Murder at the Opera

NINETEEN

Sylvia Johnson and Carl Berry were going over the day’s schedule when Willie Portelain came through the door.

“What are you doing here?” Berry asked. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital.”

“Got sprung, man. I told them I was feeling topnotch and had important work to do, said the city needed me.”

He eyed the half-eaten jelly donut sitting on a napkin on the desk, which Sylvia moved behind a pile of file folders.

“So, Willie,” Berry said, “I understand you’re going on a diet.”

“Supposed to be,” he chortled, “only I don’t know what good it’ll do. These docs-man, they don’t know a hell of a lot. They poke around and stick you with all sorts a needles and then tell you to go on a diet and exercise. I’ve got pills, little white ones and little blue ones. You’d think they’d learn more than that in medical school, huh? Exercise? Get nothin’ but on this job. Right? The way I figure it, the man upstairs has everybody’s name on a list. He checks you off as you croak. When it’s your name that comes up, good-bye baby, hasta la vista, cash in your potato chips. All the diets in the world ain’t going to change that.”

“That’s one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard from you, Willie,” Sylvia said.

“Watch your mouth, girl. Just ’cause you were born with good genes don’t mean everybody was. Our number comes up, that’s it. In the meantime, here I am, ready to save Washington from the bad guys.” Then, quietly, to Sylvia: “Thanks, baby, for taking care of ol’ Willie yesterday.”

“You’d do the same for me,” she said.

“I’d do more than that,” he said, giving her what passed for a leer. “So, what’s up for today?”

“The Lee case,” Berry said.

“How about that punk piano player?” Portelain asked.

“The one you coldcocked?” Berry said.

“That’s him,” Willie said. “Hey, I didn’t hit the punk. He ran right into my arm.”

“So I heard,” said Berry. “Look, in the first place, he’s no punk. He’s maybe a little stupid when it comes to self-preservation, but from what we know, he’s a first-rate pianist. He’s not bringing charges.”

Portelain guffawed. “Him? Bring charges? For what?”

“Police brutality.”

“Screw him,” Portelain said. “I-”

“Forget about that,” Berry said. “Our friend doesn’t have an alibi that can be corroborated. He stays bright on the radar screen. I figure we let him stew for a day or two, lick his wounds, and do some thinking. In the meantime, I want you two-I assumed it would only be Sylvia, but now that you’re here, Willie, I want both of you to question those agents, Melincamp and his partner…” He checked his notes. “Ms. Baltsa.”

“I already talked to Melincamp,” Portelain said. “He’s a strange-o.”

“Talk to him again. Public Affairs is swamped with media inquiries. We need something to feed them. PA is holding a press conference at five. It would be nice if I could tell them we’re making progress. Get back over to the Kennedy Center in your spare time and pump anyone who was there the night she was killed. Let’s not limit things to the victim’s inner circle.”

“In our spare time?” Willie snorted.

“PA will say we’re making progress whether we are or not,” Johnson said. “‘No specifics,’” she said, mimicking a department spokesman. “‘We aren’t able to comment on an ongoing investigation.’ The usual.”

Berry stood and stretched. “Let’s move,” he said. “Oh, did you two see this?” He held up a copy of Washingtonian.

“No,” Johnson said, taking the magazine.

“Page one thirteen,” Berry said.

Johnson opened it.

“Man, what’s he got his picture in there for?” Willie asked.

“The Washington Opera,” Berry replied. “Remember? He used to hang out with those people.”

“He was in some of the shows,” Johnson said.

“Right,” said Berry. “Take it. I’ve read it. Talk to those two agents, and check in with me later. Good to see you back, Willie. Do what the doctors told you.”

As Portelain and Johnson headed out to interview Philip Melincamp and Zöe Baltsa, Berry met with his superior, Cole Morris.

“Anything new on the Kennedy Center case?” Morris asked.

“No,” Berry said. “Her roommate, the piano player from Toronto, Christopher Warren, isn’t off the hook. Johnson brought him in yesterday.”

“So I heard. He got banged up?”

“Yeah, but not to worry. He’s not bringing charges.”

“What’s with Willie Portelain?”

“He’s okay, out of the hospital. He and Johnson are interviewing two talent agents from Toronto, the ones who represented the victim and Warren. I’ve got the victim’s parents in town.” He checked his watch. “I’d better get over to their hotel. They didn’t want to come here.”

“Did you see the article on Ray Pawkins in Washingtonian?” Morris asked.

Berry laughed. “Yeah, I did. He always had a knack for self-promotion. I could never figure the guy. He was there the night they discovered the singer’s body at the Kennedy Center.”

“Was he? Why?”

“He’s an extra in the next opera they’re doing. He always loved that sort of thing. Oh, by the way, Pawkins is working for them.”

“Working for them?”

“He’s signed on as their PI.”

“To do what?”

“Catch the singer’s killer before we do.”

“I’ll be damned. That’s all we need, somebody working private and getting in the way.”

“I’m supposed to meet with him.”

“To do what?”

“Discuss the case.”

“The hell you are.”

“It can’t hurt.”

“We don’t discuss ongoing investigations, remember?”

