Murder at the Opera: A Capital Crimes Novel

by Margaret Truman

  “Drink?” Pawkins asked.

  “Too early for me,” Berry said. He ordered a tomato juice. “You’re buying, of course,” he said with a playful tap on Pawkins’ shoulder. “This place is too rich for my blood.”

  “True,” Pawkins agreed, “but the drinks are large and the ambience agreeable. Besides, we’re surrounded by the ghosts of Washington history. So, tell me what’s going on at the great law enforcement agency in the sky.”

  “There’s never anything new over there,” Berry replied, “but you know that.”

  “Still working the Lee case?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Nothing new on that, either?”

  “I just spent an hour with her parents. They’re in from Toronto.”

  “And?”

  “They had nothing to offer, except that the father—he’s a lot older than his wife—he’s not a fan of the pianist who roomed with the victim, or the two talent agents she hooked up with.”

  “The Melincamp-Baltsa Artists Agency,” Pawkins said.

  “You know them?”

  “I did some research. She could have done better. They’re third-tier agents. Melincamp has been accused of pocketing client money. He was down-and-out when the moneyed Ms. Baltsa bought her way into the agency.”

  “Tell me more,” Berry said.

  “Not a lot more to tell, Carl.”

  “He can’t be all take, no give,” Berry said. “He’s paying for the apartment here in D.C. that Lee and Warren were staying in.”

  “I’m not surprised. From what my opera friends tell me, Charise Lee had one hell of a future as a soprano. Of course, she’s from the new school of soprano-lite singers, smaller voices in smaller bodies, that seem to have displaced singers with traditionally big voices, the kind that can fill a vast opera house without miking. They’re certainly pleasant to listen to, and to look at, but they lack that palpitating, bigger-than-life presence that the truly great opera singers possess. Still, if what I hear is true, this now very dead soprano-lite might have become the darling of the opera world in a few years, which could pay off in spades for Melincamp down the road. Laying out some rent money early on in her career might have been a smart move.”

  Berry sipped his juice and thought before offering, “If she promised to be a meal ticket for him, that would pretty much rule him out as her killer. No motivation to have her dead.”

  “On the surface. But Melincamp’s a whore. Maybe he was stealing from her and she got wind of it, threatened to blow the whistle.”

  “Doesn’t play,” Berry said. “She was a young singer getting started. How much money could she have been making? Hell, she was just a student here.”

  “Wrong, my friend. Anyone accepted into the Young Artist Program here at the Washington National Opera is more than ‘just a student.’ They’re very special talents who had to prove their mettle to none other than the maestro of maestros, Plácido Domingo. No, Carl, anyone accepted here has a bright future, indeed.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Berry said. “Tell me more about Melincamp and his partner.”

  “Melincamp’s a low-life. He talks a good story but is always looking for a buck. He and Baltsa aren’t exactly copacetic partners, like Rogers and Hart, or Ben and Jerry. The way I hear it, he’d kill his mother for a lot less than you or I would.”

  “I wouldn’t for any money,” Berry said.

  “You always were too serious, Carl. I was joking.”

  Pawkins reached into his small, leather shoulder bag and handed Berry the sponge he’d purchased at the theatrical supply shop. “Like this one?”

  Berry’s fingers made indentations in the sponge. “Where did you get this?”

  “A store. I offer it to dissuade you from jumping to the conclusion that the killer had to have been someone involved with theater, specifically the opera. Anyone could have bought it the way I did.” He laughed and checked his watch. “Almost time for a real drink. Here I’ve been telling you everything you need to know about the Lee case, as well as what’s wrong with opera singers today, and nothing from you. Where does your investigation stand?”

  “I’ve got people questioning the agents. We brought in Warren. Dumb kid bolted and got a faceful of Willie Portelain’s fist.”

  “And he has an airtight alibi, I assume.”

  “Anything but. We’ll start interviewing everyone in that Young Artist Program. Maybe we’ll get lucky and come up with somebody who had it in for the victim, a guy she jilted, another singer who was jealous. I understand that opera singers can get pretty jealous of one another. In the meantime, we’re still at square one. Hey, Ray, I saw the article about you. Pretty nice.”

