Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [118]
“You knew who Zöe was?”
“Sure. That’s Ms. Baltsa’s first name
“And you’re sure he said his name was Chris?”
“Yes, ma’am. Absolutely
“Did he say anything else?” Willie asked.
“No, sir. He hung up and went to the elevators
“Did you see him come down?”
“No, ma’am
“So you don’t know how long he was up there in her room
“No, sir, I’m afraid I don’t
“And you never saw him leave
“No, sir, I didn’t
“What did he look like?” Sylvia asked.
“Gee, I don’t know. Kind of average, I guess
“Black? White? Hispanic?” Willie asked.
“White. Pretty tall, maybe six feet. He had on a T-shirt, a white one. It had some sort of music on it
“Music?”
“You know, like sheet music, lines and little notes. It was on his chest
“You’d recognize him again, wouldn’t you?” Sylvia asked.
“Yes, ma’am, I’m sure I would. He was standing pretty close to me when he was on the phone, no more than a few feet away
“Thank you,” Sylvia said. “I’m sure we’ll want to talk with you again
“My pleasure, ma’am
They returned upstairs to ensure that the crime scene was sufficiently secured, gave further instructions to the others, and went to their car, where Sylvia called Carl Berry.
“It’s that talent agent, right?” were the first words out of Berry’s mouth.
“Right. Ms. Baltsa.” She gave him their initial findings and impressions. “That client of theirs, the pianist, Christopher Warren, evidently visited her last night at about midnight. Willie and I are on our way to pick him up. Baltsa’s partner, Melincamp, is supposedly on his way back to Toronto. I suggest you dispatch officers to the airport to pick him up, too
“Which airport?”
“I don’t know, Carl. National, Dulles. I’m a cop, not a travel agent
There was silence on his end, and she wished she hadn’t responded so flippantly.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll get on it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Willie and Sylvia found Chris Warren at Takoma Park, where he accompanied Tosca’s chorus as it ran through the changes dictated by Zambrano. Their unexpected presence, one at each door to the vast rehearsal space, caused the chorus director, a rotund man with a shock of snow-white hair, to stop the run-through and approach Sylvia. “I’m afraid this is a closed rehearsal,” he said.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but we’re here on police business.” She showed her badge. “We need to speak to Mr. Warren
The director turned and looked at Chris, who sat stoically at the piano.
“Can’t it wait?” the director asked. “We’re almost finished. We can’t continue without him
“Sure, we can wait,” Sylvia said, “but not for long.” She looked at her watch. “Fifteen minutes?”
“Yes, that should be sufficient time,” he said, and returned to his position in front of the singers.
The voices filled the room, sending a shiver up Sylvia’s back. The power and majesty of the music was breathtaking, and she looked forward to hearing it in context that night on the Kennedy Center stage—provided this new wrinkle didn’t have them pulling night duty, too. She glanced at Willie, who leaned against the doorjamb, a smile on his face. The music was getting to him, too, transcending any cognitive understanding and reaching a spot far deeper and less tangible than the mind. Fifteen minutes later, the choral director applauded the singers: “Splendid. That was splendid. That movement has now come alive
As everyone began leaving the room, Sylvia wondered what Warren would do. Certainly he knew that they were there because of him. Would he come to them, or make them go to him? It immediately became evident that it would be the latter. He gathered up sheets from the piano’s music desk and started to walk away.
“Mr. Warren,” Sylvia announced as she and Willie converged to block his path.
“What do you want?” he asked. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”
“You’ll have to come with us,” Sylvia said.
“Why?”
“Because we say so,” Willie said, taking a menacing step closer to the young musician, who wore a white T-shirt with a wavy black musical staff emblazoned across the chest. “Don’t give us a hard time again
Warren looked confused, as though contemplating