Murder at the Opera (43 page)

“Glad you checked in,” Berry said. “Hate to do it to you, but you’d better get back here right away.”

“And miss the third act?” Sylvia said jokingly.

Berry took her seriously. “We’ll get you tickets for the next performance. Make it quick.”

He clicked off.

“Let’s go,” Sylvia said.

“I heard him,” Willie said. “You get those other tickets and forget about taking another dude with you. Remember, Willie here needs to see what happens to Tosca and her boyfriend. It was just getting to the best part.”

“Okay,” she said, and they headed out of the theater.

“What’s up?” Sylvia asked Berry.

“This.” Her boss handed her a fax.

She read it quickly, then handed it to Willie.

“Damn,” he said when he’d finished. “Can you believe it?”

“I think we’d better.”

The fax was from the New York Police Department. Officers had discovered a male body dumped beneath the Whitestone Bridge, in Queens. The man’s throat had been slit. Papers recovered from the body identified the victim as Philip Melincamp, the name of the individual for whom an APB had been issued by Washington MPD earlier that day.

“I wanted to wait until you got here before informing Mr. Warren of this development,” Berry said.

“He still here?” Willie asked.

“Yeah. We’re holding him as a person of interest.”

“Man, I hate that term,” Willie said as they went to the interrogation room where Chris Warren sat with a uniformed female officer. “You’re either a suspect or you’re not.”

Berry laughed. “His lawyer didn’t put up much of a beef,” he said, referring to Warren’s attorney. “The combination of the kid being there around the time Baltsa was killed and his lying doesn’t look good for him. The lawyer recognized that, too.”

They stood on the other side of the one-way glass and observed Warren. He looked almost complacent compared to his earlier volatility.

“How do you figure Melincamp getting it jibes with him?” Willie asked. “Me? I’d put my money on the talent agent offing his partner.”

“You may be right,” Berry said. “Let’s go find out.”

An hour later, they had their answer.

THIRTY-NINE

“E
veryone, listen to this!”

A dozen people were gathered at Mac and Annabel’s apartment the morning after
Tosca
’s opening. The reviews were in. Genevieve Crier held them in her hands and read them aloud. They were uniformly positive, but everyone waited for the one they feared—and treasured—most, which Genevieve had saved for last. What would John Shulson have to say?

Shulson was acknowledged as one of the opera world’s most knowledgeable, insightful, and demanding reviewers. His reviews and commentary appeared in a wide variety of publications, always stylishly written but often with barbed criticism of some aspect of a production.

Genevieve stood on a chair.

“Come on, Genevieve,” someone urged. “Is it bad?”

The coordinator cleared her throat, looked down at the review through half-glasses, and began reading.

“The headline is, ‘Tosca Triumphs Over Double Murder.’”

“Charise Lee,” someone said.

“Of course,” responded a woman. “Some of the other reviewers mentioned it, too. It can’t be ignored.”

Genevieve continued in her best British stage-honed voice.

“‘The murder of aspiring opera singer Charise Lee, a promising member of the Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program, added heightened verismo to the Washington National Opera’s opening night production of Puccini’s tragic tale
Tosca.
The fact that the murder took place during rehearsals, and onstage, added substantial stir in the lobby of the Kennedy Center Opera House prior to the performance, as patrons speculated whether the dual deaths of Scarpia and Ms. Lee signaled a jinxed production.’”

“Oh, my God,” someone said. “He’s calling it a jinxed production.”

“No, no,” Genevieve said. “Listen!” She drew herself up to full height, which wasn’t very high at all, and continued. “‘Not to worry.’” She looked up from the page. “That’s what Mr. Shulson wrote. It’s not what I’m saying.”

“Okay, we get it,” someone said. “Go on.”

“‘Not to worry. True to form, the Washington National Opera’s
Tosca
rose above the mayhem created by the incident, bringing added drama to the tale of lust, love, and, of course, murder. Literally leading the way to success was General Director Plácido Domingo, who stepped in as a last-minute replacement for conductor and music director Heinz Fricke. Fricke fell ill the afternoon of the opening, only adding to this
Tosca
’s turmoil. However, the maestro’s strong hand and familiarity with the score, no doubt greatly enhanced by his having performed the role of Cavaradossi countless times, brought an unusually perceptive sense of drama, richness, and poignancy to the orchestra’s performance, and to the production itself.’”

“He liked it,” a few guests said, joy in their voices.

