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

ELEVEN

Sylvia Johnson extracted cash from an ATM before heading for Takoma Park. Dressed in tight, cream-colored slacks, a cinnamon T-shirt, a rust-colored button-down shirt worn loose and open, and black pumps, she garnered her usual number of turned male heads as she walked down the street and entered the bank. Her ebony coloring-face, body, and hair-was exotic, memorable, and altogether stunning. She walked with purpose, long-legged strides, head held regally, a woman to be reckoned with, a splendid specimen. She’d once been approached by a photographer who’d spotted her at a Maryland beach and wanted to feature her in a Playboy spread. She declined, not because of modesty or morality, but for three more pragmatic reasons: her mother would be horrified; MPD brass wouldn’t be pleased; and she didn’t want her cop colleagues to see her in the buff. Other than that, the offer had a certain appeal.

With a fresh hundred dollars in her purse, she returned to First District headquarters, where she checked out an unmarked blue Chevy sedan from the motor pool, headed up 16th Street to the Opera’s rehearsal space, took a right at Walter Reed Medical Center, soon to be demolished in favor of a more modern veterans’ health facility, and arrived at WNO’s Takoma Park building. She’d considered calling ahead but decided there might be more to gain by simply showing up. It was often more productive that way.

A marked patrol car with two uniformed officers sat near the entrance to the parking lot adjacent to the building. Johnson pulled up next to it and rolled down her window.

“Hey, Detective Johnson, you caught this case, huh?” the driver asked.

“Looks like it, with Willie Portelain. Carl Berry’s the lead. Anybody inside?”

“Nah. A couple of evidence guys were here earlier, cleaning out her locker, stuff like that. They told us to sit here.” He laughed. “That’s it, just sit here.”

Johnson knew why they were here. Department brass had recently initiated a policy of dispatching marked cars to places under investigation to create a visible police presence, more for PR purposes than anything. A TV remote truck and a couple of cars containing print reporters were parked across the street. Hopefully, video of the police vehicle on the evening news would establish that MPD was on the case.

She left her vehicle next to the squad car and entered the building, where she displayed her badge as an introduction. “I’d like to speak with whomever’s in charge of the Young Artist Program.”

“Is anyone expecting you?”

“No, but that’s okay.”

The receptionist placed a call. When she hung up, she said, “Ms. McCarthy will be out shortly.” She lowered her voice. “Have you found the killer yet?”

“We’re working on it,” Johnson said. “Did you know the victim?”

“Sure. She was here every day. She was so nice, a really great gal. And talented, too.”

“So I understand. But she must have had some enemies, someone she didn’t get along with.”

The receptionist’s face twisted in thought. “I can’t think of anybody,” she said.

“Did you socialize with her?” Johnson asked.

“No. Well, we had coffee together sometimes, and I got to go to some events where she was performing.”

“I’ve seen pictures of her,” said Johnson. “She was very pretty, must have had plenty of guys hitting on her.”

The receptionist started to reply, when a woman entered the area and extended her hand to Johnson. “I’m Louise McCarthy, assistant to the director of the Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program.”

“Can we speak privately?” Johnson asked.

“Sure. We’ll go to my office.”

After some preliminary conversation about the program and Ms. McCarthy’s role in it, Johnson got to the point. “I need to know everything there is to know about Charise Lee.”

“Whew,” McCarthy said. “Everything?”

Johnson nodded, a notebook on her lap, pen poised.

“Where do I begin? You must understand that any knowledge I have of Charise is from my dealings with her in the program. We weren’t friends in the usual sense. My role is as an administrator.”

“Let’s start there,” said Johnson. “What sort of a student was she?”

“In what way?”

“Serious? Not so serious? A rule breaker? In trouble? Abrasive? Get along with others?”

McCarthy’s responses were uniformly positive.

“Did she have any friends? Close ones?”

“I, ah-I suppose so.”

“The reason I ask is that from what I’ve heard about opera singers, they tend to be temperamental and high-strung.”

McCarthy laughed. “I suppose some are,” she said, “but our students are encouraged to get along with one another.”

“But there has to be some jealousy among them,” Johnson offered.

“I wouldn’t know about that,” McCarthy replied, not sounding as though she meant it.

Johnson decided to change the subject. “When did you last see Ms. Lee?”

“I really don’t remember. I know she didn’t show up for classes yesterday, because one of her instructors reported it to the office.”

“Did she miss many classes?”

“No” was accompanied by a shake of the head. “Her attendance record was good, I think. I can check.”

“Please do.”

McCarthy opened a file drawer behind her desk, removed a folder, and looked at it. “No,” she said, replacing the file and closing the door. “Her attendance record is about average.”

Johnson smiled. “You make it sound as though an average attendance record means missing a lot of classes.”

“I don’t want to mislead you,” McCarthy said. “Singers in the program-all opera singers, for that matter-are naturally concerned with their voices. They’re blessed with wonderful voices and take very good care of them. Charise missed her share of classes for medical reasons. She’d been seeing one of the physicians at George Washington University ’s Voice Treatment Center. They’re tops in their field. Many of our students have doctors there.”

“I see,” Johnson said, noting what McCarthy had said. “Who else can I talk to, someone who was particularly close to Ms. Lee.”

“Let me think,” McCarthy said. “There’s Chris Warren. He and Charise are both from Toronto. They roomed together.”

Johnson nodded. Warren was who Portelain had been told to interview.

“Their agent would probably have more to offer than anyone. He’s from Toronto, too. His name is Melincamp. Philip Melincamp. He has a partner, who might be able to help you. Her name is Zöe Baltsa.”

