"Murder at the Opera" - читать интересную книгу автора (Truman Margaret)

EIGHT

Readers of the Washington Post and viewers of TV news shows the following morning learned that the President’s poll numbers had dropped to their lowest point ever; that Iran had dispatched a team of diplomats to Iraq to help that country establish a fundamentalist government; that scientists had definitively linked the continuing increase in the number of hurricanes to global warming; and that a Canadian opera singer, enrolled in the Washington National Opera’s Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program, had been found dead in the Kennedy Center the previous night.

The front-page article in the Post reported that the corpse was that of Charise Lee, a twenty-eight-year-old female voice student from Toronto. Her body was found in a secluded area of the Kennedy Center and was being treated as a possible homicide. Her family had been notified and was en route to Washington from Toronto. No further details were available, according to a police spokesman. An investigation was under way.

The article was clearly written without a great deal of hard information to go on. A paragraph, lifted from a WNO press release, described the Young Artist Program. William Frazier, chairman of WNO’s board, who was reached at home, stated, “Naturally, all of us at the Washington National Opera are shocked and saddened by this terrible event. Ms. Lee was a young singer of extraordinary talent, whose star in opera was bright. Our hearts go out to her family.”

It was a little before seven in Mac and Annabel’s Watergate apartment. Sleep hadn’t come easily. Annabel had finally given up at four and tried to take her mind off the murder by going to the library and reading a book purported to be funny but wasn’t, at least not in her current mood. Mac joined her at five.

“Mr. Pawkins agreed to investigate on behalf of the company?” Annabel asked when he’d settled next to her on the couch. She knew the answer but was in need of confirmation, or starting the conversation.

“Right. And he doesn’t want to be paid. He says it’ll be his gift to the opera.”

“That’s so generous. What else did he say?”

“I don’t remember. He likes tossing out opera references, maybe to test me. I failed. I’m meeting him for breakfast.”

“Oh? Why?”

“He wants to bounce things off me.”

“I thought…”

“I don’t mind being a sounding board. It won’t go further than that.”

She sat back and closed her eyes.

“You’re in your thinking mode,” he said.

She came forward and faced him. “It had to be someone connected with the opera, Mac. That’s the only logical explanation.”

“Not necessarily.”

“How many people had access to the Opera House last night?”

“More than you realize. Lots of people work at the Kennedy Center who have nothing to do with the opera company, stagehands for the other theaters, back-office people, restaurant workers. Besides, I’m sure you’ve noticed those gaping loading doors for each theater in the complex. They’re left wide open when sets are being moved in and out. Not hard for someone to slip inside.”

“I wonder if she was seeing someone romantically.”

“If she was, he’ll be the first to be questioned. What I’m wondering is how Pawkins will go about investigating. At least having been a cop will help avoid ruffling feathers at MPD.”

“He won’t have any official status,” Annabel said.

“He will with your opera people. If you’re right-that it was someone involved with the opera-he’ll probably have better access to them than the cops will.”

He got off the couch, turned on CNN, mounted a stationary bike, and started peddling. “What’s on your agenda today?” he asked.

“Meetings. I’m on the Opera Ball committee. It’ll be here before we know it.”

“The murder will take some of the gloss off.”

“I hope not. It’s our biggest fund-raiser. I think it’s shaping up beautifully. Which reminds me, it’s black tie. You might want to pull out your tux and try it on.”

He stopped peddling. “Are you suggesting it might not fit me as well as the last time I wore it?”

“Of course not. I just thought it might need cleaning or some minor…adjustments.” She, too, stood. “Shower time. Put on the coffee?”

“My pleasure. I’ll need the car.”

“No problem. I won’t need it today.”

Annabel’s first meeting of the day was at WNO’s administrative offices at 2600 Virginia Avenue, NW, the Watergate office building in which the infamous Watergate break-in took place, and across from what used to be a Holiday Inn. Not exactly a holiday, it had served as a staging area for Nixon’s bungling burglars. As Annabel started up the stairs leading to the main entrance, Genevieve Crier burst through the doors.

“Good morning, Annabel,” the energetic supers’ coordinator chirped. “Can you believe it actually happened? I mean, right there in the Kennedy Center. I didn’t sleep a wink. Poor girl. I ache for her parents.”

“I know,” said Annabel. “Has the meeting started? I’m a little late.”

“No, but they’re gathering. Did you speak with your husband about Mr. Pawkins?”

“Mac spoke with him last night. He’s agreed to lend a hand. They’re having breakfast as we speak.”