“I know, Cole, I know, but maybe he’ll come up with something that will help us.”

“Or get something from us that’ll help him.”

“Let’s see how it plays out.”

“Suit yourself. Hey, Carl, speaking of Pawkins, there might be a break in the Musinski murder.”

“Musinski? The college professor at Georgetown U? How far back does that one go, five, six years?”

“Six. There was that graduate assistant at Georgetown who looked good, only we could never put enough together to charge him. Forensics might have linked him to the scene.”

“Took them long enough. They mention that case in the article on Ray.”

“We’ll want to talk to Pawkins at some point. He was lead on it.”

“I’ll mention it to him.”

“Yeah, do that. Be straight with me. Is Willie fit for duty?”

Berry nodded. “He says he is.”

“And you say?”

“I say that if he says he is, he is. He’s supposed to go on a diet.”

It got a fat laugh from Morris. “And the President’s press secretary will be candid at news conferences. Keep in touch.”

Charise Lee’s parents were staying at a downtown Holiday Inn on New Jersey Avenue. Berry went to the desk and asked for Mr. and Mrs. Lee’s room.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t have anyone named Lee registered.”

“They’re from Toronto,” Berry said.

“I can’t check names on that basis,” the young male clerk said. “Sorry.”

Berry considered pulling out his badge and encouraging the clerk to do better, but decided he’d wait before pulling rank. He took a seat in the functionally furnished lobby and took in the comings and goings of hotel guests. Across the room he saw an older Caucasian man and much younger Asian woman sitting close together on an orange vinyl love seat. Could be, he said to himself as he crossed the lobby and stood over them. “Mr. and Mrs. Lee?” he asked.

His sudden appearance startled them. The woman, slender and wearing a simple dress made of a shiny black material, as black as her hair, quickly stood; the man remained seated.

“I’m sorry,” Berry said. “I’m looking for the parents of a Ms. Charise Lee and-”

“Yes, yes,” the woman said. “I am her mother.”

“Oh,” Berry said, introducing himself. “I checked with the desk and-”

The man stood. Berry pegged him to be in his early seventies. Bald on top, spigots of unruly black-and-gray hair poking out on the sides of his head, and tufts of hair protruding from surprisingly large ears. He needed a shave, and was slightly hunched, the posture of a man who’d stood bent over for too much of his life. He wore a wrinkled gray suit and a plain black tie whose knot did not meet his throat.

“I’m Charise’s father,” he said in a raspy voice.

He and Berry shook hands. Berry surveyed the lobby. “Maybe you’d rather we went to your room,” he suggested.

“Yeah, that’d be better,” the man said.

His wife looked at a sign pointing to the hotel’s lobby-level restaurant.

“Would you like to go in for something to eat?” Berry asked. “Coffee or tea, maybe?”

“We don’t have to eat,” the man said. “Maybe a cold drink.”

Berry saw that the restaurant was virtually empty. He motioned for them to follow as he went inside and told the hostess he needed a table for three, preferably in a corner where they could talk. She took them to just such a table, placed menus on it, and left. Seated, Berry said, “I’m a little confused. The hotel doesn’t have any record of you having checked in.”

“The name’s not Lee,” the man said. “That’s Betty’s name.” He indicated his wife.

“But-”

“Yeah, I know,” the father said. “It’s confusing. My name’s Seymour Goldberg. Charise decided Goldberg wasn’t a good name for an opera singer, so she took Betty’s name. I told her names don’t matter and that she should be proud of her real name, but you know how women can be.”

Berry glanced at Betty for a reaction and received a blank look. “It was a better name to use,” she said in a soft, flat voice.

“See what I mean?” Seymour said.

“Yeah, well, I am really sorry to be meeting you under these circumstances,” Berry said, “and I am very sorry about the death of your daughter.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Lee-Goldberg said.

It was tea for her, coffees for the men, and Berry insisted upon a double order of English muffins to be shared.

“Have they asked you to identify the body yet?” the detective asked, wanting to get that question out of the way.

“We’re going later today,” Charise’s father replied. “Who did this to her?”

“We don’t know yet,” Berry said, “but we’re working hard to find out. I’m hoping you might have some information that will help us.”

“What could we know?” Goldberg said. “We live in Canada. Charise decided to come to Washington to study opera with the big names here. I didn’t want her to go, but-”

“It was her choice,” the mother said. “She said she would learn so much and become a better singer.”

“I admit I don’t know much about opera,” Berry said, “but I understand your daughter was a very talented young lady.”

“Yes, she was,” the mother agreed.

“She had the voice of an angel,” the father said. He placed his hand on top of his wife’s, and tears formed. Embarrassed, he wiped them away with the back of his other hand. “She got involved with the wrong people,” he declared.

“I’d be interested in hearing more about that,” Berry said, their drinks and muffins on the table.

“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about it,” the mother said.

“Why not?” Goldberg said. “It’s true. I warned her about the sort of people who take advantage of talented young women like her. Those two agents got ahold of her and-”

“Mr. Melincamp?” Berry said.

“That’s right. Melincamp and that woman he works with.”

“Zöe something,” Berry said.

“That’s her,” Mr. Goldberg said.

