Murder at the Opera

by Margaret Truman

  Frazier went through the remaining items on the agenda. The final notation was Internal Investigation. “Those of you at the emergency meeting last night are aware that we’ve decided to conduct our own investigation into Ms. Lee’s death. One of the supers in Tosca, a…” He looked to Annabel.

  “Pawkins,” Annabel filled in. “Raymond Pawkins. He’s a retired MPD homicide detective, as well as an opera lover.”

  “I know him,” said the woman in charge of WNO’s development program. “He has season tickets, has had them for years. He’s a charming man.”

  “Yes, isn’t he?” Annabel said.

  Frazier broke into their conversation. “Camile will coordinate with Annabel on the arrangements to be made with Mr. Pawkins.” He was referring to Camile Worthington, who headed up the board’s executive committee, and who’d called Annabel at the Watergate to tell her about the emergency meeting. They agreed to meet privately once this meeting was concluded.

  Frazier concluded by saying, “I hope what Laurie said will be heeded. We don’t need the press twisting what any of us say, and that includes the use of this detective to help us investigate internally. Anything else?”

  Annabel and Camile adjoined to a small office adjacent to the conference room.

  “When can we get together with Mr. Perkins?” she asked.

  “It’s Pawkins,” Annabel corrected. “I don’t know, but I can call Mac on his cell. Maybe they’re still together.”

  Mac and Pawkins were in the middle of breakfast when his cell phone rang.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” Annabel said. “I’m here with Camile Worthington. She’s wondering when she and others can get together with Mr. Pawkins.”

  She heard Mac confer with Pawkins. “Ray says he’s free all day.”

  “This afternoon at WNO headquarters? Say two?” was Annabel’s suggestion.

  Another confab between the men. “We’ll be there,” said Mac.

  Annabel found it interesting that her husband would be with Pawkins at the meeting. She knew he had a break in his teaching schedule while his students studied for final exams. Still, it was an indication that he would do what she suspected, take a more active part in the investigation than his protest had promised. His tendency to warm up slowly to something new wasn’t a matter of being difficult. Mackensie Smith was simply a man who didn’t leap into strange waters without first testing their depth and temperature. Like any good lawyer.

  Mac and Pawkins were finishing their coffee. Mac had dressed casually in response to the hot weather that was pressing down on the city. He was in chino slacks, a tangerine-colored polo shirt, and sneakers. Pawkins, on the other hand, seemed impervious to the heat and humidity. He wore a beautifully tailored, blue poplin suit, a pale cream shirt, and a tie with a graphic of the Mona Lisa on its blue field. The air-conditioning in the restaurant was barely keeping up with the discomforting weather, and Mac dabbed at perspiration on his forehead from time to time. Pawkins never broke a sweat; Mac thought of the E. G. Marshall character in the film Twelve Angry Men.

  “Where do you live, Ray?” Smith asked.

  “Great Falls.”

  Mac’s eyebrows went up. “Lovely area,” he said.

  “How does a retired cop live in such a high-rent district?” Pawkins said. “I fell into it. I rented a gatehouse for years owned by a wealthy real estate guy. He decided to sell and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Actually, it’s pretty modest, although I’ve put in some improvements. How do you like living in the Watergate?”

  “We’re very happy there.”

  “That’s what counts.”

  “You said last night that something had been wedged into the wound to stop the bleeding. Any idea what it was?”

  “A sponge.”

  “Oh? I had the feeling that you didn’t know what it was.”

  “I didn’t. I called Carl Berry this morning before meeting with you. He’s lead on the case.”

  “You work fast.”

  “The faster the better where homicide is concerned. Carl is a good guy, a straight shooter, at least with me.”

  “You told him you were investigating for the opera company?”

  Pawkins nodded.

  “I imagine the powers-that-be there would prefer to keep it sub rosa,” Smith said.

  “To the extent that it can be. I’ll need MPD cooperation, at least unofficially.” He pushed back his chair, cocked his head, and grinned. “A sponge,” he said. “Now, who would have access to a sponge on an empty stage at the Kennedy Center?”

