Mac spotted Annabel at the far end of the bar chatting with another woman. He joined them and was introduced to Genevieve Crier. “Genevieve is in charge of supers for the Washington Opera,” Annabel told her husband.
“Aha,” he said. “So you’re to blame.”
She feigned dismay, laughed, and said, “Guilty as charged, although I’m incapable of demonstrating remorse.” Her accent was British, her easy laugh universal. “No matter, I’m absolutely delighted that you’ve joined the cast for Tosca.” She took a step back and slowly, deliberately looked him up and down. “You’ll make a fine monk, Mr. Smith, and we all know that monks get by on very little money, which is good because we pay our supers very little.”
“I get paid, too?” he said.
“A fortune for a monk. Twenty-eight dollars a performance, eight dollars per rehearsal. There’ll be eight rehearsals. Eight times eight is sixty-four dollars. Egads, you’ll be the richest monk in the monastery. Of course, a whole world of college kids ate off the two bucks they were paid as supers at the Met years back.” To Annabel: “The money will make up for your darling hubby’s commitment to celibacy, I’m sure.” She scooped an oversized purse off the bar. “Must run. See you at seven. Delighted to meet you, Mackensie Smith. Your wife is one of my favorite people in the world.”
“I like your friend,” Mac said, taking a stool next to Annabel.
“She’s a dynamo. Used to be an actress in London and Hollywood.”
“We’d better get something to eat,” Mac said. “I’d hate to make my stage debut on an empty stomach.”
Genevieve Crier had instructed all supers to enter through the Opera House’s stage door, just inside one of the main entrances to the Kennedy Center. Annabel gave their names to an older gentleman manning the door, who dutifully checked them off against a list on a clipboard and told them where the supers were congregating. This turned out to be a large dressing room one level below the theater itself. Genevieve was already there with two men, whom she introduced to the Smiths. The rest of the supers drifted in over the next fifteen minutes—a navy commander; an orthopedic surgeon; a Department of Agriculture auditor; two housewives from WNO’s vast corps of volunteers; a nightclub bouncer; a retired botanist; Mac’s college colleagues; Christopher Warren, the Canadian pianist from the Young Artists program; and someone Mac hadn’t seen in a couple of years, Raymond Pawkins, a retired Washington MPD Homicide detective.
Their paths had crossed a number of times when Smith was representing criminal defendants, and Pawkins had been the lead investigator in those cases. Of all the Homicide detectives Smith had run across in his previous career, Pawkins stood out from the crowd. A tall, beanpole of a man with a prominent hooked nose beneath which a dark gray moustache was carefully trimmed, he wore khaki slacks with a razor-sharp crease, a blue button-down shirt, a white linen sport jacket, and loafers shined to a mirror finish. Smith remembered only too well those times when Pawkins testified against his criminal clients, always impeccably dressed and well spoken, terse or almost effete at times, answering Mac’s cross-examinations with deliberate care, never exaggerating and always on-message. He was impossible to fluster on the stand, not only because of the impressive image he presented to juries, but because he’d gone by the book in his investigations, missing little in the way of evidence and organizing his findings with exquisite attention to detail. After shaking hands and introducing Annabel to him, snippets of Pawkins’ life came back to Mac. They’d had lunches and dinners together at the conclusion of a few cases, the outcome now a matter of public record, their opposing views left back in the courtroom.
Pawkins had never married, as far as Mac knew, and was deeply interested in the arts, his erudition in stark contrast to most detectives. The last time they’d been together, Pawkins was finishing up a master’s degree in 19th century art at Georgetown, and was an enthusiastic member of the National Cathedral’s chorus. Unusual pursuits for a cop.
“I didn’t know you were an opera buff, Mac,” Pawkins said in a slightly pinched voice. He’d often complained about his sinuses, Mac recalled.
“I’m not,” Mac said. “Annabel is on the board and roped me in.”