“What about a piano player named Warren?” Berry asked.

“Christopher,” Betty Lee-Goldberg said. “He’s a nice young man.”

“I don’t agree,” her husband said, taking a bite of muffin and a sip of coffee heavily doctored with sugar and half-and-half.

“Oh?”

“He used her, Mr… you said your name was?”

“Berry, Detective Carl Berry.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Berry-Detective Berry-I don’t remember names that good anymore. Christopher Warren used Charise’s talent to make his own career better. I saw through him the minute I met him.”

“He accompanied Charise when she sang,” the mother said. “He’s a very good pianist.”

“Were they more than just friends and professional colleagues?” Berry asked.

“Meaning, did they sleep together?” Goldberg asked.

Berry nodded.

“I suppose they did,” the older man said. “I warned Charise about that. She was such a naïve young girl.” Tears again formed and he angrily rubbed them away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just can’t believe this has happened. It wouldn’t have happened if she’d stayed home and not come here. She had a wonderful voice teacher in Toronto, but Warren and those agents convinced her to audition for the opera school here.” He hit the table with his fist. “And all that talk about saving the world. Her friends were full of that stupid talk. They sounded like Communists!”

“Communists?” Berry said.

“Radicals. Believe me, I know about such things. I lost people in the Holocaust. Family. Radicals! Like Hitler. I told her that if she wanted to save the world, she should become successful and be a good citizen, make money and give some to the poor. That’s the way to save the world, not the way her friends with the long hair and tattoos said. The wrong people. That’s why she’s dead. Always the wrong people.”

His wife touched his hand and said, “Please, Seymour, it doesn’t help.”

“Excuse me,” Mr. Goldberg said, using the tabletop for leverage as he stood unsteadily and shuffled off in the direction of the restrooms.

“I know how difficult this is for both of you,” Berry said.

“You must forgive Seymour,” his wife said. “He had such hopes for Charise. We both did. It has not been easy for him to support her career. He has worked as a tailor all his life, worked hard, and always found the money for her university and the private lessons.”

“Was Charise your only child?” Berry asked.

“Yes.”

Berry was pleased that the conversation, in Seymour’s absence, had turned to something less grim for the moment than the murder of their daughter. He’d graduated with a degree in Sociology and had always been fascinated with the way people lived their lives, the decisions they made, and the paths and many detours their journeys took through this temporary life. That was one of the reasons he’d become a cop. It offered a unique and rich vantage point from which to indulge his interest in the human condition.

“You say he’s a tailor. Does he still do that for a living?”

“No, I’m afraid not. You noticed his hands. Arthritis. He can no longer work with needle and thread. We have a small launderette in Toronto.” She smiled. “I was working in a laundry when we met. I think Seymour thought it was appropriate for a Chinese woman to be doing laundry.”

Berry joined her gentle laugh. “A little typecasting, huh?”

She nodded.

Goldberg returned and resumed his place at the table.

“Tell me more about Christopher Warren and the two agents,” Berry said.

Charise’s mother supplied, “Charise said it was important for an opera singer to have an agent. She said it would open doors for her, doors she herself could not open.”

Her husband started to speak, but his wife added, “Besides, Mr. Melincamp made it possible for Charise to come here to study. He has been paying for where she stayed with Christopher.”

“How did she get along with them,” Berry asked, “the agents and Christopher Warren?”

“We don’t know,” Seymour said.

Berry’s eyebrows went up. “She never confided in you about them and her relationship with them?”

Husband and wife exchanged a nervous glance before she said, “Charise has been estranged from us for some time.”

“Over what?” Berry asked.

“She wouldn’t listen to us,” Seymour said, his voice taking on sudden strength. “She was headstrong.”

“Like young women these days,” his wife defended.

“I know what it’s like out there in the world,” Seymour said, the weary tone having returned. “I didn’t want her ending up taking in other people’s dirty laundry, their soiled underwear and smelly socks. I told her what it takes to succeed, but she had her own notions.”

Berry sympathized with the older man, but wondered whether he’d been too heavy-handed with his only child and pushed her away. It happened, he knew. His own father, a college professor, had been furious when his son announced he intended to go into law enforcement after four successful years in college, and had basically shut down communication between them for the two years before his father died one afternoon of a massive heart attack while lecturing a classroom full of students. Their rift should have been healed, but it was too late for that now. His relationship with his aging mother, while long distance, was good, and he worked hard at keeping it that way.

He checked his watch. It had been an interesting meeting, but nothing tangible had resulted that would aid in the murder investigation.

“Are you sure there’s nothing you can tell me about people in your daughter’s life that might shed light on her death?” he asked.

“Something like whether Warren or the agents might have had a reason to kill her?” Goldberg asked.

“Yes,” Berry said.

Husband and wife looked at each other.

“That couldn’t be,” the mother said.

“Couldn’t be?” Berry said.

“They would not have hurt my daughter,” she said. “Everyone loved Charise.”

Somebody didn’t, Berry thought.

He gave them his card and urged them to call if they thought of anything. After paying the bill, and again offering his condolences, he left them at the table, one half of a cold English muffin the remnants of their having met.