  “I have a feeling you’ll answer that question.”

  “That’s my intention.” Pawkins motioned for the check.

  They parted on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant and agreed to meet at the Opera’s administrative offices at two. As they shook hands, Mac laughed.

  “What’s funny?” Pawkins asked.

  “We spent an entire breakfast without any references from you to operas and opera singers.”

  “Deliberately,” Pawkins said. “I sensed your discomfort when I fell into my habit of relating everything to opera. I promise to curb the temptation. Looking forward to working with you, Mac. It’s nice to be walking on the winning side of the street.”

  NINE

  Detective Carl Berry didn’t care that his coffee had gotten cold. It was bad station-house brew, hot or cold, pure shellac. He’d been at First District headquarters since returning from the Kennedy Center and was feeling the effects of having pulled an all-nighter. With him were two detectives called in to assist in the Charise Lee investigation—William Portelain, an imposing, black, bearish, twenty-year veteran whose cynicism about almost everything in life had grown over the years until reaching a point of ongoing annoyance with bosses and colleagues; and Sylvia Johnson, another African American, who’d joined the D.C. force eleven years ago after being turned down by the police department in her native New York City—too many applicants, too few slots. A cousin from Washington had urged her to come here to seek the career in law enforcement she’d coveted since childhood. She’d been pursuing a degree in criminal justice since arriving, which struck Portelain as “pretty damn dumb.”

  “What are you goin’ to do with that degree, lady?” he grumbled each time she spoke of her studies. “Won’t do you a damn bit a good. You want to get ahead here, sleep with somebody. That’s the only way a chick as black as you is goin’ to get anywhere.”

  To which she replied, “If I do, it won’t be with a gorilla like you, Willie. Nothing a loser like you can do for me.” He’d laugh, a deep rumble, his feelings seemingly impervious to being hurt. Nor did her put-downs discourage him from making repeated passes at her, which were both annoying and strangely flattering. Although Willie didn’t represent genuine allure to Sylvia, and his persistent negativity was potentially catching, she liked him and enjoyed working cases with him. He could be a good cop when he chose to be.

  “What’ve we got?” Sylvia asked Carl Berry.

  He slid a folder across the table to her. “Asian victim, twenty-eight, female, Canadian, stabbed in the chest at the Kennedy Center. Was an opera singer, studying with the folks over at the Washington Opera.”

  “They had more information than that on TV,” Portelain said in a voice that resembled an idling engine on a motor boat, low and throaty.

  “There’s more, Willie,” Berry said. Although younger than Portelain, and college educated, he knew he had the detective’s respect. He opened a second folder and displayed its contents on the tabletop, which included photographs taken at the crime scene.

  “She was a little thing, huh?” Portelain said. “I always thought opera singers were big and fat.”

  Johnson didn’t say what she was thinking. If being big and fat was the only criterion to be an opera singer, Willie Portelain had a new career to look forward to.

  The female detective held one of the color prints at arm’s length. “What is it, a sponge?”

  “Right,” said Be
rry. “The ME’s office sent this one over with the rest of the initial autopsy photos.”

  She studied it for a moment before saying, “This sponge was found in the wound?”

  “Right again.”

  “The dude who did the deed was a pro,” Portelain said.

  “Or a damn talented amateur, the son-of-a-bitch,” said Berry. “Either of you ever see something like this before?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Crocker was with me last night at the scene,” Berry said, “but he’s been pulled to work a drive-by in Southwest. Looks like the three of us caught this one.”

  “Opera, huh?” Portelain said, tossing the photos he’d been examining onto the table, like a poker player folding his hand. He yawned loudly and scratched the back of his head. “These opera types are strange, man,” he said. “You ever been to one?”

  Johnson was still busy looking at the photographs and didn’t respond, but Berry said, “A couple of times. Not my thing. I’m a Steely Dan and Pink Floyd guy, but I kind of enjoyed it. Hey, by the way, guess who’s also working the case.”

