Murder at the Opera (23 page)

“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

D
irector 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!’

“Angelotti emerges from where he’s been hiding, and his friend Cavaradossi takes him to his villa, where he’ll be safe from the police who are hunting him. Tosca returns to meet her lover but finds him gone. Instead, the sinister, lecherous Baron Scarpia, head of the Roman police, is there with his men in search of Angelotti. He reinforces Tosca’s doubts about Cavaradossi’s fidelity, and sends her on her way. Little does she know, Scarpia has instructed his officers to follow her, certain that she’ll lead them to Angelotti.”

Zambrano lowered his voice and twisted a nonexistent handlebar moustache. “And we learn that Scarpia desires the lovely Tosca for himself.”

There were a few “Ooohs” and “Aaahs,” and a solo giggler.

Zambrano continued. “Angelotti is still at large when Act II opens, but Cavaradossi is in custody for having aided his friend’s escape. When he refuses to reveal Angelotti’s hiding place, he’s taken to the torture chamber. Tosca arrives. Hearing her lover’s tortured moans, she tells Scarpia where he can find Angelotti. Cavaradossi is brought bloody but defiant from the torture chamber and curses Scarpia and his methods. Cavaradossi is again arrested, led away, and sentenced to die.”

Zambrano rubbed his surprisingly small hands together and his eyes widened. “Aha,” he said, “now comes the best part. Tosca pleads for Cavaradossi’s life. Scarpia, scoundrel that he is, says he’ll pardon Cavaradossi if Tosca will go to bed with him. She agrees. Scarpia tells his second in command, Spoletta, to stage a mock execution of Cavaradossi, and writes an official note granting Cavaradossi and Tosca safe passage from the country.

“He finishes writing the note and hands it to Tosca, who slips it into her bosom. Then she stabs him to death, and places a crucifix on his breast and candles at his head and feet. She slips away.”

Smith’s boss, Wilfred Burns, laughed and said, “Looks like she could have used a good defense lawyer like you, Mac.”

“And I’d take the case,” Mac said lightheartedly. “I’d put the victim, Scarpia, on trial, and get the jury to view it as justifiable homicide.”

“Might make a good exercise for your students,” Burns said, “how they’d defend Ms. Tosca.”

“
Madame
Tosca,” Zambrano corrected, obviously anxious to continue with his story. “The third act takes place at the Castle of Sant’Angelo. Cavaradossi bribes a jailer to let him write a final note to Tosca—you see, he doesn’t know that the execution will be for show only, and that he will live. Tosca arrives and tells Cavaradossi about having murdered Scarpia, and that it will be a simulated execution. She instructs him how to fall realistically when the shots are fired.

“She leaves, and Cavaradossi faces the firing squad. He falls! She rushes to his side and is horrified to see that the execution was real after all. He’s dead! She hears shouts in the distance announcing that Baron Scarpia has been murdered. As the police rush in to arrest her, the despairing Tosca, vowing to avenge herself before God, leaps to her death from the parapet.”

Some of the supers applauded Zambrano’s telling of the tale.

The director checked his watch. “We’d better get on with the rehearsal,” he said. “Before I do, though, I should mention the famous story of the bouncing Tosca.”

“I love this story,” a super announced. “I wish I could have seen it.”

“We all wish that,” Zambrano said. “When Tosca flings herself to her death, it’s supposedly into the Tiber River, although anyone who is familiar with Rome knows that it would be impossible for her to reach the river. In reality, I think she simply flattens herself on the cobblestones below. In any event, Toscas throughout eternity have made that leap onto a mattress positioned just out of sight of the audience and held by stagehands. This one particular Tosca, Rita Hunter, an especially stout woman performing in Cape Town, South Africa, complained that the mattress was too hard. The stage crew, accommodating fellows that they were, substituted a trampoline for the mattress. Our complaining diva landed on the trampoline and then bounced back up for all in the theater to see.”

There was much laughter.

“There have been a few Toscas, usually the heavier ones, who have refused to make the leap and simply toddle off the stage, much to the directors’ chagrin.”

“Ever had that happen to you?” Mac asked.

“No,” Zambrano said, “but if it did, I would personally and with pleasure fling that Tosca to her death.”

Zambrano’s anecdote prompted others, including one that took place at a regional opera house outside Rome. An aging tenor, not up to the role he’d wangled for himself, elicited boos and shouts of displeasure and whistles from the Italian audience. In the third act, while singing
“Di quella pira,”
his voice cracked on a high note. The audience went into a frenzy, standing on their seats and hurling curses at him along with accusations of him being a beast, a criminal, and a murderer. The tenor became so enraged, he stomped downstage, sword in hand, and yelled, “All right, you morons, you come up here and sing the high note.” The curtain was drawn and the rest of the final act was never performed.

Zambrano indicated he was aware of that episode, thanked them all for being there, clapped his hands, and snapped, “Places, everyone!”

An hour later, Zambrano called an end to the supers’ walk-through and reminded everyone of the upcoming rehearsal schedule. He’d become agitated when he realized that two supers had failed to show, the pianist Christopher Warren and former detective Raymond Pawkins. His assistant called Genevieve Crier, who said that Warren was ill and that Pawkins had another commitment, which he couldn’t change, but he would try to be there before rehearsal ended.

