Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [28]
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sylvia Johnson extracted cash from an ATM before heading for Takoma Park. Dressed in tight, cream-colored slacks, a cinnamon T-shirt, a rust-colored button-down shirt worn loose and open, and black pumps, she garnered her usual number of turned male heads as she walked down the street and entered the bank. Her ebony coloring—face, body, and hair—was exotic, memorable, and altogether stunning. She walked with purpose, long-legged strides, head held regally, a woman to be reckoned with, a splendid specimen. She’d once been approached by a photographer who’d spotted her at a Maryland beach and wanted to feature her in a Playboy spread. She declined, not because of modesty or morality, but for three more pragmatic reasons: her mother would be horrified; MPD brass wouldn’t be pleased; and she didn’t want her cop colleagues to see her in the buff. Other than that, the offer had a certain appeal.
With a fresh hundred dollars in her purse, she returned to First District headquarters, where she checked out an unmarked blue Chevy sedan from the motor pool, headed up 16th Street to the Opera’s rehearsal space, took a right at Walter Reed Medical Center, soon to be demolished in favor of a more modern veterans’ health facility, and arrived at WNO’s Takoma Park building. She’d considered calling ahead but decided there might be more to gain by simply showing up. It was often more productive that way.
A marked patrol car with two uniformed officers sat near the entrance to the parking lot adjacent to the building. Johnson pulled up next to it and rolled down her window.
“Hey, Detective Johnson, you caught this case, huh?” the driver asked.
“Looks like it, with Willie Portelain. Carl Berry’s the lead. Anybody inside?”
“Nah. A couple of evidence guys were here earlier, cleaning out her locker, stuff like that. They told us to sit here.” He laughed. “That’s it, just sit here
Johnson knew why they were here. Department brass had recently initiated a policy of dispatching marked cars to places under investigation to create a visible police presence, more for PR purposes than anything. A TV remote truck and a couple of cars containing print reporters were parked across the street. Hopefully, video of the police vehicle on the evening news would establish that MPD was on the case.
She left her vehicle next to the squad car and entered the building, where she displayed her badge as an introduction. “I’d like to speak with whomever’s in charge of the Young Artist Program
“Is anyone expecting you?”
“No, but that’s okay
The receptionist placed a call. When she hung up, she said, “Ms. McCarthy will be out shortly.” She lowered her voice. “Have you found the killer yet?”
“We’re working on it,” Johnson said. “Did you know the victim?”
“Sure. She was here every day. She was so nice, a really great gal. And talented, too
“So I understand. But she must have had some enemies, someone she didn’t get along with
The receptionist’s face twisted in thought. “I can’t think of anybody,” she said.
“Did you socialize with her?” Johnson asked.
“No. Well, we had coffee together sometimes, and I got to go to some events where she was performing
“I’ve seen pictures of her,” said Johnson. “She was very pretty, must have had plenty of guys hitting on her
The receptionist started to reply, when a woman entered the area and extended her hand to Johnson. “I’m Louise McCarthy, assistant to the director of the Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program
“Can we speak privately?” Johnson asked.
“Sure. We’ll go to my office
After some preliminary conversation about the program and Ms. McCarthy’s role in it, Johnson got to the point. “I need to know everything there is to know about Charise Lee
“Whew,” McCarthy said. “Everything?”
Johnson nodded, a notebook on her lap, pen poised.
“Where do I begin? You must understand that any knowledge I