Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [75]
Actually, she’d fallen asleep much earlier, a half hour into the playing of Satyagraha, which annoyed him. He’d been telling her about the opera and Mohandas Gandhi’s influence on the composer; how “Satyagraha” was the name Gandhi had given to his nonviolent resistance movement; and how Glass’s first opera, Einstein on the Beach, had been a success but had left the composer broke and driving a New York City taxi. He wanted to tell her these things—educate her—but she’d nodded off on his shoulder. He especially enjoyed the opera’s final scene and wanted her to appreciate it with him, but she was long gone, her small guttural sounds in his ear not enhancing the musical score.
She was wide-awake, though, once they’d undressed and were beneath the sheets, skin to skin, electrical pulses jumping the gaps, male and female sounds of sexual bliss creating their own aria.
“Good morning,” she said now, propping a pillow behind her and pulling the sheet up over her breasts.
“Good morning. Sleep well?”
“Very. You?”
“Yeah, fine
She smiled and motioned with her index finger for him to join her in bed.
“Love to,” he said, standing and tightening the robe’s sash, “but I have to get to an early appointment downtown. Sorry. We must do this again sometime
She showered first. When he emerged from the bathroom, she was dressed and watching the news on TV.
“Can you believe it?” she said. “Terrorists are planning to kill American big shots, maybe even the president
Pawkins stood behind her and watched the TV report. An anonymous but “highly placed” source in the government’s intelligence apparatus had leaked the news of al-Qaeda’s alleged plan to assassinate American political leaders. The reporter, whose breathlessness was a little too over-the-top, continued the story as BREAKING NEWS flashed at the bottom of the screen. Everything these days on cable news shows seemed to be “breaking news
“Intercepts of terrorist chatter have, according to this highly credible source, indicated that al-Qaeda and affiliated terrorist groups have decided to forgo large, spectacular targets like September eleven and focus on symbolic assassinations of American political leaders. In addition—and this has not been confirmed—there appears to be a connection between al-Qaeda and unspecified Jihadist cells in Canada. Stay tuned for further developments as they unfold
“You’d never think Canada would be involved,” she said as Pawkins used the remote to turn off the television. “They’re our friends
“He didn’t say Canada was involved,” Pawkins said. “And there’re terrorist groups in every nation in the world. Come on, I’m running late
He drove her to her apartment building, where a chaste kiss on the cheek sent her from the car. “I’ll call,” he said, not sure he would. No pox on her. She was attractive and sexy, aside from short fingers, and their bedtime tussle had been satisfactory.
But at the moment he had other, more pressing things on his mind. He had work to do.
He’d called a friend in Toronto a few days ago, a private detective for whom he’d done a few favors over the years, including having rescued a small Raphael still life that had been stolen from a Canadian collector, who’d hired Pawkins’ Toronto buddy to get it back. The thief, a barbarian with no appreciation of art, had cut the painting from its frame on the wall, which in Pawkins’ mind raised the crime to a capital offense, punishable by lethal injection. Pawkins traced the painting to a fat cat in Bethesda known to have a particular fondness for Raphael. Pawkins confronted the Bethesda collector and cut a deal: Give back the painting or face jail time. He delivered the work to his Toronto colleague and split a hefty fee with him. Of course, this was after Pawkins had retired from the MPD. It would have been a dicey deal had he still