Murder at the Opera

by Margaret Truman

  She giggled and put a finger to her lips. “Loose lips sink ships, and dumplings,” she said.

  Everyone at the table agreed that the evening, at least the first portion of it, was a smashing success. The ambassador and his wife were a charming couple, and having the celebrity chef there only added to the sizzle.

  They left the German Embassy and went to the evening’s main event, the party at the Brazilian Embassy. As they approached, pulsating samba and bossa nova rhythms could be heard, and felt, a block away. An overwhelming contingent of security people, uniformed and in plainclothes, made their presence abundantly evident. The Smiths’ invitations, accompanying photo IDs, and names from a computer printout were carefully checked, and they were allowed to enter the grounds on which the huge tent was the scene of a lavish, loud gala. Couples danced to the spirited music beneath rotating colored lights that painted an impressionistic swirl over everything, and everyone. Mac and Annabel made their way to a long table where uniformed staff poured cups of Brazilian coffee; they avoided the artfully arranged desserts. Costumed supers wearing elaborate masks were stationed at various spots around the dance floor to add color, and to chat with guests.

  “When’s the president due?” Mac asked his wife.

  “A half hour,” Annabel said.

  A member of the ball committee approached. “Annabel,” she said, “I hate to tear you away from your handsome husband, but we could use your help for twenty minutes.”

  “Mac?”

  “Go ahead. I’ll wander a bit, catch up with you for a dance in a half hour—provided it’s a slow one.”

  He watched her move through the crowd, her decidedly female form lovely to look at from any direction. He walked without purpose across the dance floor to an area surrounded by high bushes, the band’s volume buffeted somewhat by the foliage and distance. As with everywhere else on the embassy grounds, security was thick and tight. Two obvious Secret Service agents, their little earpieces a giveaway, stood with two uniformed MPD patrolmen and a heavyset black man, whom Mac assumed was another cop. He was right.

  “Excuse me,” the black man said, “but aren’t you a lawyer?”

  “I was,” Mac replied. “I teach law now. Mackensie Smith.”

  “I knew I recognized you,” Willie Portelain said. “I testified in a couple of cases where you were representing the perps.”

  Mac laughed. “I preferred to call them defendants,” he said. “I recognize you, too, Officer.”

  “You were tough in that courtroom, man,” Willie said. “Made me sweat on the stand. Name’s Portelain. Willie Portelain, detective over at the First.”

  They shook hands. “Looks like every police officer in the city is here tonight,” Mac said, looking back into the crowd.

  “All I know is, I’m here.”

  They were joined by Sylvia Johnson. Willie made the introductions.

  “My wife’s on the committee for this affair,” Mac said. “I lost her for a while. Duty called.”

  “Are you an opera buff, Mr. Smith?” Sylvia asked.

  “Afraid not,” Mac said. “They roped me into being an extra—a super—in Tosca.”

  “You were in the opera last night?” Willie said. “We were there, only—”

  “Duty called us away, too,” Sylvia said.

  “You didn’t get to stay for the whole performance?”

  “We had to leave after the second act,” Sylvia said.

  “Right after she stabbed that guy Scarpia,” Willie said.

  “Dramatic scene,” Mac said. “So, what’s new at MPD?”

  “Always something new,” Sylvia replied. “Or the old becomes new. Were you involved in the Musinski case?”

  “No,” Mac said. “I’d given up criminal law by that time. They never did find the killer.”

  Willie’s laugh rumbled from deep inside. “Case closed, Counselor,” he said.

  “‘Case closed’? You’ve made progress?”

  Willie looked at Sylvia before answering Smith’s question. They’d been sworn to secrecy about the Charise Lee case. An announcement would be made the following day, most likely by a spokesman for the Department of Homeland Security. But no one had said they couldn’t discuss the Musinski murder.

  “Yeah,” Willie said. “That guy Grimes, who worked for Musinski at the school, confessed.”

  “Oh?” Mac said, processing what Portelain had just said.

  “We knew it was him from the git-go,” Willie said, “but nobody could ever put together a case against him, at least not enough to prosecute. Till now anyway.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Smith. “Wasn’t there talk of missing manuscripts, musical scores?”

