Murder at the Opera: A Capital Crimes Novel

by Margaret Truman

  Josephson tentatively approached the table and dropped the papers as though they were aflame.

  “That’s better,” Pawkins said. He sat back, the papers in his lap, and scanned them, the .22 resting casually in his right hand. At one point he looked up and said, “Sit down, Mr. Josephson. Relax. You have anything to drink? Be a good host and pour us something.”

  “I don’t have—”

  “Sure you do, in the mini-bar over there. You have ice?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Good. Scotch will be fine, just a few cubes.”

  “I can call security and—”

  “You touch that phone and it’ll be the last thing you ever touch. Add a splash of soda.”

  Pawkins kept his eyes going from the papers to Josephson, who’d taken a mini-bottle of Scotch from the self-serve bar and poured it into a glass. His hands trembled so much that some of the liquor ran down the outside of the glass. He approached Pawkins with the drink, but Pawkins said, “Ice, Mr. Josephson. And a little soda. Come on, now, you’re an Englishman. You know how to make a proper drink, even for an American.”

  After sipping the drink and examining the papers, Pawkins tossed the sheets on the coffee table and stood. Josephson sat in the chair, rigid, small sounds escaping his throat, his eyes never straying from the weapon in Pawkins’ hand. Pawkins came around behind Josephson, who also started to get up, but Pawkins’ firm hand on his shoulder kept him pinned to the chair. He pressed the barrel of the .22 against Josephson’s temple. “Nice drink, Mr. Josephson. Thanks.”

  “Please, I only wants what’s fair,” the Brit said. He was almost crying.

  “What’s fair, huh? I like that,” said Pawkins. “I believe in fairness, too. I bet you didn’t know that, did you?”

  “I—I’m sure you’re a fair and reasonable man,” Josephson said, his voice quavering. “Don’t you see, the money I would have enjoyed from selling those scores was for my retirement. I’m not a rich man. I have a small shop in Mayfair and wanted to be able to retire and live decently.”

  “That’s a worthy goal,” Pawkins said, pressing the barrel a little harder against Josephson’s head. “That’s what I want, too.” He laughed.

  “We have a lot in common.” He now faced Josephson. “So I’ll make you a deal.”

  “A deal?”

  “Yeah. Actually, I’m willing to make a deal for your life. How’s that sound?”

  “I…yes, I might be willing to make a deal with you.”

  “You might be willing? I’d like a little more assurance than that, Mr. Josephson.”

  “What is it you suggest?”

  “That’s better.” Pawkins took the couch again. “Tell you what. I’d hate to see you not have the sort of retirement you’ve been looking forward to. I think when a man works hard his whole life he deserves to spend his so-called golden years in comfort, free from worry. So, here’s what I’m offering. In return for me taking those silly papers you have and burning them—and in return for you promising me that you’ll do the same with any copies you might have—I’m willing to pay you a princely sum. How’s that sound?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose it’s—”

  “Hey, Josephson, I’m the one with the gun. Let’s not forget that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Neither man said anything for a moment. Josephson broke the awkward silence. “How much?”

  “Good. Now we’re down to the nitty-gritty. I like that. How’s fifty thousand sound to you?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “In American currency? The exchange rate and—”

  “Right, right. Okay. I’m not an unreasonable man. A hundred thousand American. But that’s my final offer.”

  Another silence.

  “A problem?” Pawkins asked.

  “No, it’s just that—well, there will be taxes and—”

  “You want it off the books, under the counter, cash in paper bags, huh? I can arrange that.”

  Pawkins watched as Josephson trembled and wrapped his arms about himself, tears streaming down his face.

  “We have a deal?” Pawkins asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Great. That deserves a drink to celebrate. I’ll do the honors this time.”

  He made two drinks at the mini-bar and handed one to Josephson. “Here’s to reasonable men resolving an issue the gentlemanly way.” He lifted his glass in his left hand; his right still held the .22. Josephson touched the rim of his glass to Pawkins’.

