Free Murder at the Opera by Margaret Truman Page B

neighborhood, until a determined gentrification was launched. Still, it was one of those D.C. areas best avoided late at night.
    The apartment was on the ground floor of a four-story gray stucco building, its windows covered by heavy, black wrought-iron bars. A warning label affixed to one of the windows proclaimed that the premises were protected by an alarm company. Portelain read it and grinned. The decal was store bought, just a piece of paper, not connected with any alarm company that he’d ever heard of.
    He stood at the front door and took in his immediate surroundings. Not a bad block, he thought. He’d been on worse ones. He remained standing there, not attempting to enter the building, formulating the questions he would ask. Satisfied that he’d mentally covered all the bases, he leaned close to a panel on which the building’s flats were listed, pushed the buzzer next to WARREN / LEE , and heard it sound inside.
    “Yes?” a tinny male voice said through the small speaker.
    “Police,” Portelain announced. “I’m here to talk to Mr. Christopher Warren.”
    “He’s not here.”
    “Who are you?”
    “Who did you say you were?”
    “Detective Portelain, First District Homicide.” Despite the official change of nomenclature from Homicide to Crimes Again Persons, no cop used the new term.
    “Just a minute,” the voice from inside said. A minute later the harsh sound of the metal lock being disengaged prompted the detective to push through the now unlocked door and go to the apartment. He knocked. No one responded. He knocked again. Someone on the other side of the door coughed. Willie’s fist was raised for yet another assault on the door when it opened.
    Facing him was a man of medium height with a puffy face the color of bleached flour. His hair was brown bordering on blond, with long strands hanging limply over his ears and neck. He wore a rumpled tan summer suit over a pink polo shirt, and sandals.
    “Detective Portelain,” Willie said, showing his badge.
    The man nodded. “You’re here to see Chris. He’s not here. He’s—”
    “I’m here about what happened last night at the Kennedy Center,” Portelain said. “You are?”
    “I’m Chris’ agent. Charise’s agent, too, until this happened. God, what a shock.”
    “You mind if I come in?” Portelain asked.
    “No, of course not.” He stepped aside to allow the lumbering detective to enter the small living room, which seemed even smaller when preempted by Willie’s large body. As he surveyed the room, Portelain asked, “When is Mr. Warren coming back?”
    “I don’t know. He’s playing a rehearsal at Takoma Park.”
    “I didn’t catch your name,” Portelain said, pulling out a notebook and pen.
    “Melincamp. Philip Melincamp.”
    “You knew the deceased pretty well,” Willie said.
    “Yes, of course. A good agent knows his clients. At least he’d better.” He made a sound that passed for a laugh.
    “You, ah, you live here in D.C.?”
    “No. Toronto. My agency is in Toronto. Charise and Chris are both from there.”
    “You’re visiting.”
    “Yes.”
    “Mr. Warren, he’s a piano player.”
    “He’s a pianist. A very fine one.”
    “I don’t see a piano here.”
    Melincamp sighed. “I was lucky to find this apartment for them, with or without a piano. He does all his practicing at Takoma Park.”
    “Uh-huh.” Portelain noted the agent’s comment. “His roommate gets killed and he’s off playing for some rehearsal?”
    “He didn’t want to, but I encouraged him. There was nothing to be gained by staying here. Music would be an escape from this dreadful thing that’s happened.”
    “Mind if I sit?” Portelain asked. “My back’s been acting up.”
    “No, of course not.”
    Melincamp removed a pile of sheet music from a well-worn, once-red love seat and motioned for the detective to sit. The couch’s cushions looked soft and puffy. Willie hesitated. He’d have trouble getting up from them, he