  “That’s right,” Johnson agreed.

  “The fellow who confessed, did he admit taking those, too?”

  Willie shook his head.

  “He swears he didn’t even know anything like that was in Musinski’s house,” Sylvia said. “It’ll probably be in the papers tomorrow.”

  “I see. Well, I’m glad you’ve cracked that case,” Mac said. “Speaking of cases, anything new on the murder of the young opera singer?”

  “No,” Willie said.

  “No,” said Sylvia.

  Mac looked at his watch. “Enjoyed the chat,” he said, “and the update. Good work. I hope you get to see the third act of the opera. It’s as good as the first two.”

  He left them, hoping to see Annabel and share what he’d just learned.

  Annabel, too, was attempting to find her spouse. She was on the other side of the security divide. Next to her stood a tall man dressed in a costume and mask from Wagner’s Das Rheingold. He moved slightly so that their sides touched.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  “Enjoying the evening, Mrs. Smith?”

  The voice was familiar.

  Ray Pawkins lifted the mask and smiled.

  “Oh, hello,” Annabel said.

  “You look surprised,” Pawkins said. “Even a little afraid.”

  “Afraid? I—Excuse me,” Annabel said, taking a step away.

  Pawkins grabbed her arm. “I think we need to talk.”

  Annabel looked down at her arm and angrily yanked it free.

  Another smile, more a smirk, crossed Pawkins’ face.

  “I know that that weasel, Josephson, told you and Mac about me,” Pawkins said.

  Just then she saw Mac circumvent a knot of dancers and head in their direction.

  “Yes, Ray, I think we do need to have a talk,” she said as Mac joined them.

  “Good evening, Counselor,” Pawkins said pleasantly, raising his voice just loud enough for Mac and Annabel to hear him over the amplified music and the noise of the crowd.

  “That’s quite a costume, Ray,” Mac said.

  “Thank you. It’s from Das Rheingold, Wagner’s Ring Cycle. Of all opera composers, Wagner stands tallest. Of course, he’s not to everyone’s taste, especially those with limited patience to sit through the entire Ring, but—”

  “Ray knows that Marc Josephson spoke with us about Dr. Musinski and the Mozart-Haydn scores, Mac.”

  “Really? Care to explain, Ray?”

  “To you?” Pawkins said snidely. “I don’t owe you or anyone else an explanation. But since you got suckered into it, I’ll be happy to answer your questions. But this is hardly the place.”

  “I agree with that,” Mac said. “You name the time and place.”

  “My house. Tomorrow. Noon. I’ll even make you lunch. I’m not a bad cook when I put my mind to it.” He rattled off the address. “Oh,” he said, “I see Genevieve over there waiting for me. I promised her the next dance. Do you samba? Probably not. See you tomorrow. Ciao!”

  Mac and Annabel watched him go to where Genevieve stood, grab her in his arms, and sweep her onto the dance floor.

  “So arrogant,” Annabel said.

  “He is that. He also didn’t kill Musinski.”

  Her eyes opened wider. “How do you know that?
”

  “Straight from the MPD. One of Musinski’s acolytes at the university has confessed, the same one they’ve been focusing on since day one. Whether Ray stole those scores is another question. Should be an interesting conversation tomorrow, and if he’s as good a cook as he claims, we’ll get a decent lunch out of it, too. Dance, Mrs. Smith?”

  As they snaked their way to the dance floor, they were stopped by a wall of security forces that parted the dancers like the Red Sea, creating a secure passageway for the president of the United States, Arthur Montgomery, and the nation’s first lady, Pamela Montgomery. Surrounded by Secret Service agents, the evening’s honored guests stepped up onto the bandstand, to a cacophony of applause, cheers, and whistles. They were joined on the stage by a half-dozen members of the Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program.