Genevieve continued: “‘Equally sure-handed was Anthony Zambrano’s direction, although one suspects he never anticipated the notoriety he would receive from this production when he signed on. Despite the real-life drama surrounding the murder and this production, Zambrano’s vision remained grounded and focused. Not surprisingly, Scarpia’s murder in Act II sent chills throughout the full house as Tosca plunged the knife into his chest, uttering, “That is the way Tosca kisses.” One wondered instinctively what the real-life murderer might have said when a similar knife was plunged into Ms. Lee’s chest on that very stage, her blood symbolically mingling with the blood of the slain Scarpia in an eerie and ominous close to the act.’”

Genevieve surveyed her audience. No one moved, nor said anything. She read the rest an octave higher. “Listen to what he says next! ‘Despite the high-pitched hype surrounding the murder-performance, the entire cast deserves considerable praise for performing under duress and distress. It was not just a case of rising above the occasion, but a ringing musical example of excellent preparation, singing, finely crafted characterizations, and a dedication to an art form not always thought of in terms of reality—except in the case of murder. Don’t miss this
Tosca
at the Kennedy Center! Its power and majesty astounded even this reviewer.’”

Genevieve jumped down from the chair and curtsied as applause broke out.

Spirits were high at the Smiths’ that morning because of the rave reviews, and appetites were whetted. But no one lingered once they’d enjoyed a bagel or croissant, some salmon, caviar, juice, or coffee. There was the Opera Ball that evening to prepare for, and the apartment soon emptied. Mac and Annabel cleared the table of leftover food and filled the dishwasher. That chore completed, they took coffee to the terrace.

“A success,” Annabel proclaimed.

“Our parties are always a success,” Mac said. “You’re the perfect hostess.”

“The host had something to do with it, too.” She sobered. “So, Mac, what was your read on Pawkins this morning?”

“He seemed in good spirits, but that’s not unusual for him. I’ll face him about the Musinski murder once the ball is over with.”

“The reviews were excellent.”

“Yes, they were, although I was disappointed none of them singled me out for my performance.”

“I thought you were an absolute star,” she said, kissing his cheek. “My star.” She got up from her chair. “I have to run. Another meeting.”

“Your life is a series of meetings,” he said, not being critical.

“Only until tonight is over.”

Another meeting taking place that morning didn’t involve reviews, and there wasn’t a bagel in sight. It was held at the J. Edgar Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue, headquarters for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. A top official from that agency chaired the meeting. Also present were Joseph Browning and two aides from the Department of Homeland Security, a representative from the CIA, and Detective Carl Berry and his boss, Cole Morris. Morris read from a lengthy report, copies of which had been handed out to the others.
Why is he reading it if we all have it?
Berry silently wondered. When Morris finished, the ranking FBI special agent in the room asked, “And you believe everything this young man says? What’s his name. Warren?”

“Christopher Warren,” Morris said. “Yes, we believe him. The pieces all fit.”

“We have agents working with the New York police on this Melincamp murder,” the special agent said.

“Any leads on who killed him?” Berry asked.

“Not at the moment,” the FBI agent said. “Let’s go over your report more closely.”

The report was based upon an hour-long interrogation of Chris Warren following the fax informing Washington’s MPD that Melincamp had been found dead in New York. That news had shaken Warren badly; Berry wondered whether he might have a breakdown before they could question him. But Warren pulled himself together and began to talk, and soon words and thoughts were flowing as though an internal dam had broken.

“…and I’m glad that Philip is dead,” Warren said, drawing in gulps of air. “He deserved to die.”

“Why is that?” Sylvia Johnson asked.

“Because of what he did to people. I wanted to kill him myself, but I was…”

“You were what?”

“I was afraid of him. That’s why I didn’t say anything when he killed Charise. He told me that if I talked to anybody about it, the same thing would happen to me.”

“If you talked about
what
?” Berry asked. “Charise’s murder?”

“That, and the plan, too.”

“What in hell plan are you talking about, Warren?” Willie asked, his impatience showing.

“The plan to kill the president or some other big shot. It was going to be part of a larger plan, a bunch of American political big shots killed the same day.”

That statement brought a hush to the dimly lighted room. The tape recorder ran silently.

“Go on,” Berry said softly.

The three detectives sat back and allowed Warren to continue, which he did for the better part of the hour.

He told of how Charise had fallen under the spell of the young Arab student she’d started dating, and how that student had introduced her to a terrorist cell in Toronto with plans to strike another blow against the United States. Melincamp, he said, also exerted a strong hold over Charise, and she brought him into her new sphere of terrorist friends.