“Splendid.”

“Won’t you be at the meeting?”

“Afraid not. Other fires to put out this morning. I’d better get on my horse. Later, Annabel.”

As Annabel again made for the doors, she noticed a TV remote truck parked across the street. A mini-van with THE WASHINGTON TIMES on its side occupied a space a few feet from it. They’re not here to do a retrospective on the Watergate break-in, Annabel thought as she entered the building and checked in with the first-floor receptionist.

A dozen men and women were milling about the large, second-floor conference room when Annabel entered. Chairman Frazier, a compact man who moved with the assurance of a top business leader-he’d made his millions providing state-of-the-art surveillance equipment to the Justice Department-greeted her. “Glad you could make it,” he said. He lowered his voice. “Did your husband speak with the private investigator?”

“Yes,” Annabel said. “He’s willing to help us, at no charge.”

“Does that mean he won’t give us his full attention?”

“I only know that Mac called him last night, and Mr. Pawkins agreed to work with us. Mac is having breakfast with him this morning, and I’m sure he’ll ascertain his degree of involvement.”

“Fine,” said Frazier. “We’d better get started.”

He had trouble establishing order. Everyone in the room was discussing Charise Lee’s death and resisted his repeated requests that they take their seats. When they finally did, he indicated a printed agenda at each place. First on the list was “Charise Lee.”

“I’m not suggesting that we spend much time discussing what happened at the Kennedy Center last night,” Frazier said, “except to say that we mustn’t allow it to impede progress on other fronts. Naturally, our hearts go out to Ms. Lee’s family and friends and we’ll do everything we can to help them cope with this tragedy. But we have the opening of Tosca, the marketing of future productions-there are some problems with Andrea Chénier-and, of course, there’s the ball. Before I get to that, I know that Laurie has something to say.”

Laurie Webster, WNO’s public relations director, said, “The media is all over this story, and it will only get worse. That a murder occurred at all is horrible. That the victim was one of our most promising students is tragic. What is important from our point of view is that we speak with one, unified voice, and that voice will be me and my staff. I urge all of you to resist media pressure to comment on last night, and to refer any press inquiries to my office.”

“Laurie is right,” Frazier said. “I know it’s a temptation to respond to reporters’ questions, but it’s in our best interest not to. Unless anyone has something to add, let’s move on to the second item on the agenda, the Opera Ball.”

Webster excused herself: “I’d better get back to my office. Media calls were piling up when I left.”

The Opera Ball chairwoman, Nicki Frolich, was next to address the gathering. It had occurred to Annabel more than once that if it had been twenty or thirty years ago, it was unlikely she would have been asked to join the Opera Ball committee. Back then, the women who led such highly visible fundraising efforts, known as “Ladies of the Balls,” were for the most part the wives of wealthy men who not only had the time, their husbands’ business connections generated large donations of money and services. But as more women entered the workplace, the number of wives available, or interested in such activities, diminished, and committees for premiere events like the Opera Ball, the National Symphony Orchestra Ball, the Corcoran Ball, and dozens of smaller social events drew from a less wealthy and socially connected corps of Washington women. Not that Annabel Lee-Smith wasn’t an active member of the city’s social scene. She and Mac were involved in a number of artistic and professional organizations, and if not on the A-list of party invitees, they had their share of invitations to events that were covered in the Post’s Style section.

Frolich, whose husband was one of the area’s best-known plastic surgeons, was experienced at spearheading big-ticket fundraisers, despite her relatively young age (no one except those who needed to know knew for certain how old she was, although the consensus was that her fiftieth birthday was still to be celebrated). Five feet, four inches tall, she gave the appearance of being taller by the way she held herself. Her silver-blond hair was styled short, with chunky highlights and short layers to make her seem taller, and to elongate her round face. Her energy level was capable of fatiguing marathoners, her smile wide, white, and genuine. She ran the committee as though it were a Fortune 500 company, and Annabel didn’t doubt that should the doctor’s wife have chosen to build a business career, she would have shattered the glass ceiling into many pieces.

Frolich concluded her status report by saying, “As Bill said, we mustn’t allow the tragedy of Ms. Lee’s death to derail our efforts to make this year’s Ball the biggest and best ever, to say nothing of the most profitable.” She spoke directly to Annabel and another woman who was on her committee. “We’ll be meeting with the full Ball staff at eleven. You’ll excuse me. I have an appointment with the florist.”