  “Good evening,” the president said into a microphone, that simple greeting in a voice familiar to millions of Americans generating another outburst of unbridled approval. Mac and Annabel stood in a tight knot of people and listened. The president spoke of the importance of the Washington National Opera to the cultural life of the nation’s capital, and to the nation itself. “They say that politics is sometimes like opera, full of intrigue and maneuvering, backbiting and betrayal. I wouldn’t know about that.” He paused, eliciting the expected laughter. “I can only say that attending the superb performances at the Kennedy Center, with the vision, creativity, and immense talent of Maestro Domingo always in evidence, causes politics to take a backseat for those few hours, the magnificent voices and spectacular settings lifting the spirits.”

  The applause was loud and long, and not at all surprising.

  “And I’m privileged to be standing here next to the next generation of opera stars, who will sing their arias on stages all over the world, ambassadors of peace and understanding between people.”

  More hands came together.

  “I know that these superbly talented young men and women will entertain you a little later in the evening,” the president said. “Now I believe the real opera lover in the Montgomery family has something to say.”

  The First Lady replaced her husband at the microphone and started to speak. She’d gotten out only a few words when the sound of a weapon being discharged crackled through the heavy, moisture-laden air. There were shrieks and cries of confusion. Secret Service agents surrounded the first couple, wrapping them in the protection of their own bodies, guns drawn, eyes everywhere. Guests closest to the bandstand saw two agents leap on a man dressed in the white uniform of a kitchen worker and smother him against the floor. A weapon flew from the man’s hand and skidded through dozens of pairs of patent-leather and high-heel shoes, until coming to rest against a woman’s foot, causing her to wrap her arms around the neck of her tuxedoed husband and climb up his torso as though he were a tree.

  The first couple was virtually carried from the scene, across the dance floor, past hundreds of partygoers with horrified expressions on their faces, beneath sharpshooters stationed on rooftops, and to the waiting bulletproof limo. Chaos reigned. Some guests, convinced that they would all be slaughtered, made for the exits. Others sought answers. The shooter, his arms wrenched behind his back, was transported away by four Secret Service agents. “You bastard!” a man yelled.

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s a terrorist,” others answered.

  “How did he get a gun in here?”

  Bill Frazier, the Opera’s chairman, grabbed the microphone and called for calm.

  Mac and Annabel turned to the couple next to them, a U.S. senator and his wife. Mac had served on a committee chaired by the politician. The senator was ending a cell phone conversation.

  “A terrorist attack?” Mac said.

  “Right,” the senator replied. “They’ve gunned down Congressman Chapman. Christ, he was out walking his dog. The mayor of Denver survived an attack against him.”

  Two security men whisked the senator and his wife away.

  Frazier’s continuous call for order had some effect. The Brazilian band began to play again, and a couple took to the dance floor in a show of confidence.

  “Please,” Frazier said, “let’s continue with the evening despite the dreadful attack that’s just happened. Everything will be fine.”

  Mac wanted to leave, but Annabel said it wouldn’t look right if she left. He agreed, and they stayed to the scheduled end of the festivities. There was little dancing; most of the time was taken up with conversations about the event everyone had just witnessed.

  Mac and Annabel returned to their apartment and watched the news on TV. The anchors and reporters stumbled through their reports, basing them on the sketchiest of facts. Some guests at the ball were interviewed, but offered nothing of substance: “What were you feeling at the time?” was the most frequently asked question, and elicited little. Chairman Frazier spoke of how shocking the attempt on the life of the president and first lady had been for everyone who was there to enjoy a festive evening celebrating the Washington National Opera. “Thank God,” he said, “that the assassin’s shot went astray and no one was injured.”

  Homeland Security Chief Wilbur Murtaugh was rousted out of bed, briefed, and held a hastily convened press conference: “This was obviously an orchestrated terrorist attack on leading public officials,” he said. “Our hearts go out to Congressman Chapman’s family. He was a dedicated public servant, gunned down in the prime of his life. Fortunately, the President and Mrs. Montgomery were saved through the actions of the heroic men and women charged with protecting them. The gunman is in custody and being questioned as we speak. I can offer no further information about him at this time. The two men whose attempt on the life of Denver’s mayor was thwarted by authorities are also in custody. Congressman Chapman’s killer remains at large. The threat meter has been elevated to Red-Two, and will remain at that level for the foreseeable future. Thank you. I’m not taking any questions at this time.”