  Portelain looked up at Berry through thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “Who?”

  “Ray Pawkins.”

  It was a duet from Portelain and Johnson: “Pawkins?”

  “He’s retired, man,” Portelain said.

  “He’s coming back?” Johnson asked.

  “No,” Berry replied, “he’s working as a PI for the Washington Opera.”

  “He’s a fruitcake,” Portelain said, chuckling.

  “Ray is—was—a good detective,” Berry said. “Damn good.”

  “Why is the Opera hiring a private eye?” Johnson asked.

  “I spoke to Ray,” said Berry. “According to him, the Opera board wants to resolve it themselves. I told him we’d work with him, within limits.”

  “Ray Pawkins, huh?” Portelain said, standing and hitching up his trousers. “He was always into opera and stuff like that.”

  “That’s right,” Berry concurred. “He was at the Kennedy Center last night when the victim was discovered. He’s in the next show.”

  “He sings, too?” Sylvia Johnson said.

  “An extra, a spear carrier,” said Berry. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll go his way and we’ll go ours. The deceased had a roommate, another student from the school.” He consulted his notes. “Name’s Christopher Warren, a piano player. Start with him, Willie. See where he was last night, try to get a handle on his relationship with her. Maybe they were more than roommates. Ask him about any guys she might have been involved with.” He handed Portelain an address. “Carlos was there at Warren’s last night with two evidence techs. They cleaned the place.”

  Portelain nodded.

  “Sylvia, get together with somebody from that program she was in at the Washington Opera. The…” He consulted his notes again. “Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program. Get an idea of what she was like, who she hung out with, other singers who might have been jealous of her, stuff like that. Maybe somebody doesn’t like Asian-Canadians who hit the high notes. Or miss them. I’ll get a rundown from the ME on the sponge used to plug the wound.”

  “And we canvas every store that sells sponges,” Portelain said. “Shouldn’t take us more than a couple a years.”

  Berry ignored him. “I’m meeting the parents in an hour. We’ll hook up back here at two—unless you get lucky.”

  He heard Johnson ask Portelain on their way from the room, “Can they pull prints from a sponge?”

  “Hell, no. What are you doin’ for dinner tonight? I found this great new ribs joint that serves…”

  Berry smiled and shook his head. Maybe his father was right, he should have gone into investment banking, or become a lawyer. Too late for that now, he thought, which didn’t dismay him. Carl Berry loved being a cop. Just that simple.

  The assistant medical examiner assigned to autopsy Charise Lee’s body had just completed that task and was relaxing in his office with coffee and a raspberry turnover when Ray Pawkins called his office.

  “Hello, stranger,” the ME said. His name was, fittingly, Les Cutter. Everyone thought it was a joke when first introduced to him. “How’s retirement?”

  “Wonderful,” Pawkins said. “I never knew I could be so busy. Hear you got the opera singer case.”

  “What a wonderful town this is,” Cutter said. “‘My secrets cry aloud, I have no need for tongue. My heart keeps an open house, my doors are widely flung.’”

  “Nice,” Pawkins said. “Who wrote it?”

  “I forget. What can I do for you, my friend?”

  “Tell me about the sponge you found in the deceased’s chest.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “‘My secrets cry aloud, I have no need for’—the story’s around. What kind of sponge is it?”

  “It’s a sponge, Ray.”

  “Like I have on my kitchen sink?”

  Cutter paused. “As a matter of fact, the answer is no. It’s different than that.”

  “When can I see it?”

  “You can’t. It’s evidence.”

  “I never would have guessed that. I’m working the case.”

  “You retired.”

  “Not as a PI. The good folks over at the Washington Opera have hired me to look into it. I won’t touch. I just want to see.”

  “No can do,” Cutter said, taking a final bite of turnover and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s already with the evidence techs.”

  “You have a picture, of course,” Pawkins said.

  “Of course. More than one.”

  “Make a print for me, Les?”

  Cutter exhaled loudly, which made his point better than any words could have.

