Margaret Truman - Murder at the Opera

Homeland Security Chief Wilbur Murtaugh was rousted out of bed, briefed, and held a hastily convened press conference: “This was obviously an orchestrated terrorist attack on leading public officials,” he said. “Our hearts go out to Congressman Chapman’s family. He was a dedicated public servant, gunned down in the prime of his life. Fortunately, the President and Mrs. Montgomery were saved through the actions of the heroic men and women charged with protecting them. The gunman is in custody and being questioned as we speak. I can offer no further information about him at this time. The two men whose attempt on the life of Denver ’s mayor was thwarted by authorities are also in custody. Congressman Chapman’s killer remains at large. The threat meter has been elevated to Red-Two, and will remain at that level for the foreseeable future. Thank you. I’m not taking any questions at this time.”

The president’s press secretary’s statement from the White House said only that the president and first lady were fine, and expressed their heartfelt condolences to Congressman Chapman’s family.

Mac and Annabel sat quietly in front of the television and allowed the journalists’ words from its speakers to come and go. Finally, at two, they turned off the set and went to bed, as stunned and angry as the rest of America.

The phone in their apartment rang incessantly the following morning, the calls a combination of questions and theories about the thwarted assassination attempt on the president and first lady, and the one against the congressman that had succeeded, others rehashing the ball’s success. It had raised more money for the Washington National Opera than any previous Opera Ball. Bad news with good news, the bitter with the sweet.

At eleven, Mac and Annabel took their car from the underground garage-the parking spot had added $35,000 to the condo’s sale price-and drove to Great Falls, where they found Pawkins’ home. He was in front hauling bulging green leaf bags to the garage. An odd sight.

“Welcome,” he announced grandly. “Come on in. Onion soup, a salad, and the best French bread in D.C. is on the menu.”

They entered the house. “Get over last night?” he asked.

“It’s not something you get over,” Annabel said, “at least not this soon.”

“We live in perilous times,” Pawkins said. “Might as well get used to it. Nothing new on the news. Just confusion. Come, take a tour of the old homestead.”

They ended in his elaborate study, where the strains of an opera-Death in Venice by Benjamin Britten, he explained-poured out of speakers. “Britten wrote it for his lover of many years, Peter Pears. That’s Pears singing the title role.”

They gravitated to the kitchen, where Pawkins had set a long table of antique French pine. A vase of freshly cut flowers dominated the middle.

“A drink to celebrate?” he asked. “Bloody Marys are mixed and ready to go.”

“I don’t think a celebration is in order, Ray,” Mac said.

“I disagree, Mac. Tosca is a smashing success. Last night’s Opera Ball raised a ton of money and is still D.C.’s social highlight. We lost a congressman, but the president emerges unscathed. And I am about to embark on a new phase of life.”

Pawkins poured drinks whether they wanted them or not, and joined them at the table. He raised his glass in a toast. “To all things good, Mr. and Mrs. Smith.” One of the cats jumped up on the table, and Pawkins shooed him down. “All right,” he said, smacking his hands together as though cueing someone, in this case himself. “One, I did not murder Aaron Musinski.”

“We know that,” Mac said.

“Oh? How?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I knew it was Grimes from the beginning. So, my friends, your assumption that I did in the crotchety old bastard was wrong, terribly wrong. Frankly, I’m hurt that you would even think me capable of such a thing.”

“It wasn’t an unreasonable possibility,” Mac said, “considering what Josephson told us. Now we know differently.”

“I would certainly hope you do, and an apology is in order.”

Annabel ignored his call for them to apologize. “What about the Mozart-Haydn scores? Did you take them? Josephson claims you did. He had an impressive array of evidence to back up his accusation.”

“Of course I took them. Everything he told you about that is true.”

His easy admission of guilt silenced Mac and Annabel.

“You look shocked,” Pawkins said. “I can’t imagine why, a pair of worldly people like you. I spent twenty years with MPD, watching my fellow officers steal whenever it was convenient. They’d do a drug bust where a hundred packets of crack were found. How many were reported? Eighty? Ninety? The rest were sold to the same drug dealers who were busted and who walked, thanks to our screwed-up legal system.”

“Are you justifying what you did because of what others have done?” Annabel asked.

“You bet I am,” Pawkins said without hesitation. “I never did any of that. Steal drugs to put a few bucks in my pocket? Disgusting. I was a straight arrow, a complicit one maybe, looking the other way when my colleagues crossed the line. And do you know what? I never really blamed them. Cops don’t make a lot of money for putting their lives on the line every day to keep fat cats like you and the rest of official Washington safe from the bad guys. How much did you rake in, Mac, when you were defending the scum of the earth?”

“That misses the point,” Mac said. “And don’t broad brush your fellow cops, Ray. Most of them are honest, and you know it.”

Pawkins sat back and slowly shook his head. “How could you ever have thought I’d killed Musinski? Why would I have? I didn’t know he had those manuscripts. He’d come back from Europe with them only a few days before. No, I just happened upon them while I was spending time in the house trying to figure out who’d killed him. There they were, in his briefcase. They looked valuable, but I couldn’t be sure. I took them and had them authenticated by a source in Paris. He put me on to a collector named Saibrón, who gladly coughed up a half mil for them, which I graciously accepted. Everybody was happy, including yours truly. Nobody got hurt. I got paid enough to live decently. I took care of that whining little creep, Josephson. He’ll have enough to live happily ever after in some British old folks’ home. Saibrón made a profit, and the guy he sold the scores to can sit every night and drool over them. Everybody’s a winner.”

“A lot of people got hurt,” Annabel said, “and nobody won. Dr. Musinski’s heirs got hurt. So did the public that might have enjoyed those scores at some credible arts institution. You’re the biggest loser, Ray. You’re as bad as any cop who stole drugs from a dealer and sold them for a profit. Interesting that you’ve never once used the word ‘stole.’”

“Want me to?” Pawkins said. “I stole them. Feel better?”

“I’d like to go, Mac,” Annabel said.

“And miss lunch? I make a dynamite onion soup.”

“In a minute, Annie,” Mac said. To Pawkins: “Doesn’t it concern you, Ray, that you’re sitting here and openly confessing to us that you committed a major felony?”

“Why should it? What are you going to do, run to Carl Berry at MPD and tell him what I just told you? You don’t have any proof, unless you have a tape recorder going, which I seriously doubt. They’ll laugh you out of the place, Mac. I’m a retired Homicide detective. I left the force with honors, enough citations to cover a wall. Besides, defense lawyers like you aren’t the most popular people with cops.”