Had knowing the victim made it easier or more difficult for me? Of course, having known her cast me as a suspect, along with dozens of others. Murderers who are strangers to their victims invariably stand a better chance of getting away with it. There was a brief temptation to enlist the aid of another person, someone outside our circle of acquaintances, but I quickly ruled that out. The fewer people who know about a murder, the better.
That the murder took place onstage at the Kennedy Center Opera House would lead one to believe that I have a flair for the dramatic. But that was not the reason the area was chosen as the place to ensure her silence. I’d considered a number of settings-her apartment, on the street, or in a secluded room in the Opera company’s rehearsal space at Takoma Park. She provided the answer by insisting that we meet on the stage that night, actually in the early morning hours, long after everyone was gone for the evening except perhaps for a couple of Kennedy Center security guards, who wouldn’t come into the theater unless given reason to, which I certainly didn’t intend to provide.
It should also be pointed out that my choice of a weapon had nothing-absolutely nothing-to do with the fact that the encounter took place on the Opera House’s main stage, where the Washington National Opera would soon present the latest production of Puccini’s warhorse, Tosca. Moments before dealing the fatal blow, I thought of the justified murder of the cruel, lecherous Scarpia in Tosca’s Act II. The major difference was that this slaying was committed in shadows and without onlookers, while Tosca’s stabbing of the cruel chief of the secret police would take place before thousands bearing witness to her defensible action. Of course, Tosca’s dramatic killing of Scarpia is make-believe. This one was very real; I did not break into the aria “Vissi d’arte” before completing the act, as Madame Tosca has done thousands of nights on grand stages around the globe.
The victim was eventually found, of course, although it took almost a full day. I’d placed the body in such a location where few would have reason to go under ordinary circumstances. When her body was discovered, there was a flurry of media and law enforcement activity, and much was made of the fact that the homicide took place inside the revered Kennedy Center, and in that institution’s Opera House, where betrayal, passion, intrigue, and murder take place on a regular basis-but only during performances on the main stage. The press had a field day with opera analogies, the weapon used, the setting, and the connection of the deceased with the Washington National Opera.
In the meantime, Tosca, and the larger comic opera that is Washington, D.C., itself-but that too often turns deadly-must, and did, go on.
And so must I.
Sincerely,
Philip Melincamp
Morris handed the papers to Berry. “Thanks,” he said to Browning. “We know Melincamp killed the singer, but it’s nice to have this. Dramatic, wasn’t he?”
“And screwed up,” Browning said. “A shame that he screwed up the young woman, too.”
Morris and Berry left the room and the building. Once outside, Morris said, “Warren’s in for a long, tough road once Homeland Security and Justice get hold of him.”
“The kid was scared,” said Berry as they walked to their car.
“It’ll be out of our hands soon, Carl.” Morris laughed. “You watch. They’ll take credit for this whole thing, use the kid as a feather in their cap, another terrorist plot foiled. All we did at MPD was-everything.”
As they drove back to headquarters, Berry said, “I have a request, Cole. A little favor.”
“Shoot.”
“Ray Pawkins got a couple of tickets to the opera last night for Sylvia Johnson and Willie Portelain. I had to pull the two of them out of the Kennedy Center early when the fax came in from New York. I’d like to buy them a couple of tickets so they can enjoy the whole show.”
“Willie Portelain at the opera?” Morris said with a chuckle.
“He said he liked it. I owe them.”
“Sure, go ahead. I’ll hide it under-under continuing education.”
FORTY
“Too many Americans have a misconception that German cuisine is brown, heavy, and blah. But Germany is actually the birthplace of organic farming. Modern German cuisine is fresh and flavorful.”
So stated Marcel Biró, one of Germany ’s most celebrated chefs, cookbook author, and star of the Emmy-winning PBS reality-cooking series The Kitchens of Biró. He’d been brought to the German Embassy in Washington by the ambassador as a special treat for the fourteen guests dining there prior to attending the Opera Ball’s gala at the Brazilian Embassy. The menu had been created by him especially for the occasion, and he was on hand to explain and extol each course.
“Your entrée is a special favorite of mine,” he announced, “medallions of pork in a black cherry pepper sauce, with spatzle and braised fennel. The sweet tartness of the black cherries offsets the pork’s flavor, and the black pepper adds just the perfect bite to the dish.”
The evening had begun with tomato aspic with tiny shrimp, which Biró said was a typical northern German dish. The salad was asparagus tips with tiny slices of sweetbreads, a southern German dish. The wines he’d chosen for the evening were a white from the Rhine, and a red Bordeaux imported from the house of Tesdorpff, wine merchants since the 15th century. A parfait of Williams pear with beetroot sabayon, Malvasier, from the island of Madeira, was dessert.
“He’s absolutely charming,” Annabel remarked to Mac as they savored the pork entrée.
“That he is,” Mac agreed. He lowered his voice. “But I have to admit, my pedestrian palate is more attuned to sauerbraten, sauerkraut, and dumplings that sink immediately to the lower stomach.”
She giggled and put a finger to her lips. “Loose lips sink ships, and dumplings,” she said.
Everyone at the table agreed that the evening, at least the first portion of it, was a smashing success. The ambassador and his wife were a charming couple, and having the celebrity chef there only added to the sizzle.
They left the German Embassy and went to the evening’s main event, the party at the Brazilian Embassy. As they approached, pulsating samba and bossa nova rhythms could be heard, and felt, a block away. An overwhelming contingent of security people, uniformed and in plainclothes, made their presence abundantly evident. The Smiths’ invitations, accompanying photo IDs, and names from a computer printout were carefully checked, and they were allowed to enter the grounds on which the huge tent was the scene of a lavish, loud gala. Couples danced to the spirited music beneath rotating colored lights that painted an impressionistic swirl over everything, and everyone. Mac and Annabel made their way to a long table where uniformed staff poured cups of Brazilian coffee; they avoided the artfully arranged desserts. Costumed supers wearing elaborate masks were stationed at various spots around the dance floor to add color, and to chat with guests.
“When’s the president due?” Mac asked his wife.
“A half hour,” Annabel said.
A member of the ball committee approached. “Annabel,” she said, “I hate to tear you away from your handsome husband, but we could use your help for twenty minutes.”
“Mac?”
“Go ahead. I’ll wander a bit, catch up with you for a dance in a half hour-provided it’s a slow one.”
He watched her move through the crowd, her decidedly female form lovely to look at from any direction. He walked without purpose across the dance floor to an area surrounded by high bushes, the band’s volume buffeted somewhat by the foliage and distance. As with everywhere else on the embassy grounds, security was thick and tight. Two obvious Secret Service agents, their little earpieces a giveaway, stood with two uniformed MPD patrolmen and a heavyset black man, whom Mac assumed was another cop. He was right.