  “My fifteen minutes of fame. I wasn’t pleased with the photograph. I’m a lot younger and better-looking than the picture shows.”

  Berry cocked his head and exaggerated his scrutiny of Pawkins’ face. “Yeah, you’re right. Look, Cole wasn’t happy when I told him we’d be getting together on the Lee case, but he didn’t say no. I can use your help.”

  “And you’ll have it.”

  Pawkins paid with a credit card.

  “Let’s stay in touch,” Berry said as they stood on the sidewalk.

  “Absolutely. I may have to run out of town for a day or two, but I’ll let you know. Not sure I can get away. I’m in Tosca.”

  “So I read. You really enjoy being in operas, don’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t. Take care, Carl.”

  As Pawkins began to walk away, Berry said, “Hey, Ray.”

  “What?”

  “I almost forgot. Remember the Musinski case you worked on six years ago?”

  “Sure.”

  “They’re reopening it.”

  “Oh?” Pawkins said, his eyes narrowing.

  “Yeah. Forensics has come up with something that might link that grad assistant to the scene.”

  “That’s interesting,” Pawkins said.

  “Cole said he’ll be wanting to talk with you about it.”

  “Anytime.”

  At approximately the time that Annabel Lee-Smith met with the Opera Ball committee, and Berry and Pawkins conferred, Milton Crowley wearily exited the plane that had brought him from Amman, Jordan, to Washington. He hated flying, especially long trips that crossed time lines, and found airport security procedures to be unnecessarily burdensome and most likely ineffective. Most of all, it was the flights themselves that turned his mood foul, the dispirited flight attendants, uncomfortable seats that seemed deliberately designed to cause discomfort, and what passed for food served in-flight. As he tried to sleep—he was tired, but also wanted to avoid talking with his seatmate, a gregarious woman whose voice was like a cracked bell—he thought of better days in air travel, when he was younger, when flying to exotic lands was a special privilege and people dressed properly for their flights and…

  He went through Customs and stood in a line of people waiting for taxis. His turbaned driver drove a vehicle that reeked of stale tobacco and whose rear seat was lumpy and confining; he thought of spacious London cabs and their intelligent, gentlemanly drivers and…

  And he thought of his cottage in Dorset, where he would soon retire and flip a bird at the whole bloody world of intelligence, politics, and governments, and the insane men who governed them. Always, it was the vision of the cottage that salved his otherwise cranky disposition.

  He handed the driver a slip of paper on which he’d written the address of a building on Ward Circle, closed his eyes, and prayed that the ride would be quick.

  It wasn’t.

  He was eventually deposited outside a gate and fence. The driver was told to leave. Crowley showed his identification to a military guard, who placed a call. Crowley was allowed to pass through the gate and enter the building. The soldier at the desk reviewed his credentials, and he, too, made a call. A few minutes later, with a visitor’s pass hanging from his neck, he was escorted by a uniformed young woman to a staircas
e. He had to stop halfway. His right hip had been acting up and a stabbing pain caused him to wince and to let out a small verbal protest. He’d been told he should have the hip replaced, but he wasn’t about to let any surgeon cut into him, thank you very much, unless it became an absolute necessity. It flared up only now and then. Once he was at the cottage, things would be better.

  “Sorry,” he told his escort, who stood a few steps above him and looked unhappy at the delay.

  She led him to a room at the end of a long corridor. Two armed, uniformed young men stood watch. The female officer said something in a guarded voice, which prompted one of them to open the door. Crowley entered. The room was a rectangle. Large windows had been sealed and painted, the color a slightly different pale green from the walls. A man in a three-piece suit seated at a long table in the center of the room stood and shook Crowley’s hand. “Good trip?” he asked.

  Why do people always ask that? Crowley wondered.

  “Yes, quite, thank you, Joseph.”

  “Please, sit down,” Joe Browning said, indicating a chair to his left, which Crowley gratefully took, relieving the pressure on his hip. “I appreciate your coming here on such short notice.”

