitchens of Biró. He’d been brought to the German Embassy in Washington by the ambassador as a special treat for the fourteen guests dining there prior to attending the Opera Ball’s gala at the Brazilian Embassy. The menu had been created by him especially for the occasion, and he was on hand to explain and extol each course.

  “Your entrée is a special favorite of mine,” he announced, “medallions of pork in a black cherry pepper sauce, with spatzle and braised fennel. The sweet tartness of the black cherries offsets the pork’s flavor, and the black pepper adds just the perfect bite to the dish.”