  “Les? I’ll owe you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s all I can ask. Here’s my address.” He gave the ME a post-office box number in downtown D.C. “I know you’re busy, Les, but take a minute to describe it for me. How big. Usual kitchen-sponge size?”

  “Bigger, Ray. Not square like kitchen sponges. Round.”

  “Is that so? Color?”

  “White, but discolored.”

  “How so?”

  “A cream-colored stain. The sponge has some sort of velour on both sides.”

  “I definitely owe you. Looking forward to the photo. Everything good with you and the family?”

  “Everything’s fine. I have to go.”

  “You’re my favorite ME, Les. Ciao!”

  Pawkins had parked his car near the restaurant where he and Smith breakfasted. He’d made the call to Les Cutter from his cell phone in the front seat of his Mercedes. Now he paid the parking fee and headed across the Anacostia River to the District’s Southeast quadrant, where he found a metered spot on Eighth Street. After taking a moment to decide whether he’d parked the car in a relatively safe place, he walked up the street and entered a shop bearing the sign BACKSTAGE INC. A woman greeted him and asked what he was looking for.

  “Just a sponge,” he said. “A makeup sponge.”

  “We have a variety of them,” she said, offering him a tray on which assorted sponges were neatly arranged. “We have Ben Nye, Kryolan—”

  He picked one up from the tray and examined it. “Is this the largest you have?” he asked.

  “Yes. It’s over three inches. It’s velour, perfect for applying foundation quickly to large areas.”

  He nodded. “How much?”

  “Seven dollars.”

  He paid her in cash, left, climbed into his car, and took the sponge from its paper bag, holding it at various angles. He formed a small circle with the index finger and thumb of his left hand, wadded up the sponge in his right, and wedged it into the circle. He glanced in the rearview mirror. A group of teenagers with overalls hanging low and wearing baseball hats at various angles swaggered along the cracked sidewalk in his direction, laughing loudly and punching one another. Pawkins started the engine, reached beneath his
seat, and withdrew a licensed 9mm Glock, which he placed next to him on the passenger seat, his right hand resting easily on it. The group stopped abreast of the car. One of them leaned over and asked, “What’s up, man? You looking for something?”

  “No,” Pawkins answered.

  “Those are some wheels, man,” another member of the gang said. He came around the back of the car and placed his hand on the open window on Pawkins’ side.

  “Get your hand off,” Pawkins said quietly.

  The youth pulled back his hand and said, “Oh, I’m sorry, mister.” With that, he put his hand there again.

  Pawkins lifted the Glock from the seat and held it inches from the young man’s face. The teenager raised both hands and backed away. One of his friends saw the gun from the sidewalk side and said, “Man’s crazy. Hey, no offense, man.”

  Pawkins watched them move quickly down the street and disappear around a corner. He replaced the Glock beneath the seat, raised the window, turned the AC on full blast, and pulled away, thinking as he did of John Dillinger’s alleged comment, Kindness and a gun will get you further than kindness alone.

  “How true,” he said aloud, and laughed.

  TEN

  Willie Portelain stopped for a slice of pepperoni pizza on his way to interview Charise Lee’s roommate. Although he’d eaten a big breakfast only two hours earlier—eggs over easy, well-done sausage, hash browns, and whole wheat toast—he was hungry almost as soon as he’d finished that first meal of the day. His prodigious appetite was a running joke among colleagues and friends. Some suggested he cut down on his intake and drop some weight. “Body needs fuel,” he’d answer, “like a car or plane. My body tells me what it wants, I don’t argue with it.”

  “As long as he doesn’t have to chase some perp on foot,” other detectives said behind his back, laughing at that visual. Willie would have agreed with them. His greatest fear when on duty was to be called upon to run after someone.

  The apartment shared by Charise and Warren was on N Street, between Logan and Thomas circles. Once an elegant enclave of Richardsonian and Victorian townhouses, it had deteriorated over the years into a troubled neighborhood, until a determined gentrification was launched. Still, it was one of those D.C. areas best avoided late at night.