TWENTY-TWO

“But you can at least try to eat healthier, Willie.”

Portelain and Sylvia Johnson had decided at the end of the day to have dinner together. He’d suggested a steak house; he was in the mood for a porterhouse and a baked potato with plenty of sour cream. Sylvia, while always enjoying a good steak, was aware of what the doctors had told Willie about the need to change his eating habits, and convinced him to try Bistro Med, a small, popular restaurant on M Street that featured “Mediterranean” food, much of it low calorie.

“You don’t need a beer, Willie,” she said. “Have a glass of red wine. It’s good for you. The French live a long time.”

“I’m not the wine type,” he protested, holding up a hand with his pinky extended.

“There is no such thing as a wine type, Willie,” she said, and ordered a bottle of inexpensive Cabernet from the waitress.

“Nice spot,” he said, looking around the small, functionally furnished and decorated room.

“It’s good food,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

“Feel good-only, this body of mine is telling me it needs nourishment.”

“The food here is nourishing,” she said.

“Filling, too?”

“If you eat enough of it.”

“So,” he said after the wine had been poured and he’d clinked his glass against hers, “what’s your take on those two clowns this afternoon?”

It had taken them most of the day to catch up with Melincamp and Baltsa.

Their first stop had been the apartment, where they encountered only Christopher Warren. He was watching TV when they arrived, and upon seeing Willie through the door’s peephole, said loudly, “No way, man. You’re not beating up on me again.”

“Hey, son,” Willie said in a loud voice, “we’re not here to see you. Your agents in there with you?”

“No.”

Willie banged on the door, louder this time.

“Let’s go, Willie,” Sylvia said.

“Man’s not going to dis me,” Willie said, his large fist striking the door again.

The door opened.

“Well, well,” Willie said, “look who’s here. Got yourself a shiner there, boy. Walk into a wall or somethin’?”

Warren stepped back, out of Portelain’s range. An old black-and-white movie played on the TV behind him.

“Calm down, son,” Willie said. “Sorry that we had that little run-in. Fact is, you shouldn’t have taken off like that.”

“Come on, Willie,” Sylvia said, afraid that things would escalate.

“Where’s your agents?” Willie asked.

“I don’t know,” Warren said.

“They been here today?”

“No. Yes. Zöe was here earlier.”

“Where’d she go?”

Warren shrugged. “Maybe back to her hotel.”

“Hotel Rouge?” Willie said.

“Right. Look, Detective, I’m sorry I ran like that. I was scared, that’s all.”

“We didn’t mean you any harm,” Willie said. “Next time, keep your wits about you. A fine piano player like you must have plenty of wits, huh?” He flashed a wide grin.

Warren, too, smiled. “I guess I do.”

“All right, son,” Willie said, “no hard feelings. But don’t go nowhere.”

“I won’t.”

Willie looked past him at the TV set. “Humphrey Bogart,” he said. “One a my favorites. You take care.”

Back in the car, Sylvia asked, “Why did you bother getting into all that talk with him?”

“I don’t know. Feel bad about what happened, his face getting busted up like that. Put me in the hospital, too.”

“Speaking of that…”

“Rather not. Let’s get over to that hotel and see if those agents are there. Hope one a them doesn’t decide to run. Don’t look forward to another night wearin’ one of those little gowns that don’t cover Willie’s black butt, and gettin’ stuck with needles. Man, how can anybody get into drugs, stickin’ themselves with needles? Got to be sadists is the way I read it.”

“Masochists,” Sylvia said with a laugh.

“Yeah, them, too.”

The Hotel Rouge, on 16th Street NW, was one of many smaller, upscale boutique hotels that had recently sprung up around Washington. A former apartment building, which the Kimpton Hotel Group had converted into a trendy property, with the color red, of course, dominating everything. It had become especially popular with visiting celebrities, notably musicians and actors.

Sylvia used a house phone in the small lobby to call Zöe Baltsa’s room. The agent answered.

“Ms. Baltsa, this is Sylvia Johnson, Washington MPD. My partner and I would like to talk with you.”

“I’ve been expecting you,” Baltsa said. “I meant to contact the police and offer to come there for an interview.”

“Well,” Johnson said, “we’ve saved you cab fare. May we come up?”

“Of course.”

“Is Mr. Melincamp with you?”

“As a matter of fact, he is.”

“We’ll want to interview each of you separately. Perhaps Mr. Melincamp has a few errands to run while we speak with you.”

Sylvia heard Baltsa pass along that message to Melincamp, who said, “Sure. Why not?”

They rode the elevator to the third floor, where Melincamp was waiting to ride downstairs.

“Hello there, Mr. Melincamp,” Willie said. “This is my partner, Detective Johnson.”

“Hello, Detective. How long do you want me to be gone?”

“An hour?” Johnson said.

“Sure.”

The room occupied by Zöe Baltsa was surprisingly large for a hotel, probably someone’s living room when the building was apartments. Red was everywhere, on the walls, in the carpet, on a floor-to-ceiling faux-leather headboard, on the bedding and velvet drapes. Soft mood lighting gave it the appearance of an elegant brothel from another era.

Sylvia pegged Baltsa as a woman who thought highly of herself and worked hard to maintain that self-image. The agent exuded sexuality, not in an obvious, glamorous way, but through a look in her eyes and the way she manipulated her full, red lips. She wore a pair of tight jeans, a lightweight orange sweater cut short to expose her bare midriff-it clashes with the red in the room, Sylvia thought-and sandals. Her hair was pulled back into a chignon, secured in back by what looked like a piece of American Indian jewelry. After introductions, she invited Willie and Sylvia to take the red love seat in front of the flat-screen TV.

“So,” she said, “I am glad to be able to talk with you. I can’t tell you how upsetting Charise’s brutal murder has been for me and for Philip. It’s like having lost a daughter. That’s how close we were.”

Had Sylvia and Willie spoken to each other at that moment, they would have said the same thing: Take everything this lady says with a grain of salt.

“I imagine it was quite a shock when you got the news,” Sylvia said, a notepad on her lap, pen in hand.

“To say the least,” Baltsa said, slowly shaking her head. “I mean, here she was, this immensely talented and beautiful young woman, in Washington to study with the best there is in the opera world, and to have some madman take her life and dreams from her in an instant. That’s what it had to be, a madman. No one in their right mind could do such a thing.”

Willie asked, “Where were you the night Ms. Lee was killed?”

“I was…Let me see. I believe I was right here at the hotel.”

“All night?”

“Most of it. I went out for dinner.”

“Where?”

“Oh, Lord, can I remember? Oh, yes, I had dinner at a lovely Thai restaurant. What’s the name? Oh, yes, Bua. It isn’t far from the hotel.”

“Were you with anyone?” Sylvia asked.

“No. I dined alone. Do you like Thai food?”

Sylvia shot a glance at Willie, whose expression said it all.

“Did you see Ms. Lee that night?” Sylvia asked.

“No,” Baltsa answered immediately.

“When did you arrive in D.C.?” Willie asked.

“On the afternoon of that fateful day. Tell me, have you made any progress in finding her murderer?”