  “Now,” Pawkins said, “I really must be going. You write down your address for me, and I’ll see to it that a hundred large is delivered to you by hand. Put the papers back in the envelope and give them to me.”

  Josephson obeyed.

  “Gracias, señor,” Pawkins said. “You can rest assured that the money will be delivered to you, just as I’ve promised. It will take me a week or so to arrange for a transfer of funds, but you needn’t lose any sleep over it. It’ll be there.”

  “I trust you,” Josephson said. He was calmer now; the shaking had stopped, and he actually managed a smile.

  “And I trust you,” Pawkins said, again making sure Josephson saw the weapon in his hand. “But we had a president once named Reagan who believed in trusting but verifying, too. I’ll be verifying, Mr. Josephson, and if you were to decide to try this again, or go to the authorities, your retirement will be short-lived. Understand?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “My advice to you is to get on the first plane back to jolly old England and wait for your pension to arrive. Agreed?”

  “Of course.”

  As Pawkins holstered his weapon and walked to the door, Josephson said, “I don’t wish to be bold in the face of such a generous settlement, Mr. Pawkins, but might I ask how much the Mozart-Haydn scores fetched on the open market?”

  Pawkins frowned. “You have it right here in your reports.”

  “Oh, I know. Mr. Saibrón paid you a half a million dollars for them. I suppose what I’m asking is how much of that you’ve managed to save.”

  Pawkins grinned. “Let’s just say I can afford a partner like you, Marc. You don’t mind if I call you Marc, do you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Now I have a question for you.”

  “Yes?”

  “What did you tell Mackensie and Annabel Smith about this?”

  Josephson explained, haltingly, how he’d tried to enlist Mac Smith to negotiate a deal with Pawkins.

  “And you showed them these papers?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Don’t sweat it, Marc. I’m just pleased to know it. Nothing I can’t handle. Safe trip home, and enjoy your retirement. Do some fishing, read some good books. You like opera?”

  “Very much.”

  “So do I.”

  The door closed behind him.

  Back home, Pawkins rewound what had transpired.

  Dillinger had been right. A gun and kindness got you further than a gun alone.

  Of course, there had been plenty of kindness on his part, too. He’d committed a hundred grand to the little weasel. But that was okay. He had $350,000 left from Saibrón’s money, enough to fund his own idyllic retirement, along with Social Security and his MPD pension, which was pretty generous. Just as long as he didn’t have to lay out any more.

  There was one problem left, however.

  Mac and Annabel Smith.

  “Hello?”

  “Mac. It’s Marc Josephson.”

  “I didn’t think I’d hear from you again,” Smith said from his study in the Watergate apartment.

  “I understand why you would assume that,” Josephson said. “I’m terribly sorry for my behavior this morning. I was upset and—”

  “No apologies necessary,” Smith said.

  “At any rate, Mac, I’m about to leave for the airport and a flight home. I just wanted you to know that the matter we discussed has been settled.”
/>
  “Oh?”

  “Yes, and quite to my satisfaction.”

  “I’m happy to hear that, but there is the matter of the murder of Dr. Musinski. I’m not sure that’s been settled.”

  “Oh, it has, I assure you. Please, put the entire matter out of your mind. Much ado about nothing, as the Bard said. I thoroughly enjoyed seeing you and the lovely Mrs. Smith again, and I thank you for a splendid dinner and drinks afterward. I will be in touch. Do I owe you anything for your counsel?”

  “Of course not.”

  Except a better explanation, Mac thought.

  “Well, then, cheerio, Mac. Until next time.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  That night’s technical rehearsal at the Kennedy Center went well, with only minor lighting and sound miscues. The director, Anthony Zambrano, and his assistants functioned like a well-oiled machine. Even the two people recruited at the last minute by Genevieve Crier to replace Charise Lee and Christopher Warren as supers melded smoothly with the others. Mac Smith was helpful to them and took a certain pride at being an old hand at this supernumerary business.

