Free Murder at the Opera by Margaret Truman

He’s in the next show.”
    “He sings, too?” Sylvia Johnson said.
    “An extra, a spear carrier,” said Berry. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll go his way and we’ll go ours. The deceased had a roommate, another student from the school.” He consulted his notes. “Name’s Christopher Warren, a piano player. Start with him, Willie. See where he was last night, try to get a handle on his relationship with her. Maybe they were more than roommates. Ask him about any guys she might have been involved with.” He handed Portelain an address. “Carlos was there at Warren’s last night with two evidence techs. They cleaned the place.”
    Portelain nodded.
    “Sylvia, get together with somebody from that program she was in at the Washington Opera. The…” He consulted his notes again. “Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program. Get an idea of what she was like, who she hung out with, other singers who might have been jealous of her, stuff like that. Maybe somebody doesn’t like Asian-Canadians who hit the high notes. Or miss them. I’ll get a rundown from the ME on the sponge used to plug the wound.”
    “And we canvas every store that sells sponges,” Portelain said. “Shouldn’t take us more than a couple a years.”
    Berry ignored him. “I’m meeting the parents in an hour. We’ll hook up back here at two—unless you get lucky.”
    He heard Johnson ask Portelain on their way from the room, “Can they pull prints from a sponge?”
    “Hell, no. What are you doin’ for dinner tonight? I found this great new ribs joint that serves…”
    Berry smiled and shook his head. Maybe his father was right, he should have gone into investment banking, or become a lawyer. Too late for that now, he thought, which didn’t dismay him. Carl Berry loved being a cop. Just that simple.
     

     
    The assistant medical examiner assigned to autopsy Charise Lee’s body had just completed that task and was relaxing in his office with coffee and a raspberry turnover when Ray Pawkins called his office.
    “Hello, stranger,” the ME said. His name was, fittingly, Les Cutter. Everyone thought it was a joke when first introduced to him. “How’s retirement?”
    “Wonderful,” Pawkins said. “I never knew I could be so busy. Hear you got the opera singer case.”
    “What a wonderful town this is,” Cutter said. “‘My secrets cry aloud, I have no need for tongue. My heart keeps an open house, my doors are widely flung.’”
    “Nice,” Pawkins said. “Who wrote it?”
    “I forget. What can I do for you, my friend?”
    “Tell me about the sponge you found in the deceased’s chest.”
    “How did you know about that?”
    “‘My secrets cry aloud, I have no need for’—the story’s around. What kind of sponge is it?”
    “It’s a sponge, Ray.”
    “Like I have on my kitchen sink?”
    Cutter paused. “As a matter of fact, the answer is no. It’s different than that.”
    “When can I see it?”
    “You can’t. It’s evidence.”
    “I never would have guessed that. I’m working the case.”
    “You retired.”
    “Not as a PI. The good folks over at the Washington Opera have hired me to look into it. I won’t touch. I just want to see.”
    “No can do,” Cutter said, taking a final bite of turnover and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s already with the evidence techs.”
    “You have a picture, of course,” Pawkins said.
    “Of course. More than one.”
    “Make a print for me, Les?”
    Cutter exhaled loudly, which made his point better than any words could have.
    “Les? I’ll owe you.”
    “Maybe.”
    “That’s all I can ask. Here’s my address.” He gave the ME a post-office box number in downtown D.C. “I know you’re busy, Les, but take a minute to describe it for me. How big. Usual kitchen-sponge size?”
    “Bigger, Ray. Not square like kitchen sponges. Round.”
    “Is that so? Color?”
    “White, but discolored.”
    “How so?”
    “A cream-colored stain. The sponge has