  “It seemed necessary,” Crowley said.

  “That’s an understatement,” Browning said, underlining it with a chuckle. “So, fill me in. As you can imagine, our people are anxious to be brought up to speed on what you and your colleagues have uncovered in Jordan.”

  Crowley cleared his throat and looked to where a window once was. He wished it were still there. The room was claustrophobic. “I’m afraid we’ve gotten only so far,” he said. “I don’t know whether you are aware that our source in Amman was killed.”

  Browning nodded.

  “Without that source, we’ve reached a bit of a standstill, I’m afraid.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Actually, we’ve been receiving intelligence through other sources that helps fill in some of the gaps.”

  “That’s good,” Crowley said.

  “Interesting, the way terrorists’ minds work, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it is, although I prefer to think of their so-called minds as more depraved and immoral than interesting.”

  “Of course. What our people found especially probative was this shift in their thinking. What’s your take on it?”

  “I’m really not paid to analyze information, Joseph. I simply arrange for it to be gathered. But off the record, I would say that there is a certain wisdom to their new approach. It will certainly be easier to carry out, and the impact could be substantial.”

  “If it’s what they’re really intending. Tell me, Mr. Crowley, did your source in Jordan—I understand he had a pretty direct line into the insurgents through a family member—”

  “That’s right.”

  “Was there any hint as to the sort of high-profile target they might choose?”

  “That’s what we were hoping to find out,” Crowley replied. “According to the source, they were in the process of drawing up their hit list. I suppose it had to meet with bin Laden’s approval.”

  “If he’s still alive.”

  “Yes, if.”

  “But it was ascertained that it would be centered here in Washington.”

  “That was our information, which we passed along.”

  “Yes, and we appreciated that. The secretary made an announcement right after we received that info. We’ve raised the terrorist alert level to Orange-Plus.”

  A tiny smile crossed Crowley’s lips. Americans and their fondness for anything technological, colorful—and useless. A vision of sitting on a white wrought-iron bench at riverside in Dorset came and went.

  “Do you have anything else to report?” Browning asked, opening a file folder on which TOP SECRET was stamped in red.

  “Only one thing,” Crowley said.

  “Which is?”

  “I met with the source’s handler in Amman before coming here. He mentioned something about a Canadian connection.”

  “Canadian connection? That’s intriguing. What sort of connection?”

  “I don’t know, nor did the handler. He hadn’t mentioned it in previous messages. I assume it was simply an oversight.”

  “Oversights, like loose lips, can get us killed,” said Browning.

  Crowley said nothing. He wanted the meeting to be over.

  “Well,” Browning said, “this was a long way for you to come with so little new to offer.”

  Criticism or sympathy?

  “I wish I had more.”

  Browning walked him to the door. “Will you be staying in Washington long?” he asked.

  “A day or two. I can be reached through our embassy.”

  “I thought you might enjoy taking in a baseball game while you’re here. We have a new team, the Nationals. I know you don’t have baseball in the U.K. and thought it would be a new experience. Have you ever been to a game?”

  “No, I haven’t.” Nor do I have any interest in doing so.

  “Give me a call if you’d like to go. They’re playing at home tomorrow night.”

  As Crowley headed for his hotel, where he intended to order a bottle of good Scotch and have it and dinner sent to his room, Joe Browning met with his superiors at Homeland Security.

  “So he had nothing new to offer,” his boss said.

  “Right, except for some vague reference to a Canadian connection.”

  “We’ll follow up on that.”

  “All we know at this juncture,” said Browning, “is that the terrorists, presumably with bin Laden’s blessing, have decided to forgo hitting big targets and concentrate on assassinating top political leaders here in D.C.”

  “Maybe claiming that Washington is the focus is a red herring. Maybe they intend to strike elsewhere.”

  “Where else?” Browning said. “If you’re out to kill top political leaders, this is the place to do it.”

  “I’ll run it past the secretary. Are you impressed with Crowley?”

  “He’s old.”

  “I mean, does he seem to know what he and his sources are talking about?”