  But while Mac concentrated on where he was supposed to be, and what he was supposed to do under Zambrano’s watchful eye, his attention seldom strayed from Ray Pawkins. Nor did Annabel’s. She sat in the mostly empty theater with Genevieve and a few others from the Washington National Opera. At times, she sensed that Pawkins paid unusual attention to her, too, although she rationalized that her mind-set might be making her paranoid. Knowing something about someone, while they don’t know you know it, is always somehow absorbing.

  Mac had filled her in on Josephson’s call and the message he’d delivered, that “the matter” had been settled to his “satisfaction.”

  What does that mean? they’d conjectured over a fast dinner before the rehearsal.

  “Do you think Ray paid him off?” Annabel asked.

  “Could be, Annie. From the brief exposure we had with Josephson, it was obvious that money was what mattered most to him. The possibility that Ray murdered Musinski didn’t seem to be important. I encouraged him to go to the authorities, but he obviously decided not to.”

  “Which leaves us in a quandary, Mac.”

  They were about to explore that subject when old friends on their way out of the restaurant joined them at their table and talked until it was time to leave for the rehearsal.

  Now, as Zambrano called it “a wrap” and everyone scattered, Mac ended up in the supers’ dressing room with Pawkins.

  “I thought you were going to call me today,” the detective-super said offhandedly.

  “I intended to, but the day got away from me.”

  “What was the reason?”

  “For the call? I don’t remember. Couldn’t have been important.”

  Pawkins fixed him in a hard, probing stare.

  Mac laughed. “No, I mean it,” he said. “I have no idea why I was going to call you. Maybe to further my education in opera.”

  He was desperate to get Pawkins aside and ask him directly about his involvement in the Musinski case, but knew he couldn’t raise it at the moment, given the presence of the others in the cramped dressing room.

  Pawkins secured his locker door and turned to Mac, his sport jacket open at the waist, enough for the Glock in its holster to be visible. He’d substituted it for the .22 at home before coming to the Kennedy Center. Satisfied that Smith had seen it, he closed the jacket and said, “Going to be a great production, Mac. Agree?”

  “I’m sure it will be,” Mac said. He lowered his voice. “Do you always arm yourself for opera rehearsals?”

  Pawkins laughed. “Oh, that? You noticed, huh? No. But I’ve decided that with all the street crime in D.C. these days, especially with the weather getting warmer—it brings out the bad guys—I might as well tote some protection. By the way, it’s registered.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Mac said. “Wouldn’t do for a former cop to carry an unregistered weapon.” When Pawkins didn’t respond, Mac added,

  “Would it?”

  “No, it wouldn’t, Mac. I see that Annabel is here. Feel like a drink? I promised Genevieve one. We were supposed to have dinner, but I bailed.”

  “I don’t think so, Ray. It’s been a long day for both of us. It’s straight home.”

  Am I missing an opportunity? Smith wondered. He decided he wasn’t. He and Annabel had more to discuss before confronting Pawkins with a question as serious as whether he was a thief and murderer.

  “Well, see you tomorrow for dress rehearsal,” Pawkins said. “If you remember what it was you wanted to call me about, I’ll be home most of the day.”

  “Sure,” Mac said as they went up the aisle to where Annabel and Genevieve waited.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Smith,” Pawkins said, his face creased with a wide smile. “Enjoy your husband’s performance?”

  “I think he made all the right moves,” she responded. “Walked straight ahead.”

  “All the right moves,” Pawkins repeated. “That’s been the story of the counselor’s life, hasn’t it?”

  The edge in his voice caused Annabel to meet his eyes without saying anything.

  “Well,” Pawkins said, “this lovely lady and I are on our way for a nightcap. Ready, Genevieve?”

  “I’m always ready for a nightcap,” she said brightly. “Especially in the morning.”

  “I invited you and your husband to join us,” Pawkins said to Annabel, “but he claims advancing age. You two enjoy an early to bed. Ciao!”

