Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [32]
“‘Disappeared’?” Portelain said. “What did he mean by that?”
“I think he meant she sort of went underground now and then, maybe needing time alone. At least that’s what I took from it
“Other people with him when he was partying? Where was the party? Has he got any receipts? From the way you describe him, he’s not the partying type
“He said he had too much to drink and can’t remember who he was with or where they went,” Johnson reported.
“The more you talk,” Berry said, “the less he talks, the more I’m interested in your piano player
“Might be he decides to go home to Canada,” Portelain said. “I’d haul him in and yank his passport till he checks out
“I’m thinking the same thing,” Berry said. “What else did he tell you, Sylvia?”
“That he hadn’t seen her for more than a day, that she never came home the night before last. By the way, he was at the Kennedy Center last night when they discovered her
“Right. I have his name on the list I took. He’s an extra in the opera they’re rehearsing
“He didn’t sound too happy about it,” Johnson said. “He told me it was humiliating for a pianist like himself to be an extra—no, he called himself a ‘super,’ I think—and cursed whoever arranged for him to be in the show
“Temperamental, huh?”
“According to the woman I spoke with at the Young Artist Program, they discourage temperament
“I’ll go upstairs and see if we can get a judge to issue a hold on this guy to keep him from skipping. Where’s he staying?”
Johnson responded, “He says he’s at the apartment he shared with the deceased.” To Portelain: “You were there, Willie?”
“Yup. Obviously, the kid wasn’t around, because he was with you, but a guy who claims to be their agent was there.” He consulted his notes. “Name’s Philip Melincamp. He’s from Toronto, Canada. Got a partner named Zöe Baltsa
“You meet her?”
“Nope, Professor. She’s staying in a hotel. Melincamp bunks at the deceased’s apartment
Berry grunted, tilted back in his chair, and ran his fingers over the short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair on his temple. Willie often called him “Professor,” not because of any wisdom or advanced degrees he possessed. It was the way he dressed—chinos, button-down shirts, always blue (he owned a dozen of them), nondescript ties, and tan, thick-soled desert boots. To Willie, men who dressed that way were usually seen on college campuses.
“Bring the Warren kid in,” the professor-cum-cop said. “We’ll talk to him again, see if his story changes
“Let’s go,” Willie told Sylvia, getting up with difficulty. “Buy you a chili dawg on the way
Berry raised his eyebrows and didn’t try to stifle his smile. “Bet you haven’t had an offer as good as that in a long time, Sylvia
“You’re right—fortunately. Come on, Willie, you can have your chili dog and I’ll provide the Pepto
“I love this lady,” Willie announced loudly as they left Berry’s office. “Love her!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Based upon an elevated level of intercepted terrorist ‘chatter,’ the alert level in Washington, D.C., has been raised from yellow-one to orange-two
That terse announcement was delivered at five o’clock that afternoon by the Department of Homeland Security Secretary, Wilbur Murtaugh. The newest cabinet member declined to elaborate, and left the podium without taking reporters’ questions, leaving them, and by extension the American public, to speculate on how, where, and when they might die.
• • •
It had been a day of press conferences around Washington, each producing a news story of greater consequence than the mere murder of a promising opera singer. The president had spoken that morning in the Rose Garden about progress, or lack of it, in Iraq and Korea, contradicting military leaders who painted a less rosy picture than the Commander in Chief. The Treasury Secretary delivered a glass-half-full analysis of the economy to Congressional leaders, despite numbers that indicated considerably less in the