  The president’s press secretary’s statement from the White House said only that the president and first lady were fine, and expressed their heartfelt condolences to Congressman Chapman’s family.

  Mac and Annabel sat quietly in front of the television and allowed the journalists’ words from its speakers to come and go. Finally, at two, they turned off the set and went to bed, as stunned and angry as the rest of America.

  The phone in their apartment rang incessantly the following morning, the calls a combination of questions and theories about the thwarted assassination attempt on the president and first lady, and the one against the congressman that had succeeded, others rehashing the ball’s success. It had raised more money for the Washington National Opera than any previous Opera Ball. Bad news with good news, the bitter with the sweet.

  At eleven, Mac and Annabel took their car from the underground garage—the parking spot had added $35,000 to the condo’s sale price—and drove to Great Falls, where they found Pawkins’ home. He was in front hauling bulging green leaf bags to the garage. An odd sight.

  “Welcome,” he announced grandly. “Come on in. Onion soup, a salad, and the best French bread in D.C. is on the menu.”

  They entered the house. “Get over last night?” he asked.

  “It’s not something you get over,” Annabel said, “at least not this soon.”

  “We live in perilous times,” Pawkins said. “Might as well get used to it. Nothing new on the news. Just confusion. Come, take a tour of the old homestead.”

  They ended in his elaborate study, where the strains of an opera—Death in Venice by Benjamin Britten, he explained—poured out of speakers. “Britten wrote it for his lover of many years, Peter Pears. That’s Pears singing the title role.”

  They gravitated to the kitchen, where Pawkins had set a long table of antique French pine. A vase of freshly cut flowers dominated the middle.

  “A drink to celebrate?” he asked. “Bloody Marys are mixed and ready to go.”

  “I don’t think a celeb
ration is in order, Ray,” Mac said.

  “I disagree, Mac. Tosca is a smashing success. Last night’s Opera Ball raised a ton of money and is still D.C.’s social highlight. We lost a congressman, but the president emerges unscathed. And I am about to embark on a new phase of life.”

  Pawkins poured drinks whether they wanted them or not, and joined them at the table. He raised his glass in a toast. “To all things good, Mr. and Mrs. Smith.” One of the cats jumped up on the table, and Pawkins shooed him down. “All right,” he said, smacking his hands together as though cueing someone, in this case himself. “One, I did not murder Aaron Musinski.”

  “We know that,” Mac said.

  “Oh? How?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I knew it was Grimes from the beginning. So, my friends, your assumption that I did in the crotchety old bastard was wrong, terribly wrong. Frankly, I’m hurt that you would even think me capable of such a thing.”

  “It wasn’t an unreasonable possibility,” Mac said, “considering what Josephson told us. Now we know differently.”

  “I would certainly hope you do, and an apology is in order.”

  Annabel ignored his call for them to apologize. “What about the Mozart-Haydn scores? Did you take them? Josephson claims you did. He had an impressive array of evidence to back up his accusation.”

  “Of course I took them. Everything he told you about that is true.”

  His easy admission of guilt silenced Mac and Annabel.

  “You look shocked,” Pawkins said. “I can’t imagine why, a pair of worldly people like you. I spent twenty years with MPD, watching my fellow officers steal whenever it was convenient. They’d do a drug bust where a hundred packets of crack were found. How many were reported? Eighty? Ninety? The rest were sold to the same drug dealers who were busted and who walked, thanks to our screwed-up legal system.”

  “Are you justifying what you did because of what others have done?” Annabel asked.

  “You bet I am,” Pawkins said without hesitation. “I never did any of that. Steal drugs to put a few bucks in my pocket? Disgusting. I was a straight arrow, a complicit one maybe, looking the other way when my colleagues crossed the line. And do you know what? I never really blamed them. Cops don’t make a lot of money for putting their lives on the line every day to keep fat cats like you and the rest of official Washington safe from the bad guys. How much did you rake in, Mac, when you were defending the scum of the earth?”