Murder at the Opera (38 page)

“…and finding supers for every production can be a bloody nightmare,” she said. “I have my own techniques.” A wicked laugh. “I haunt health clubs and gyms. I want my supers to be in good shape—so do most directors, and I try to accommodate. You might have noticed that many gays are particularly fond of opera. I’ve gotten some wonderful supers at the yearly Miss Adams Morgan Pageant. And, there’s always church.”

“Church?”

“I watch single men go up for Communion and make mental notes which ones would be good supers.”

“You’re a mobile talent scout, Genevieve.”

“I suppose I am. Of course, when children are involved it can be really dicey. Thank God for our volunteers who are willing to play backstage nanny. And the parents!” She rolled her eyes and made a dismissive sound through pursed lips. “Most are okay, but some can drive you mad. Like last year when I was providing supers for
Die Walküre.
”

“I saw that,” Annabel said. “Were there children in it?”

“No. I’m not talking about children anymore. These were adults. I went mad, absolutely tore my hair out trying to please the director. Gawd, he was impossible. But I came through.”

“You always do, it seems.”

“Yes, and I love it!”

“Have you spoken with Ray Pawkins lately?” Annabel asked.

“That darling man? As a matter of fact, I have. Yesterday. We’re grabbing a bite tonight before tech rehearsal.”

“Do I detect a budding romance?” Annabel asked.

“No, silly. We’re just good friends. How many men do you find in this city who love opera?”

Annabel thought of Mac. “Not many,” she said. “Does he ever talk about his life as a Homicide detective?”

Genevieve screwed up her face in thought. “Hmmm. No.”

“I’m fascinated with that famous case he investigated six years ago, the one involving the Ph.D. musicologist from Georgetown, Aaron Musinski.”

“Wasn’t that something? Everyone was buzzing about it.”

“And Ray never mentions it?”

“No. I asked him once about that case. He said that was then, and this is now. I understand.”

“Well, we’d better get back. The afternoon session will be starting.”

They were approaching the entrance to the building when Genevieve stopped Annabel. “What do you think of Ray, Annabel?”

“Oh, I don’t know. He certainly is…interesting. Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered if you or Mac have noticed anything unusual about him.”

Was this an opportunity to share with someone other than Mac what Josephson had claimed? She thought not.

“He seems very self-confident,” Annabel substituted.

“Yes, he is that. He seems to have two sides, two personalities. But maybe that’s what makes him so attractive. Forget I even asked. Let’s get inside.”

Speaking of Ray Pawkins.

He spent the rest of the morning at his home, music pouring from the speakers in his elaborate study, and through wireless ones he’d placed in other areas of the house—Verdi, Wagner, Mozart, and Strauss. The volume was loud, louder than even he was accustomed to. He paced from room to room, still in his robe and slippers, and sang along with the sopranos and tenors, stopping every now and then to gesture dramatically in a particularly strong or poignant section of the score. At times, he conducted the orchestra, holding an imaginary baton and urging the musicians to instill more spirit into their playing, pointing at the brass section for emphasis, lowering the volume with outstretched hands, palms down, nodding his head in approval at how they’d followed his directions. It was a fatiguing performance, and by the time lunchtime rolled around, he was bathed in sweat, and hungry. He showered and dressed in gray slacks, a lightweight black mock turtleneck, and black sneakers. He slipped into his shoulder holster, which hung in the closet, donned a tan cotton safari jacket, and went to his study. He opened a small wall safe and removed not his licensed 9mm Glock that was there, but an unregistered .22-caliber he’d confiscated years ago from a drug dealer during a raid. He secured it beneath his armpit in the holster, and checked that the cats had water and food in the kitchen before leaving the house and sliding behind the wheel of his silver Mercedes. His first stop was the 600 Restaurant, across from the Kennedy Center, where he enjoyed a shrimp cocktail, steak sandwich, and a Bloody Mary at the bar.

“You’re looking fine, Mr. Pawkins, real fine,” Ulysses said while serving him. “You look like you’re in the game, and you’ve got to be in the game if you’re gonna win.”

Pawkins laughed at Ulysses’ favorite bit of philosophy. “You are right, my friend. I am in the game, and I intend to win. Let me have the check.”

Pawkins stepped outside. It was an unusually cool day for that time of year in Washington, with a cloudless, cobalt-blue sky, and a breeze light enough to ruffle hair but brisk enough at times to tease the cheeks. He left his car where he’d parked it in the Kennedy Center’s underground garage and walked up New Hampshire to the Watergate complex, passing through the central open space with its gushing fountains, inviting benches, and tranquil greenery, until reaching the entrance to the hotel. He was greeted by the doorman. “Hello, sir.”

