Read Online Murder at the Opera by Margaret Truman - Free Book Online Page B

childhood. She’d been pursuing a degree in criminal justice since arriving, which struck Portelain as “pretty damn dumb.”
    “What are you goin’ to do with that degree, lady?” he grumbled each time she spoke of her studies. “Won’t do you a damn bit a good. You want to get ahead here, sleep with somebody. That’s the only way a chick as black as you is goin’ to get anywhere.”
    To which she replied, “If I do, it won’t be with a gorilla like you, Willie. Nothing a loser like you can do for me.” He’d laugh, a deep rumble, his feelings seemingly impervious to being hurt. Nor did her put-downs discourage him from making repeated passes at her, which were both annoying and strangely flattering. Although Willie didn’t represent genuine allure to Sylvia, and his persistent negativity was potentially catching, she liked him and enjoyed working cases with him. He could be a good cop when he chose to be.
    “What’ve we got?” Sylvia asked Carl Berry.
    He slid a folder across the table to her. “Asian victim, twenty-eight, female, Canadian, stabbed in the chest at the Kennedy Center. Was an opera singer, studying with the folks over at the Washington Opera.”
    “They had more information than that on TV,” Portelain said in a voice that resembled an idling engine on a motor boat, low and throaty.
    “There’s more, Willie,” Berry said. Although younger than Portelain, and college educated, he knew he had the detective’s respect. He opened a second folder and displayed its contents on the tabletop, which included photographs taken at the crime scene.
    “She was a little thing, huh?” Portelain said. “I always thought opera singers were big and fat.”
    Johnson didn’t say what she was thinking. If being big and fat was the only criterion to be an opera singer, Willie Portelain had a new career to look forward to.
    The female detective held one of the color prints at arm’s length. “What is it, a sponge?”
    “Right,” said Berry. “The ME’s office sent this one over with the rest of the initial autopsy photos.”
    She studied it for a moment before saying, “This sponge was found in the wound?”
    “Right again.”
    “The dude who did the deed was a pro,” Portelain said.
    “Or a damn talented amateur, the son-of-a-bitch,” said Berry. “Either of you ever see something like this before?”
    They shook their heads.
    “Crocker was with me last night at the scene,” Berry said, “but he’s been pulled to work a drive-by in Southwest. Looks like the three of us caught this one.”
    “Opera, huh?” Portelain said, tossing the photos he’d been examining onto the table, like a poker player folding his hand. He yawned loudly and scratched the back of his head. “These opera types are strange, man,” he said. “You ever been to one?”
    Johnson was still busy looking at the photographs and didn’t respond, but Berry said, “A couple of times. Not my thing. I’m a Steely Dan and Pink Floyd guy, but I kind of enjoyed it. Hey, by the way, guess who’s also working the case.”
    Portelain looked up at Berry through thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “Who?”
    “Ray Pawkins.”
    It was a duet from Portelain and Johnson: “Pawkins?”
    “He’s retired, man,” Portelain said.
    “He’s coming back?” Johnson asked.
    “No,” Berry replied, “he’s working as a PI for the Washington Opera.”
    “He’s a fruitcake,” Portelain said, chuckling.
    “Ray is—was—a good detective,” Berry said. “Damn good.”
    “Why is the Opera hiring a private eye?” Johnson asked.
    “I spoke to Ray,” said Berry. “According to him, the Opera board wants to resolve it themselves. I told him we’d work with him, within limits.”
    “Ray Pawkins, huh?” Portelain said, standing and hitching up his trousers. “He was always into opera and stuff like that.”
    “That’s right,” Berry concurred. “He was at the Kennedy Center last night when the victim was discovered.