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

TEN

Willie Portelain stopped for a slice of pepperoni pizza on his way to interview Charise Lee’s roommate. Although he’d eaten a big breakfast only two hours earlier-eggs over easy, well-done sausage, hash browns, and whole wheat toast-he was hungry almost as soon as he’d finished that first meal of the day. His prodigious appetite was a running joke among colleagues and friends. Some suggested he cut down on his intake and drop some weight. “Body needs fuel,” he’d answer, “like a car or plane. My body tells me what it wants, I don’t argue with it.”

“As long as he doesn’t have to chase some perp on foot,” other detectives said behind his back, laughing at that visual. Willie would have agreed with them. His greatest fear when on duty was to be called upon to run after someone.

The apartment shared by Charise and Warren was on N Street, between Logan and Thomas circles. Once an elegant enclave of Richardsonian and Victorian townhouses, it had deteriorated over the years into a troubled neighborhood, until a determined gentrification was launched. Still, it was one of those D.C. areas best avoided late at night.

The apartment was on the ground floor of a four-story gray stucco building, its windows covered by heavy, black wrought-iron bars. A warning label affixed to one of the windows proclaimed that the premises were protected by an alarm company. Portelain read it and grinned. The decal was store bought, just a piece of paper, not connected with any alarm company that he’d ever heard of.

He stood at the front door and took in his immediate surroundings. Not a bad block, he thought. He’d been on worse ones. He remained standing there, not attempting to enter the building, formulating the questions he would ask. Satisfied that he’d mentally covered all the bases, he leaned close to a panel on which the building’s flats were listed, pushed the buzzer next to WARREN/LEE, and heard it sound inside.

“Yes?” a tinny male voice said through the small speaker.

“Police,” Portelain announced. “I’m here to talk to Mr. Christopher Warren.”

“He’s not here.”

“Who are you?”

“Who did you say you were?”

“Detective Portelain, First District Homicide.” Despite the official change of nomenclature from Homicide to Crimes Again Persons, no cop used the new term.

“Just a minute,” the voice from inside said. A minute later the harsh sound of the metal lock being disengaged prompted the detective to push through the now unlocked door and go to the apartment. He knocked. No one responded. He knocked again. Someone on the other side of the door coughed. Willie’s fist was raised for yet another assault on the door when it opened.

Facing him was a man of medium height with a puffy face the color of bleached flour. His hair was brown bordering on blond, with long strands hanging limply over his ears and neck. He wore a rumpled tan summer suit over a pink polo shirt, and sandals.

“Detective Portelain,” Willie said, showing his badge.

The man nodded. “You’re here to see Chris. He’s not here. He’s-”

“I’m here about what happened last night at the Kennedy Center,” Portelain said. “You are?”

“I’m Chris’ agent. Charise’s agent, too, until this happened. God, what a shock.”

“You mind if I come in?” Portelain asked.

“No, of course not.” He stepped aside to allow the lumbering detective to enter the small living room, which seemed even smaller when preempted by Willie’s large body. As he surveyed the room, Portelain asked, “When is Mr. Warren coming back?”

“I don’t know. He’s playing a rehearsal at Takoma Park.”

“I didn’t catch your name,” Portelain said, pulling out a notebook and pen.

“Melincamp. Philip Melincamp.”

“You knew the deceased pretty well,” Willie said.

“Yes, of course. A good agent knows his clients. At least he’d better.” He made a sound that passed for a laugh.

“You, ah, you live here in D.C.?”

“No. Toronto. My agency is in Toronto. Charise and Chris are both from there.”

“You’re visiting.”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Warren, he’s a piano player.”

“He’s a pianist. A very fine one.”

“I don’t see a piano here.”

Melincamp sighed. “I was lucky to find this apartment for them, with or without a piano. He does all his practicing at Takoma Park.”

“Uh-huh.” Portelain noted the agent’s comment. “His roommate gets killed and he’s off playing for some rehearsal?”

“He didn’t want to, but I encouraged him. There was nothing to be gained by staying here. Music would be an escape from this dreadful thing that’s happened.”

“Mind if I sit?” Portelain asked. “My back’s been acting up.”

“No, of course not.”

