Free Murder at the Opera by Margaret Truman Page A

some sort of velour on both sides.”
    “I definitely owe you. Looking forward to the photo. Everything good with you and the family?”
    “Everything’s fine. I have to go.”
    “You’re my favorite ME, Les. Ciao! ”
    Pawkins had parked his car near the restaurant where he and Smith breakfasted. He’d made the call to Les Cutter from his cell phone in the front seat of his Mercedes. Now he paid the parking fee and headed across the Anacostia River to the District’s Southeast quadrant, where he found a metered spot on Eighth Street. After taking a moment to decide whether he’d parked the car in a relatively safe place, he walked up the street and entered a shop bearing the sign BACKSTAGE INC . A woman greeted him and asked what he was looking for.
    “Just a sponge,” he said. “A makeup sponge.”
    “We have a variety of them,” she said, offering him a tray on which assorted sponges were neatly arranged. “We have Ben Nye, Kryolan—”
    He picked one up from the tray and examined it. “Is this the largest you have?” he asked.
    “Yes. It’s over three inches. It’s velour, perfect for applying foundation quickly to large areas.”
    He nodded. “How much?”
    “Seven dollars.”
    He paid her in cash, left, climbed into his car, and took the sponge from its paper bag, holding it at various angles. He formed a small circle with the index finger and thumb of his left hand, wadded up the sponge in his right, and wedged it into the circle. He glanced in the rearview mirror. A group of teenagers with overalls hanging low and wearing baseball hats at various angles swaggered along the cracked sidewalk in his direction, laughing loudly and punching one another. Pawkins started the engine, reached beneath his seat, and withdrew a licensed 9mm Glock, which he placed next to him on the passenger seat, his right hand resting easily on it. The group stopped abreast of the car. One of them leaned over and asked, “What’s up, man? You looking for something?”
    “No,” Pawkins answered.
    “Those are some wheels, man,” another member of the gang said. He came around the back of the car and placed his hand on the open window on Pawkins’ side.
    “Get your hand off,” Pawkins said quietly.
    The youth pulled back his hand and said, “Oh, I’m sorry, mister.” With that, he put his hand there again.
    Pawkins lifted the Glock from the seat and held it inches from the young man’s face. The teenager raised both hands and backed away. One of his friends saw the gun from the sidewalk side and said, “Man’s crazy. Hey, no offense, man.”
    Pawkins watched them move quickly down the street and disappear around a corner. He replaced the Glock beneath the seat, raised the window, turned the AC on full blast, and pulled away, thinking as he did of John Dillinger’s alleged comment, Kindness and a gun will get you further than kindness alone.
    “How true,” he said aloud, and laughed.

 

    TEN

    W illie Portelain stopped for a slice of pepperoni pizza on his way to interview Charise Lee’s roommate. Although he’d eaten a big breakfast only two hours earlier—eggs over easy, well-done sausage, hash browns, and whole wheat toast—he was hungry almost as soon as he’d finished that first meal of the day. His prodigious appetite was a running joke among colleagues and friends. Some suggested he cut down on his intake and drop some weight. “Body needs fuel,” he’d answer, “like a car or plane. My body tells me what it wants, I don’t argue with it.”
    “As long as he doesn’t have to chase some perp on foot,” other detectives said behind his back, laughing at that visual. Willie would have agreed with them. His greatest fear when on duty was to be called upon to run after someone.
    The apartment shared by Charise and Warren was on N Street, between Logan and Thomas circles. Once an elegant enclave of Richardsonian and Victorian townhouses, it had deteriorated over the years into a troubled