“Hello,” said Pawkins. “Beautiful day.”

“Yes, sir, it most certainly is that.”

He meandered the length of the lobby in the direction of the elevators, and beyond them the check-in desk on the left, the entrance to the bar on the right. He’d almost reached the elevators when he saw Josephson emerge from one. Pawkins pretended to admire a print on the wall, but his peripheral vision took in the little Englishman. Josephson came halfway to where Pawkins stood, his eyes going from one side of the lobby to the other. He kept checking his watch as he retraced his steps, then turned and again walked in Pawkins’ direction.

Pawkins looked at his watch. Three forty-five. What was he doing in the lobby? Pawkins was expected at four. Josephson should be in his room awaiting a phone call.

Josephson passed Pawkins this time and stepped outside, where he leaned against a column and drew deep breaths. Pawkins took the opportunity to sit in a yellow slipcovered chair that afforded him a view of the lifts, but that was partially obscured by a large potted plant. He had to smile; he felt like a movie version of a hotel’s house detective spying on a guest.

Josephson returned inside and walked to the elevators. Pawkins turned so that only his profile was visible. Not that the Brit would know what he looked like, although his photograph had made some publications at the height of the Musinski investigation. The doors slid open, Josephson stepped inside, and the doors closed behind him.

Pawkins waited a few minutes before going to a house phone and asking to be connected to Mr. Josephson’s room.

“Hello?” Josephson sounded breathless. His voice was barely above a squeak.

“Josephson. This is Pawkins.”

“Are you…? Where are you?”

“Downstairs. I’ve been watching you.”

“You have? Are you—are you coming up?”

“Yes. I know your room number. I’ll be there in a few minutes. You are alone, I assume.”

“Yes, of course I am. Why would I—”

Pawkins lowered the phone into its cradle and stepped into a waiting elevator, pressing his elbow against the holstered .22 as the doors closed. The doors opened at Josephson’s floor. Pawkins walked down the long, red-carpeted hallway until he stood outside Josephson’s door. Was the Brit observing him through the peephole? He smiled for Josephson’s benefit, and knocked. The door opened.

“Mr. Pawkins,” Josephson said.

Pawkins ignored the greeting and walked past him into the center of the room. He’d stayed at the Watergate Hotel on a few occasions. This wasn’t one of its most expensive rooms. He went to the window and looked out over the city, aware of Josephson behind him. He heard the door close, and sensed Josephson nearing him across the thick carpeting.

“So,” Pawkins said, not turning. “What is it you want?”

“My money. You stole my money.”

“Is that so?”

Now the former detective slowly turned and faced Josephson, who stood only a few feet from him.

“Tell me how I stole your money.”

“You…you took the musical scores from Aaron Musinski. He and I were partners. We were to share the money from them.”

“I see.”

Pawkins went to a small couch. “Sit down,” he said, pointing to a chair across from a coffee table. Josephson did as he’d been told. Pawkins leaned forward, a smile on his face. “Let’s get a few things straight here, Mr. Josephson. I don’t care what you claim I did. I don’t care whether you lost money, as you claim. I came here as a favor. No,” he said, waving his hand, “I came because I was curious to see what a conniving little Englishman looks like. Now I know.”

Josephson got to his feet. “I have the proof,” he said, going to the manila envelope on the desk, extracting its contents, and waving them at Pawkins. “It’s all here,” he said, agitated, sweating, eyes darting back and forth from Pawkins to the window, to the door, back to Pawkins. “I know what you did. I hired an investigator. I know how you killed Aaron to get the scores and went to Paris to sell them to Saibrón, how the money went to your secret bank account in the Cayman Islands, how you—”

He stopped in mid-sentence as Pawkins calmly pulled the .22 from his holster. Josephson’s eyes widened at the sight of the weapon, which Pawkins pointed directly at him. “Give me that stuff,” he commanded.

Josephson pressed the papers to his chest and stepped back.

“Come on, come on, hand it over. I want to see this so-called evidence you say you have.”

“Please, put that away,” Josephson pleaded.

Pawkins looked down at the weapon. “This?” He laughed. “Nice little gun, Mr. Josephson. Doesn’t make a lot of noise, and leaves a relatively small hole.” The smile left his face. “Give me those papers, goddamn it, before I show you how small a hole it really does make.”

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?”