Melincamp removed a pile of sheet music from a well-worn, once-red love seat and motioned for the detective to sit. The couch’s cushions looked soft and puffy. Willie hesitated. He’d have trouble getting up from them, he decided, and remained standing. “When did you arrive in D.C.?” he asked, leaning against a windowsill.

“Yesterday. My partner and I arrived yesterday.”

“You have a partner?”

“Yes.”

“What hotel you staying at?”

“I’m not staying at a hotel. I’m staying here.”

Portelain raised his eyebrows for a sweep of the room. Melincamp grasped what the detective was thinking. “The couch,” he said. “Pulls out into a bed. Charise and Chris each have a bedroom back there.” He pointed to two closed doors off the living room. “Your colleagues-I suppose that’s what they’re called-were here last night and searched the bedrooms. They left a mess.”

“That so?” Portelain said. “Evidence techs are usually pretty neat. You can lodge a complaint.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Your partner staying here, too?”

“No. She prefers a hotel. There’s only room for one of us here.”

Willie’s feet and back were bothering him now and he decided the couch would have to do. He sank into it, struggled to come forward, and managed a position that wasn’t too uncomfortable. “What’s your partner’s name?” He asked.

“Zöe Baltsa.”

He wrote the name in his notebook, spelling it phonetically. “So, tell me, Mr. Melincamp, when was the last time you saw the deceased?”

“She may be dead,” the agent said, “but she still has a name. Ms. Lee, you mean.”

“Okay. Ms. Lee.”

Melincamp said, “I didn’t mean to offend.”

“Takes a lot to offend me,” Portelain said. “Been offended by the best offenders. When you see her last?”

“A week ago.”

“A week ago? You didn’t see her last night? Yesterday?”

“No. Zöe and I arrived yesterday with the intention to spend time with her. Chris was worried. Charise hadn’t shown up in class or for her costume fitting yesterday afternoon. I was worried, too. Looks like I had reason to be.”

Portelain thought for a moment about the questions he’d intended to ask. “Did Ms. Lee and her roommate, this guy Chris, have more of a relationship than just sharing an apartment?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, were they boyfriend and girlfriend?”

Melincamp guffawed. “Of course not. They were both focused on their careers. Chris aspires to become an accompanist for singers. He’s remarkably talented. Charise had the whole world in front of her. My God, what magnificent music came from that little girl. I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years as a singer’s agent.”

“What about other guys? She must have had boyfriends.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Melincamp responded.

“Sure you would,” Portelain said. “Like you told me, a good agent gets to know his clients real well.”

“There are limits,” Melincamp said. “I don’t pry into their private lives.”

Portelain jotted nonsense in his notebook, not because he needed a written record of what was said, but because he was deciding where to next take the conversation. He looked up at Melincamp. “I’d like to see her bedroom,” he said.

“Why? They were all over it last night.”

“Indulge me,” said Portelain, getting up with an audible “Oomph.”

Melincamp pointed to one of the closed doors. “In there. That was her room.”

Portelain opened Ms. Lee’s bedroom door and observed without entering. It was a tiny space. A single twin bed took up one half. He noted that the bed was stripped, probably by the evidence techs, who would want the sheets and pillowcase for analysis. He stepped inside, and banged his shin against the bed’s footboard, eliciting a burst of four-letter words under his breath. A small, white dresser was against the wall. He opened its drawers. Empty. He turned and looked at the opposite wall, on which opera posters were attached with pushpins. He recognized one name, La Boheme.

“Anything else?” Melincamp asked from the doorway.

“No, that’s about it,” Portelain said. “I’d like to talk to your partner, and Mr. Warren.” He handed Melincamp his card. “Have them call me to set up an interview.”

“All right,” the agent said, “although I assure you, they know nothing that would be of help to you.”

Portelain ignored the disclaimer, thanked Melincamp for his time, and returned to his car, parked a half block away. He squeezed behind the wheel and made further notes before turning the ignition and pulling into traffic. It was almost eleven, which posed a dilemma. He was hungry, but wanted to wait until noon-conventional lunchtime-before eating again. Stopped at a light, he opened the glove compartment, found a Snickers bar, and savored it.