Johnson noted the names, closed her notebook, and stood. “I appreciate your time, Ms. McCarthy. Here’s my card. Please call if you think of anything that might be of interest, if anyone else goes missing.” She’d picked up the “gone missing” elocution from a British cop show.

“Of course. All I can say is that I hope you find who killed Charise, and do it fast. Having some nut wandering around the Kennedy Center killing young women is setting everyone on edge.”

“We’ll do our best. Now, I’d like to see the facility.”

“I’ll be happy to show you anything you’d like, Detective.”

After an impromptu half-hour tour, which included the costume rooms, they ended up in one of the rehearsal spaces, where a young woman practiced an aria, accompanied by a pianist.

“That’s Christopher Warren,” McCarthy told Johnson, referring to the pianist.

“Ms. Lee’s roommate.”

“Yes.”

Obviously Willie wasn’t questioning him. Next thought: What was he doing here playing the piano so soon after his roommate had been murdered?

“I’d like to speak with him,” she told McCarthy.

“I’ll go tell him.”

“No,” Johnson said, “I’ll wait until they’re finished. I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

She and McCarthy took seats across the large space from the performers.

“It’s beautiful,” Johnson said. “I don’t know that song.”

“It’s an aria from Donizetti’s Lucia. ‘Regnava nel silenzio,’ I believe.”

Like most Americans, Johnson’s exposure to opera was nonexistent, aside from those occasional snippets that managed to slip into the public vocabulary. She closed her eyes and allowed the sheer power and beauty of the singer’s voice to penetrate her senses. She loved music, and had enjoyed the usual teenager’s dream of becoming a rock star. But she didn’t like rock ’n’ roll, nor did hip-hop or rap appeal. Her tastes tended to female jazz singers like Ella Fitzgerald and Sarah Vaughan, Nancy Wilson and Billie Holiday. But while listening to the opera singer she recognized that this was, indeed, something special. How could anyone, male or female, produce such sounds? Singers like this must be aberrations, physical freaks, their superior vocal apparatus a gift from above. From God? Her mother would claim that, although Matilda Johnson’s daughter wasn’t sure, and probably never would be. It was hard to believe in a God while working Washington, D.C. ’s mean streets, on which lives were taken for a pair of sneakers, or over petty jealousies.

Her mind drifted to the reason she was there, the murder. Had Charise Lee sounded like the woman performing at that moment? Would she have become a world-famous diva? Was she better than this young woman in the rehearsal hall, and if so, who would make that judgment? How long could such magnificent voices hold up? The singer sang in Italian. Were all operas written in foreign languages? If so, how could the singers learn all those languages?

She opened her eyes and observed the singer. She was tall and heavy, which fit the stereotypical belief about female opera singers. But Charise Lee had been described in the report as small, perhaps even petite. Asian-Canadian. In Washington to further her career, ending up stabbed to death. God must have had a bad hair day.

Christopher Warren and the singer finished the piece and conferred about the sheet music.

“You said it was an aria?” Johnson asked. “That’s a solo, right?”

“Right, but it’s more than that. Arias give the singers an opportunity to express their inner feelings and emotions musically, like a spoken soliloquy in a play.” She smiled. “A large percentage of opera audiences come just to hear the arias.”

“I see,” Johnson said, wondering whether what she’d just been thinking would qualify as an aria.

McCarthy led Johnson to the piano, where the two musicians were preparing to leave, and introduced the detective.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” Johnson told them.

The singer’s eyes misted and her fist went to her mouth. “Excuse me,” she said, and ran from the room.

“I’d better go after her,” Warren said.

“I will,” McCarthy said. “Detective Johnson wants to ask you a few questions.”

Johnson and Warren faced each other. She pegged him at six feet tall, five inches taller than her. He appeared to be in good physical shape beneath his jeans and powder-blue T-shirt with a silk screen of Mozart on the chest. He was good-looking in a conventional sense, facial features where they were supposed to be and of the proper size. More interesting to her were his eyes, as cold as a gray winter’s day, and his hands, large and strong, with long fingers. A pianist’s hands, she decided.

“I have nothing to say,” he said flatly.

“You don’t have a choice,” she said, her tone matching his.

“What kind of a person are you?” he asked. “My best friend has been murdered, and you want me to talk about it? Give me a break.”

“Your ‘best friend’ didn’t catch a break, Mr. Warren. I’d think you’d want to do everything you can to find her killer.”

“That’s your job,” he said. “Sorry, but I have nothing to say.” With that, he angrily grabbed the sheet music from the piano’s music desk and started to walk away.

“Mr. Warren,” Johnson called after him.

He stopped and turned. “Just leave me alone,” he said.

She pointed an index finger at him. “I can detain you as a material witness,” she said. “Maybe you’d prefer that.”

“I told you, I don’t know anything about what happened to Charise.”

“Fine,” she said. “Then you shouldn’t mind answering a few questions.”

“I’m going to call my embassy. I’m Canadian. I’m not an American citizen. I have rights.”

Johnson closed the gap between them. “I’m losing patience,” she said. “Either we sit down and have a nice, friendly chat, or we can have a less friendly talk at police headquarters. Your choice. And don’t pull your ‘I’m not an American citizen’ BS with me. When it comes to a murder, all bets are off. Get it, Mr. Warren? You may be Canadian, but we do speak the same language.”

His face scrunched up as though trying to locate a file or program in his brain that would provide him with an answer. She noticed that his hand not holding the music was curled into a tight fist.

“Time’s up,” she said.

“All right,” he said glumly.

And so they talked.