  Mac and Annabel decided to have a nightcap, too, but not at the Watergate Hotel bar or 600 restaurant, where Pawkins and Genevieve might have gone. Instead they walked up 25th Street to the River Inn’s Foggy Bottom Café. The manager was in the process of closing, but invited them to have a drink, his treat. It was the perfect setting for a serious discussion. They were the only customers there.

  “Did he have anything to say to you tonight?” Annabel asked after they’d been served and the manager had disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Ray? No.”

  “He was acting strange.”

  “So I noticed. He’s always smug, or a little strange, but there was an extra dollop of it tonight.”

  “I’m worried about Genevieve.”

  “Because she went out for a drink with him?”

  “Yes.” She gripped his arm on the bar. “Mac, the man may be a murderer.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Annie.”

  “You have to go to the police.”

  “With what? We’ve been over this before. I have nothing except the word of a slightly unbalanced Englishman. He took all his supporting evidence with him, every scrap.”

  “The police can call Josephson.”

  “To what end? If Ray paid Josephson off, he undoubtedly bought his silence. Josephson doesn’t give a damn about who killed Musinski. He opted to not go to the police while he was here because that would muddy the waters about the money from the musical scores, and who it belongs to. Frankly, I wonder if he’s even entitled to half of it. He never showed us any piece of paper between him and Musinski regarding the scores.” He downed the remainder of his cognac.

  “There’s only one approach,” he said, “and that’s for me to confront Pawkins.”

  “For us to confront him, you mean,” she said.

  “No, you stay out of it, Annie.”

  “Absolutely not. I was there when Josephson told his tale, and I’ve been in the loop ever since.”

  “Which doesn’t mean you have to stay in it. If Ray is to be approached, I’m the one to do it.”

  “It was my idea to bring him into the Charise Lee murder.”

  “And I was the one who actually did it. Speaking of Charise Lee, I haven’t heard another word about it except what the papers say, and that isn’t much anymore.”

  She, too, finished her drink. “Maybe we should ask Pawkins about that—not what he’s come up with, but whether he killed her, too.”
<
br />   “Let’s not get carried away, Annie. We have no reason to suspect that of him.”

  A vision of the Asian woman waiting for Pawkins at rehearsal came and went.

  They thanked the manager for the drinks and walked back to their apartment, where Rufus greeted them with rowdy enthusiasm.

  “I’ll call Ray tomorrow and try to set up a date with him,” Mac said after returning from walking the “beast,” the Great Dane.

  “Maybe you should wait,” she said.

  His face mirrored his surprise. “I thought you were anxious for me to do it,” he said.

  “I was anxious for us to do it. But dress rehearsal is tomorrow night, opening night after that, and then the ball. I don’t want to do anything to taint those things.”

  “All right,” Mac said. “We’ll give it a few days, let the show go on, and then deal with it. As long as he doesn’t know we know, there’s no reason to rush it.”

  They climbed into bed and Mac turned off the bedside lamp.

  “By the way,” Annabel said, “you looked splendid in your costumes tonight.”

  “Thank you. I have to admit, I’m enjoying it.”

  “I knew you would. Good night.”

  “Good night, Mrs. Smith.”

  Both slept fitfully that night.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “How come we’re pulling this duty, Carl?”

  Willie Portelain and Sylvia Johnson sat in Berry’s office. They’d been assigned to a contingent of metropolitan police working security for the Opera Ball at the Brazilian Embassy.

  “Supply and demand, Willie,” Berry said. “We have to provide X number of cops to the event, uniformed and plainclothes. That’s the demand. We’re shorthanded. That’s the supply. Think of it this way. Plácido Domingo himself might spot you, recognize your talent, and make you an opera star.”

  Sylvia laughed. “You’re sure built like one, Willie,” she said playfully.

  “Lost two pounds,” he said proudly.

  “Yeah, I noticed right away,” said Berry, shooting a bemused glance at Sylvia, who lowered her head and smiled.