Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [101]
“I suppose he does. What do you intend to do, take him to lunch and ask if he murdered Aaron Musinski?”
“That’s a possibility
“And what if he says, ‘Yes, I killed him, and I stole his musical scores and sold them to some Frenchman for a half-million dollars.’ Then what?”
“A bridge to cross
“Well, Mac,” she said, “I’m not as sanguine about this as you seem to be. If Raymond Pawkins is a murderer and a thief, I certainly don’t want him investigating the Charise Lee murder for the Washington National Opera. Oh, my God!”
“What’s the matter?”
“What if he…?”
“I see where you’re going with this,” Mac said, placing his hand on hers. “What if Pawkins killed Charise Lee
“And ended up investigating that murder, too
Mac’s thoughts went to the attractive Asian woman who’d waited for Pawkins at the supers rehearsal. He also recalled Pawkins saying that he was looking into a worker at the Kennedy Center who “has a thing for Asian women.” Was Pawkins talking about himself?
He didn’t express these musings to Annabel. It was all circumstantial, all speculation based on nothing. Instead, he said, “Tell you what, Annie. Let’s sleep on it. We’ll discuss it again in the morning after we’ve had time to let what we’ve been told tonight settle into some sort of logical pattern. We’ll decide then what to do
“Including what Marc Josephson has asked you to do
“That’s not in question, Annie. I don’t want any part of what Marc has asked of me
Josephson’s request of Mac had been simple. He wanted him to act as a go-between with Pawkins to try to convince the retired detective to pay Josephson the money Pawkins had received for the Mozart-Haydn scores from Georges Saibrón. “Use the threat of going to the authorities if you must,” Josephson had said as they stood in the Watergate lobby an hour earlier.
Annabel kissed her husband on the cheek, then on the mouth. She pulled back and exhaled a stream of air. “I was actually afraid you were considering doing it,” she said.
In bed, she reminded him, “Don’t forget the tech rehearsal tomorrow night, dress rehearsal the night after that, then opening night. And, of course, there is the ball following that
“It looks like there are two operas going on at once,” he said, “one on the stage, and the other offstage
“And murders taking place in both,” she said, tightly wrapping her arms about him, as though to squeeze such thoughts away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Marc Josephson was not pleased with the way the evening had gone.
After leaving the lobby, he sat alone in his Watergate Hotel room, an assortment of pills prescribed by his London physician for his nervous condition and a glass of water at his side, and pondered what the Smiths had said, particularly Mac.
He’d come to Washington convinced that Smith would eagerly rally to his cause and agree to broker a deal with Pawkins. After all, he’d offered Smith a fee for his services—a hefty one, considering how little he had to do to earn it.
But both Smiths seemed skeptical of what he’d presented. They’d asked so many questions, and he sensed that at times Annabel Lee-Smith found his answers lacking. How dare she? How dare they question his veracity? He’d gone to great expense building a case against Detective Pawkins. It was all there in black-and-white, supported by receipts from airlines and hotels. George Saibrón’s employee had verified that Pawkins had delivered the scores to the Frenchman, and that he had wired money to the bank in the Cayman Islands. Another person with access to bank records had reported to Poindexter that Pawkins had opened an account there, and that Saibrón’s money had been deposited into it.
What further proof could anyone possibly want?
Before placing his call to Smith, he’d considered simply coming to Washington and presenting his findings to the police. He’d quickly abandoned that notion. The minute the police became involved, whatever money that was left would be tied up forever. He was now in his dotage and not well. What good would the money be