Mac was about to leave when Genevieve came bursting through the doors. She was always bursting through doors, never simply walking through them, and Mac wondered if she sometimes went through walls. Her energy reservoir seemed perpetually topped off with high-octane fuel.

“Ah, Mac,” she said. “How did rehearsal go?”

“Fine. I learned all about the opera from the director. Fascinating stories behind
Tosca.
”

“That’s why it’s always being staged somewhere. Where’s Annabel?”

Mac looked up at a clock. “Waiting for me at a restaurant and wondering why I’m late. Join us?”

“I don’t know if I can.” She, too, looked at the clock. “Where are you meeting?”

“Cafe Milano.”

“You devils,” she said. “How can I pass up
that
invitation? I need ten minutes to soothe Anthony at two of my supers not showing and I’ll be on my way. Do you have a reservation?”

“Annabel does—she made it. She has clout there now that she’s on the Opera board. I understand the owner is on the board, too.”

“Franco. A charming man. Maestro Domingo has his own private room there. Ah, to be rich and famous. Go, go, don’t keep your Titian-haired beauty waiting. I’ll be there in a flash.”

Mac had no sooner left the building and was heading for his car when Ray Pawkins called out, “Hey, Mac. Rehearsal over?”

“Yes. You were missed.”

“Couldn’t be helped. I was tied up and couldn’t get away. Zambrano’s angry, I’m sure.”

“I suppose so. Look, Ray, I’m running late myself. Annabel’s waiting for me at Milano.”

“I’m impressed.”

Genevieve joined them. “Anthony wouldn’t talk to me, which is just as well. I’m not in the mood to be verbally assaulted. Good evening, Mr. Pawkins. I hope your newfound fame from
Washingtonian
hasn’t gone to your head.”

Pawkins laughed. “Of course it has,” he said. “My days as a super are over. It’s strictly leads now.”

“You’re still here,” she said to Smith. “Annabel is probably on her cell phone to a divorce attorney as we speak.”

“She doesn’t have to be,” Mac said. “She was a matrimonial lawyer, remember? Coming?”

“You’re going with them?” Pawkins said to Genevieve.

“Of course.”

“Want a fourth?” Pawkins asked.

“Sure,” Mac said. “Why not? But if we don’t go now, it’ll be the three of us at a Burger King.”

He walked to his car, followed by Genevieve and Pawkins, who decided to go together in Pawkins’ car. Genevieve had to return to Takoma Park after dinner, and Pawkins said he’d be happy to drive her.

Cafe Milano, on Prospect Street in Georgetown, had replaced the Jockey Club as Washington’s prime celebrity gathering and gawking spot since opening in 1992. Its owner, Franco Nuschese, an acknowledged master host, was capable of making everyone feel famous and at home. That skill, plus superb northern Italian food, made it the hottest table in D.C.

Like all good hosts, Nuschese recognized Mac by name as he came through the door, despite Mac having been there only a few times before. “Ah, Mr. Smith,” he said, “it is good to see you again. The signora is waiting.” He threaded a passage through a knot of people three deep at the bar, to another dining room, away from the bar’s cacophony. Annabel sat alone at a table for four, set for two.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Mac said, kissing her on the cheek and taking his seat. “The rehearsal ran long, and I was waylaid by Genevieve and Ray Pawkins on my way out.”

“I was getting worried,” she said.

“Genevieve and Ray are on their way. They’re joining us.”

“Oh?”

“Glad you landed a larger table. A prime one, I might add, away from the bar.”

“I mentioned to Bill Frazier that we wanted to have dinner here and he offered to make a call. Nothing like having the chairman of the Washington National Opera put in a good word.”

They’d just ordered drinks when Genevieve and Pawkins arrived.

“If I’d known I’d end up here tonight,” Genevieve said breathlessly, “I would have changed into something dishy. I felt like Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, Beatrix Potter’s matronly washerwoman, walking through that crowd at the bar.”

Pawkins chuckled. “I’d say you look like anything but a washerwoman.”

“Isn’t he sweet?” Genevieve said.

“Sweet’s my middle name,” Pawkins said.

“I love the Domingo Room,” Genevieve said, pointing in its direction. She referred to one of Cafe Milano’s private dining rooms, named after WNO’s general director. One night in 1996, shortly after Plácido Domingo had arrived in Washington, he stopped in to eat and suggested to the owner that a door be put on the entrance to a private room to cut down on noise from the bar. When he returned the next night, the door was up and the room renamed the Domingo Room. A few years later, Nuschese commissioned a Russian artist to create a ten-foot painting on the room’s ceiling of Domingo in costume as Verdi’s Otello. The maestro has looked down on all who dine there ever since.

Over a large platter of beef and spiny lobster carpaccio with baby arugula and apple citronette sauce, accompanied by a bottle of Chianti Classico Riserva, Podere Tereno, talk eventually came around to the Charise Lee murder. Naturally, most questions were directed at Pawkins.

“Is there any progress?” Annabel asked.

“Nothing yet,” he replied. Had he still been with MPD, discussing an ongoing case would have been off-limits—officially. But like most cops he knew, that rule was frequently ignored. Besides, those sharing the table with him this evening were, after all, his clients. “I’m in touch with a contact at MPD. They’re looking closely at her roommate, a pianist from Toronto named Christopher Warren. They’re also questioning every student in the Young Artist Program, and a couple of agents from Toronto who represented the victim and Warren.”