Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [16]
“Somebody made sure that would never happen
“The meeting went all over the lot, one subject to another. But what occurred toward the end should interest you
“Oh? Why is that?”
“Bill Frazier, the board chairman, suggested that while the police will be investigating the murder, he thought we, the Opera board, should take matters into our own hands and try to solve it ourselves
“Why? The last thing you want to do is interfere with the police investigation
“Image. We take on a tremendous responsibility bringing these talented young people here to Washington to study and prepare for their careers. Having one of them killed under our very noses doesn’t do much for our image. Bill says that everyone involved with the company will be prime suspects. He wants to prove that she was killed by an outsider
Mac laughed. “What if it wasn’t an outsider?”
“I brought that up, of course. No one’s looking to whitewash the company and its people. If she was killed by someone in the company, so be it. But he feels—and I agree with him—that by at least demonstrating that we care enough to examine ourselves and WNO, we’ll be viewed in a more positive light
“I suppose,” Mac said.
“Bill asked me to talk to you about it
“Me? Why? I’m not involved with the company
“But you were a top criminal attorney. Besides, meeting your old friend Mr. Pawkins might prove to be serendipitous. Genevieve was at the meeting and mentioned him, the fact that he’d been a homicide detective and loves opera. Do you think he’d—?”
“Take this on? I have no idea.” He went to the bedroom, returning with Pawkins’ card, which he handed to Annabel.
“He’s a private investigator,” she said, confirming the obvious. “Between you and him, we could—”
“Whoa,” Mac said. “If you want me to call Ray and run it past him, I’ll be happy to do that. But that’s the extent of my involvement
“Fine. You’ll call him?”
“Sure. Mind if I turn up the volume? I particularly like this section
Annabel placed her fingers against her lips to mask her tiny smile. Her husband, who’d never indicated an interest in opera, lately enjoyed basking in the recorded lush, dramatic music, and remarkable voices. That was good. Unfortunately, the brutal murder of Charise Lee now promised to involve him beyond music appreciation and being a super in Tosca.
His posture at that moment was only to call Raymond Pawkins and see if he would be willing to investigate the murder on behalf of WNO’s board. But Annabel knew him only too well. He’d never be content with simply making that call. Like it or not, Mackensie Smith was about to learn more about opera than he’d ever envisioned.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Pawkins drove directly home from the Watergate in his 1986 Mercedes sedan. Like himself, he kept the vehicle in pristine working condition. The slightest blemish on its silver exterior was immediately buffed out, and he treated the black seats with a leather conditioner monthly. The engine was barely audible when idling. Particular attention was paid to the windows. Pawkins admitted to being a windshield fanatic, Windexing them at least once a week, often more frequently. People who saw him with the vehicle assumed he was a car fanatic, a man who attended rallies of vintage automobiles and derived great pleasure from owning such a splendid specimen. That wasn’t the case. Cars meant little to him, and he found those who doted on their well-preserved four-wheel beauties to be boring. For Pawkins, it was a matter of practicality and of pride in keeping what you owned in good condition. Like himself.
He’d crossed the Teddy Roosevelt Bridge and proceeded north on the G.W. Memorial Parkway until reaching the village of Great Falls, a wealthy D.C. suburb with palatial, colonial-style homes strung along the Potomac River, the waterway that is as