“Actually,” Annabel added, “it’s a public relations project cooked up to get some press for the company. I take it you’re no stranger to opera.”
“One of my passions,” Pawkins replied. “I’ve been going to the opera since I was a little boy, thanks to a mother who believed in exposing her only son to culture. I claimed to have hated it then, but secretly loved every minute of it. I’ve been a super in dozens of productions over the years, much to the amusement of my friends in law enforcement.”
“I think that’s wonderful,” Annabel said, “seeing stereotypes debunked.”
Pawkins smiled, savoring the thought. “At any rate,” he said, “the counselor here and I butted heads on plenty of occasions, didn’t we, Mac? How nice to see us on the same side this time around, or should I say on the same stage? Actually, it’s not called a stage in opera.”
“Oh?” Mac said. “What is it, then?”
“A deck. The earliest stagehands were seamen who were used to climbing ropes and riggings to high places. It seems that—”
Genevieve interrupted their conversation. “Time to meet our director,” she said in her lilting voice. “Follow me.” She led them from the dressing room up to the cavernous main stage, where the production’s director, Anthony Zambrano, was conferring with assistants. Surrounding them was the half-finished second act set, a palatial apartment in the Farnese Palace used by Baron Scarpia, the chief of the Roman police, and one of opera’s most infamous villains.
“Tony,” Genevieve announced with a flourish, “your supernumeraries are here.”
Zambrano, a short, wiry man with sharply defined facial features, a full head of steely gray hair, and wearing a pale yellow, light-weight cardigan over the shoulders of his navy T-shirt, turned and displayed a toothy smile.
“Ah, yes,” the director said, hands on his hips and head cocked as he scrutinized these men and women who would be his monks and soldiers. Zambrano, who’d been brought in from Italy to direct this production of Tosca, walked past each super, frowning and making small grunting sounds, a commander inspecting his troops. Mac found himself becoming increasingly uncomfortable at having his physical attributes so brazenly evaluated. Zambrano turned abruptly on his heel and motioned for Genevieve to accompany him to a remote area of the stage.
Annabel, who’d been watching from a distance, came to her husband and gave him a reassuring smile.
“Cocky little guy, isn’t he?” Mac whispered.
“They say he’s immensely talented,” Annabel said, “on a par with Menotti, Zeffirelli, and Guthrie.”
“That may be, but I get the feeling he’s not happy with us,” said Mac.
“You’re imagining things,” she said.
“Interesting,” Mac said.
“What is?”
“The stage floor. The deck. It gives.” He bounced up and down on the surface, which appeared to be constructed of some sort of rubber.
“They could use better housekeeping,” Annabel said casually.
“What do you mean?”
She pointed to a small, irregular, maroon stain on the floor.
He crouched to see it more closely. “Looks like somebody had a nosebleed.”
Genevieve came to them.
“Everything all right?” Annabel asked.
“Not really. Anthony is unhappy with a few of my supers.”
“I don’t handle rejection well,” Mac said, adding a laugh.
“You passed muster,” Genevieve said.
“Whew,” Mac said, wiping imaginary perspiration from his brow.
Genevieve lowered her voice. “He’s not happy with your boss, Dr. Burns.”
Mac looked across the stage to where Wilfred Burns, president of George Washington University, chatted with professors from the other school
s who’d agreed to appear as supers.
“I told Anthony that he couldn’t dismiss certain supers like Dr. Burns because—well, because of who they are.”
“If you need a volunteer to bail,” Smith said, “I’m available.”
“Not on your life,” Genevieve said. “Tony described you as ruggedly handsome.”
“Isn’t he though?” said Annabel.
“He may not like certain supers who are here,” Genevieve said, “but I have my own problems. I’m still missing a woman.”
“Oh?”
“Charise Lee, from the Young Artist Program. They pressed her into duty for one performance, but she’s not here. She didn’t show up for her costume fitting, either.”
