Murder at the Opera Read Online Free PDF Page B

in certain areas to avoid low-hanging wires and other backstage paraphernalia. Eventually, they emerged into a round space approximately thirty feet in diameter. Thick spools of cable and rope were neatly lined up along one arc of the circle. In the center, on the cold, bare, gray concrete floor, was the body. A uniformed Kennedy Center security officer stood a dozen feet from the deceased, his body language saying that to get any closer would infect him with a disease, or perhaps wake the girl from her nap.
    Pawkins went directly to the body. He brushed away unseen dirt from a small area of the floor, tugged up his pants leg, lowered one knee to that clean spot, and examined the girl more closely. He observed that she was slight in stature and was either Asian or the product of a mixed marriage. She was on her back, her arms folded up, allowing her hands, one atop the other, to rest on her chest. She wore white pants cut off just below her knees—Were they called Capri pants? Pawkins wondered. Her top, made of some silky fabric, was shiny red with the hint of a pattern in the cloth. She wore one shoe; the other foot was bare, toenails the same red as her blouse. A black fanny pack covered her groin.
    Pawkins ignored the first rule of coming upon a homicide scene; make sure that she was dead. No need to check for signs of life. Her eyes were open; the pupils were of different sizes, one of three basic signs of death, along with cessation of breathing and lack of a pulse. He gently tried to move her arm. Stiff as a rake handle. Rigor mortis was complete, although he judged that it might have begun to disappear, which would mean the time of death was at least eighteen hours earlier. Her small, thin body would have hastened the onset of stiffening. He’d seen obese bodies that never did become rigid. He tried to move her arms again and succeeded in lifting them just enough to see what was beneath her clasped hands. “Oh, my,” he muttered to himself. He took a second look. “Hmmm.”
    With Jacoby looking over his shoulder—the Kennedy Center security chief had spent most of his MPD career in a special unit assigned to protect VIPs; murder investigations were foreign to him—Pawkins pulled a notebook and a pen from the inside pocket of his sport jacket, and jotted notes.
    “How’d she die?” Jacoby asked.
    Pawkins stood and continued making notes. “It appears she was stabbed in the chest, judging from that circle of blood beneath her hands. That’s for the ME to decide.”
    Sounds coming from outside the area caused Pawkins to turn and see a pair of uniformed MPD officers and two detectives emerge from the shadows. Pawkins recognized one of the detectives; they’d worked a number of cases together.
    “Hey, Ray,” the familiar one said, breathing heavily and wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “Hell of a climb to get up here.”
    Pawkins nodded.
    “How come you’re here, Ray?”
    “I happened to be downstairs when this gentleman discovered the body.” He indicated the stagehand, who’d joined the original cop at a respectful, safe distance from the body.
    The lead detective was Carl Berry, fifteen years on the force, twelve of them in Homicide—or as it had been renamed by some highly paid consultant, Crimes Against Persons.
    “Nice to see you again, Carl,” Pawkins said, returning the notebook and pen to his jacket. “Stay in touch.”
    “Sure, Ray. I’ll want to get your take on this, you having been here so soon. Any idea who she is?”
    “Her fanny pack probably contains that information.”
    Berry opened the bag and withdrew a wallet, a set of keys, and assorted makeup items. He perused the wallet, looked up, and said, “Her name’s Lee.” He held the card he read from at arm’s length and squinted in the dim light. “Charise Lee.” Consulting another card from the wallet, he said, “Young Artist Program? What’s that?”
    Pawkins sighed. He was very familiar with the Domingo-Cafritz