NINE

Detective Carl Berry didn’t care that his coffee had gotten cold. It was bad station-house brew, hot or cold, pure shellac. He’d been at First District headquarters since returning from the Kennedy Center and was feeling the effects of having pulled an all-nighter. With him were two detectives called in to assist in the Charise Lee investigation-William Portelain, an imposing, black, bearish, twenty-year veteran whose cynicism about almost everything in life had grown over the years until reaching a point of ongoing annoyance with bosses and colleagues; and Sylvia Johnson, another African American, who’d joined the D.C. force eleven years ago after being turned down by the police department in her native New York City-too many applicants, too few slots. A cousin from Washington had urged her to come here to seek the career in law enforcement she’d coveted since childhood. She’d been pursuing a degree in criminal justice since arriving, which struck Portelain as “pretty damn dumb.”

“What are you goin’ to do with that degree, lady?” he grumbled each time she spoke of her studies. “Won’t do you a damn bit a good. You want to get ahead here, sleep with somebody. That’s the only way a chick as black as you is goin’ to get anywhere.”

To which she replied, “If I do, it won’t be with a gorilla like you, Willie. Nothing a loser like you can do for me.” He’d laugh, a deep rumble, his feelings seemingly impervious to being hurt. Nor did her put-downs discourage him from making repeated passes at her, which were both annoying and strangely flattering. Although Willie didn’t represent genuine allure to Sylvia, and his persistent negativity was potentially catching, she liked him and enjoyed working cases with him. He could be a good cop when he chose to be.

“What’ve we got?” Sylvia asked Carl Berry.

He slid a folder across the table to her. “Asian victim, twenty-eight, female, Canadian, stabbed in the chest at the Kennedy Center. Was an opera singer, studying with the folks over at the Washington Opera.”

“They had more information than that on TV,” Portelain said in a voice that resembled an idling engine on a motor boat, low and throaty.

“There’s more, Willie,” Berry said. Although younger than Portelain, and college educated, he knew he had the detective’s respect. He opened a second folder and displayed its contents on the tabletop, which included photographs taken at the crime scene.

“She was a little thing, huh?” Portelain said. “I always thought opera singers were big and fat.”

Johnson didn’t say what she was thinking. If being big and fat was the only criterion to be an opera singer, Willie Portelain had a new career to look forward to.

The female detective held one of the color prints at arm’s length. “What is it, a sponge?”

“Right,” said Berry. “The ME’s office sent this one over with the rest of the initial autopsy photos.”

She studied it for a moment before saying, “This sponge was found in the wound?”

“Right again.”

“The dude who did the deed was a pro,” Portelain said.

“Or a damn talented amateur, the son-of-a-bitch,” said Berry. “Either of you ever see something like this before?”

They shook their heads.

“Crocker was with me last night at the scene,” Berry said, “but he’s been pulled to work a drive-by in Southwest. Looks like the three of us caught this one.”

“Opera, huh?” Portelain said, tossing the photos he’d been examining onto the table, like a poker player folding his hand. He yawned loudly and scratched the back of his head. “These opera types are strange, man,” he said. “You ever been to one?”

Johnson was still busy looking at the photographs and didn’t respond, but Berry said, “A couple of times. Not my thing. I’m a Steely Dan and Pink Floyd guy, but I kind of enjoyed it. Hey, by the way, guess who’s also working the case.”

Portelain looked up at Berry through thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “Who?”

“Ray Pawkins.”

It was a duet from Portelain and Johnson: “Pawkins?”

“He’s retired, man,” Portelain said.

“He’s coming back?” Johnson asked.

“No,” Berry replied, “he’s working as a PI for the Washington Opera.”

“He’s a fruitcake,” Portelain said, chuckling.

“Ray is-was-a good detective,” Berry said. “Damn good.”

“Why is the Opera hiring a private eye?” Johnson asked.

“I spoke to Ray,” said Berry. “According to him, the Opera board wants to resolve it themselves. I told him we’d work with him, within limits.”

“Ray Pawkins, huh?” Portelain said, standing and hitching up his trousers. “He was always into opera and stuff like that.”

“That’s right,” Berry concurred. “He was at the Kennedy Center last night when the victim was discovered. He’s in the next show.”

“He sings, too?” Sylvia Johnson said.

“An extra, a spear carrier,” said Berry. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll go his way and we’ll go ours. The deceased had a roommate, another student from the school.” He consulted his notes. “Name’s Christopher Warren, a piano player. Start with him, Willie. See where he was last night, try to get a handle on his relationship with her. Maybe they were more than roommates. Ask him about any guys she might have been involved with.” He handed Portelain an address. “Carlos was there at Warren ’s last night with two evidence techs. They cleaned the place.”

Portelain nodded.

“Sylvia, get together with somebody from that program she was in at the Washington Opera. The…” He consulted his notes again. “Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program. Get an idea of what she was like, who she hung out with, other singers who might have been jealous of her, stuff like that. Maybe somebody doesn’t like Asian-Canadians who hit the high notes. Or miss them. I’ll get a rundown from the ME on the sponge used to plug the wound.”

“And we canvas every store that sells sponges,” Portelain said. “Shouldn’t take us more than a couple a years.”

Berry ignored him. “I’m meeting the parents in an hour. We’ll hook up back here at two-unless you get lucky.”

He heard Johnson ask Portelain on their way from the room, “Can they pull prints from a sponge?”

“Hell, no. What are you doin’ for dinner tonight? I found this great new ribs joint that serves…”

Berry smiled and shook his head. Maybe his father was right, he should have gone into investment banking, or become a lawyer. Too late for that now, he thought, which didn’t dismay him. Carl Berry loved being a cop. Just that simple.

The assistant medical examiner assigned to autopsy Charise Lee’s body had just completed that task and was relaxing in his office with coffee and a raspberry turnover when Ray Pawkins called his office.

“Hello, stranger,” the ME said. His name was, fittingly, Les Cutter. Everyone thought it was a joke when first introduced to him. “How’s retirement?”

“Wonderful,” Pawkins said. “I never knew I could be so busy. Hear you got the opera singer case.”

“What a wonderful town this is,” Cutter said. “‘My secrets cry aloud, I have no need for tongue. My heart keeps an open house, my doors are widely flung.’”

“Nice,” Pawkins said. “Who wrote it?”

“I forget. What can I do for you, my friend?”

“Tell me about the sponge you found in the deceased’s chest.”

“How did you know about that?”

“‘My secrets cry aloud, I have no need for’-the story’s around. What kind of sponge is it?”

“It’s a sponge, Ray.”

“Like I have on my kitchen sink?”

Cutter paused. “As a matter of fact, the answer is no. It’s different than that.”

“When can I see it?”

“You can’t. It’s evidence.”

“I never would have guessed that. I’m working the case.”