Frazier went through the remaining items on the agenda. The final notation was Internal Investigation. “Those of you at the emergency meeting last night are aware that we’ve decided to conduct our own investigation into Ms. Lee’s death. One of the supers in Tosca, a…” He looked to Annabel.

“Pawkins,” Annabel filled in. “Raymond Pawkins. He’s a retired MPD homicide detective, as well as an opera lover.”

“I know him,” said the woman in charge of WNO’s development program. “He has season tickets, has had them for years. He’s a charming man.”

“Yes, isn’t he?” Annabel said.

Frazier broke into their conversation. “Camile will coordinate with Annabel on the arrangements to be made with Mr. Pawkins.” He was referring to Camile Worthington, who headed up the board’s executive committee, and who’d called Annabel at the Watergate to tell her about the emergency meeting. They agreed to meet privately once this meeting was concluded.

Frazier concluded by saying, “I hope what Laurie said will be heeded. We don’t need the press twisting what any of us say, and that includes the use of this detective to help us investigate internally. Anything else?”

Annabel and Camile adjoined to a small office adjacent to the conference room.

“When can we get together with Mr. Perkins?” she asked.

“It’s Pawkins,” Annabel corrected. “I don’t know, but I can call Mac on his cell. Maybe they’re still together.”

Mac and Pawkins were in the middle of breakfast when his cell phone rang.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Annabel said. “I’m here with Camile Worthington. She’s wondering when she and others can get together with Mr. Pawkins.”

She heard Mac confer with Pawkins. “Ray says he’s free all day.”

“This afternoon at WNO headquarters? Say two?” was Annabel’s suggestion.

Another confab between the men. “We’ll be there,” said Mac.

Annabel found it interesting that her husband would be with Pawkins at the meeting. She knew he had a break in his teaching schedule while his students studied for final exams. Still, it was an indication that he would do what she suspected, take a more active part in the investigation than his protest had promised. His tendency to warm up slowly to something new wasn’t a matter of being difficult. Mackensie Smith was simply a man who didn’t leap into strange waters without first testing their depth and temperature. Like any good lawyer.

Mac and Pawkins were finishing their coffee. Mac had dressed casually in response to the hot weather that was pressing down on the city. He was in chino slacks, a tangerine-colored polo shirt, and sneakers. Pawkins, on the other hand, seemed impervious to the heat and humidity. He wore a beautifully tailored, blue poplin suit, a pale cream shirt, and a tie with a graphic of the Mona Lisa on its blue field. The air-conditioning in the restaurant was barely keeping up with the discomforting weather, and Mac dabbed at perspiration on his forehead from time to time. Pawkins never broke a sweat; Mac thought of the E. G. Marshall character in the film Twelve Angry Men.

“Where do you live, Ray?” Smith asked.

“ Great Falls.”

Mac’s eyebrows went up. “Lovely area,” he said.

“How does a retired cop live in such a high-rent district?” Pawkins said. “I fell into it. I rented a gatehouse for years owned by a wealthy real estate guy. He decided to sell and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Actually, it’s pretty modest, although I’ve put in some improvements. How do you like living in the Watergate?”

“We’re very happy there.”

“That’s what counts.”

“You said last night that something had been wedged into the wound to stop the bleeding. Any idea what it was?”

“A sponge.”

“Oh? I had the feeling that you didn’t know what it was.”

“I didn’t. I called Carl Berry this morning before meeting with you. He’s lead on the case.”

“You work fast.”

“The faster the better where homicide is concerned. Carl is a good guy, a straight shooter, at least with me.”

“You told him you were investigating for the opera company?”

Pawkins nodded.

“I imagine the powers-that-be there would prefer to keep it sub rosa,” Smith said.

“To the extent that it can be. I’ll need MPD cooperation, at least unofficially.” He pushed back his chair, cocked his head, and grinned. “A sponge,” he said. “Now, who would have access to a sponge on an empty stage at the Kennedy Center?”

“I have a feeling you’ll answer that question.”

“That’s my intention.” Pawkins motioned for the check.

They parted on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant and agreed to meet at the Opera’s administrative offices at two. As they shook hands, Mac laughed.

“What’s funny?” Pawkins asked.

“We spent an entire breakfast without any references from you to operas and opera singers.”

“Deliberately,” Pawkins said. “I sensed your discomfort when I fell into my habit of relating everything to opera. I promise to curb the temptation. Looking forward to working with you, Mac. It’s nice to be walking on the winning side of the street.”