Zambrano clapped his hands and called everyone to form a semicircle around him. He welcomed the group and said he intended to walk everyone through the basic blocking that would be used during the performance, to give them a feel for the stage on which they’d be working, although most rehearsals would be held at Takoma Park. He’d just started arranging the supers into groups when a burly middle-aged man, coveralls over a white T-shirt, came through a gap in the scenery, a backstage worker of some sort, an electrician or grip. He stood a dozen feet back from everyone and seemed unsure of what to say, or how to say it.
Zambrano noticed him. “I’m in the middle of a run-through,” he said. “I insist upon a closed stage.”
The intruder looked around for someone with whom to speak. Not seeing anyone, he blurted loudly, “She’s dead.”
“What?” Zambrano asked.
“Who’s dead?” asked someone.
“The young woman,” the stagehand said. “She’s dead. Upstairs.”
“What young woman?” Zambrano demanded.
“Oh, good God,” Genevieve said, her hand going to her bosom. “I have this feeling that…”
Mac and Annabel looked at each other as Genevieve went to where the stagehand had now been joined by Zambrano, the Opera House’s manager, and the head of Kennedy Center Security, who’d been called by the stagehand immediately after discovering the body. He spotted Ray Pawkins and crossed the stage to him.
“Hello, Raymond.”
“George,” Pawkins said. “What’s this about a dead girl?”
The security chief nodded. “Upstairs, above the house.” He pointed to the ornate ceiling high above the 2,300 empty seats. Mac and Annabel’s eyes went to where his finger indicated.
The security chief started to say something else but stopped mid-sentence, aware that he and Pawkins weren’t alone.
“This is Mackensie Smith and his wife,” Pawkins said. To Mac and Annabel: “George Jacoby. He and I go back a long way. He was MPD, too.”
Mac nodded.
“The attorney,” Jacoby said.
“Right,” confirmed Mac.
Jacoby lowered his voice and said to Pawkins, “Looks like a homicide. I’ve called First District. They’re on their way. I’ve got one of my people up there now. It’s pretty grisly. I thought…”
“Show me,” Pawkins said.
Mac and Annabel watched as Pawkins followed Jacoby into the wings.
“A homicide?” Annabel said. “Here at the Kennedy Center?”
“Is it true?” Genevieve said, joining them. “Someone has been murdered?”
“We don’t know for sure,” Annabel said. “But someone is dead.”
“Is it…?” Genevieve’s lip quivered. “Is it Ms. Lee?”
“You know as much as we do,” Mac said.
“Raymond has gone with Mr. Jacoby,” Genevieve said. “He was a detective.”
“I know,” Mac said. “Why don’t we all just grab seats and wait until we know more. No sense speculating.” He saw two of the supers about to leave. “You might tell your flock not to take off until the police say it’s okay,” he suggested.
“Good point,” Genevieve said, hurrying to head off their departure.
Before going down into the house to sit and wait for further information, Mac glanced back to where the maroon spot darkened the stage—deck—floor. So much for my nosebleed theory, he thought as he escorted Annabel off the stage.
FIVE
As Pawkins and Jacoby waited for a small backstage elevator to take them partway up to where the body had been found, Pawkins spoke with the stagehand.
“You just discovered the body?” the former detective asked.
“Yes, sir.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I never go up there, no reason to. Nobody does.”
“Why did you go up this time?”
“We have some cable up there. We needed it for Tosca. Mickey sent me up.”
“Mickey?”
“My boss.”
The elevator arrived and the three men squeezed into its confined interior. After ascending two flights, the door opened and they continued their journey to the highest recesses of the house, more than a hundred feet directly above where thousands of opera lovers would sit in comfortable seats waiting to be transported by the soaring voices onstage. It was necessary to walk carefully along the narrow steel catwalks to avoid items stored on them, and to hunch over in certain areas to avoid low-hanging wires and other backstage paraphernalia. Eventually, they emerged into a round space approximately thirty feet in diameter. Thick spools of cable and rope were neatly lined up along one arc of the circle. In the center, on the cold, bare, gray concrete floor, was the body. A uniformed Kennedy Center security officer stood a dozen feet from the deceased, his body language saying that to get any closer would infect him with a disease, or perhaps wake the girl from her nap.