  “I suppose we’ll see,” Browning responded. “Right now, he’s pretty much our only conduit to this new initiative by the terrorists. He still has someone in Amman, who’s working on developing new sources. The original was assassinated.”

  “Unfortunate. See me later.”

  It had been a long, tough day for M.T., whose undercover code name was “Steamer.” He’d spent the day supervising the installation of boilers in an Amman factory. He was hot and dirty, and wanted a hot shower and a hearty dinner at one of Amman’s fancy restaurants, preferably with a member of the opposite sex. It wasn’t easy making connections with attractive females. He wasn’t the handsomest of men, and his belly—which hung over his belt, no matter how hard he tried to suck it up—was a turnoff, he knew, to many women. Maybe if he could reveal his second, clandestine life, he’d have more appeal.

  The problem this night was that he had an appointment to keep, and it wasn’t with a ravishing, dark-eyed Jordanian, or a buxom, redheaded employee of the British Embassy or British companies doing business in Jordan. Tonight’s rendezvous was with an Iraqi he’d begun cultivating as a source to replace Ghaleb Rihnai.

  He hadn’t told Crowley about this new potential source of information from inside Iraq, or the terrorist cells that existed in Amman. This Iraqi, whom M.T. had met on one of his boiler installations, professed to suffer shame for the acts of Arab terrorists, and claimed to have contacts within Iraq who were privy to the insurgency’s inner councils. M.T. wasn’t sure whether to pursue the relationship. Rihnai’s brutal murder had shaken him. Maybe it was time to sever ties with Crowley and the others who’d recruited him with the lure of money and an appeal to his innate sense of patriotism and decency.

  He left the job site and grabbed a fast bite from a sidewalk vendor before driving out to the appointed meeting place, a deserted, dilapidated bar
n on an abandoned farm. The Iraqi was there when he arrived. Inside the barn, the smell of decaying wood and fermenting grain was pungent. Steamer suggested going outside, but the Iraqi said he felt more secure inside.

  They discussed what M.T. expected of the Iraqi. He wanted to know everything that was discussed by the terrorists, especially their future plans. The Iraqi assured M.T. that he could, and would, deliver.

  “How much will I be paid?” the Iraqi asked.

  “That depends on how much useful information you deliver.”

  “I want money now,” the Iraqi said.

  M.T. had started to explain the realities of how money was paid for such information when a sound from behind caused him to stop in mid-sentence and to turn. Four young men wearing stocking masks leaped on him. One wielded a long, curved knife that he plunged into Steamer’s thick neck. His assailants, slight of build, had a difficult time subduing the large and strong Brit, but as blood poured from his neck, he weakened and fell helplessly to the hard dirt floor. The Iraqi whom he’d befriended—or thought he had—pulled a small, silver revolver from his waistband and fired two shots into Steamer’s forehead.

  The Brit was dead, and the five young men left the barn to celebrate their coup.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Director Anthony Zambrano held court at the beginning of that night’s rehearsal of Tosca at the Takoma Park facility. He was in an expansive mood, telling tales of various productions of that opera he’d directed around the world, and of some of the “Toscas” with whom he’d worked.

  “You all know the story of Floria Tosca,” he said, “and of her calamitous love affair with the doomed revolutionary Cavaradossi.” He looked at Mac Smith and his colleagues from academia. “But for those of you unfamiliar with this remarkable tale of love, lust, and betrayal, let me give you a synopsis.

  “It takes place in 1800, and begins in the Church of Sant’Andrea della Valle in Rome, where the painter Cavaradossi works on a canvas, unaware that a political prisoner, Angelotti, has escaped and is hiding in the chapel. Cavaradossi’s lover, the famed diva Floria Tosca, arrives and sees that the beautiful young woman in Cavaradossi’s painting has blond hair and blue eyes, unlike Tosca. She suspects that he has been unfaithful to her and rants. He eventually calms her down and assures her of his fidelity, which gives them the excuse to sing a lovely duet. Satisfied, she leaves after agreeing to meet later that evening. Her line as she leaves is absolutely beguiling: ‘Change the eyes to black!’