Pawkins went directly to the body. He brushed away unseen dirt from a small area of the floor, tugged up his pants leg, lowered one knee to that clean spot, and examined the girl more closely. He observed that she was slight in stature and was either Asian or the product of a mixed marriage. She was on her back, her arms folded up, allowing her hands, one atop the other, to rest on her chest. She wore white pants cut off just below her knees—Were they called Capri pants? Pawkins wondered. Her top, made of some silky fabric, was shiny red with the hint of a pattern in the cloth. She wore one shoe; the other foot was bare, toenails the same red as her blouse. A black fanny pack covered her groin.
Pawkins ignored the first rule of coming upon a homicide scene; make sure that she was dead. No need to check for signs of life. Her eyes were open; the pupils were of different sizes, one of three basic signs of death, along with cessation of breathing and lack of a pulse. He gently tried to move her arm. Stiff as a rake handle. Rigor mortis was complete, although he judged that it might have begun to disappear, which would mean the time of death was at least eighteen hours earlier. Her small, thin body would have hastened the onset of stiffening. He’d seen obese bodies that never did become rigid. He tried to move her arms again and succeeded in lifting them just enough to see what was beneath her clasped hands. “Oh, my,” he muttered to himself. He took a second look. “Hmmm.”
With Jacoby looking over his shoulder—the Kennedy Center security chief had spent most of his MPD career in a special unit assigned to protect VIPs; murder investigations were foreign to him—Pawkins pulled a notebook and a pen from the inside pocket of his sport jacket, and jotted notes.
“How’d she die?” Jacoby asked.
Pawkins stood and continued making notes. “It appears she was stabbed in the chest, judging from that circle of blood beneath her hands. That’s for the ME to decide.”
Sounds coming from outside the area caused Pawkins to turn and see a pair of uniformed MPD officers and two detectives emerge from the shadows. Pawkins recognized one of the detectives; they’d worked a number of cases together.
“Hey, Ray,” the familiar one said, breathing heavily and wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “Hell of a climb to get up here.”
Pawkins nodded.
“How come you’re here, Ray?”
“I happened to be downstairs when this gentleman discovered the body.” He indic
ated the stagehand, who’d joined the original cop at a respectful, safe distance from the body.
The lead detective was Carl Berry, fifteen years on the force, twelve of them in Homicide—or as it had been renamed by some highly paid consultant, Crimes Against Persons.
“Nice to see you again, Carl,” Pawkins said, returning the notebook and pen to his jacket. “Stay in touch.”
“Sure, Ray. I’ll want to get your take on this, you having been here so soon. Any idea who she is?”
“Her fanny pack probably contains that information.”
Berry opened the bag and withdrew a wallet, a set of keys, and assorted makeup items. He perused the wallet, looked up, and said, “Her name’s Lee.” He held the card he read from at arm’s length and squinted in the dim light. “Charise Lee.” Consulting another card from the wallet, he said, “Young Artist Program? What’s that?”
Pawkins sighed. He was very familiar with the Domingo-Cafritz program and had attended their recitals. He’d not seen her before. “An opera singer,” he said sadly. “She’ll sing no more.”
He followed Jacoby down the torturous route to the main stage and looked out over the house, where Mac and Annabel Smith and the others sat. Genevieve Crier was with the Smiths. Pawkins went to them and slumped into a chair between Annabel and Genevieve.
“Well?” Genevieve asked. “Was someone murdered?”
“Yes,” Pawkins replied, not looking at anyone in particular.
“Who?” Genevieve asked, a lump in her throat catching the word as it came out.
Murder at the Opera Page 3
