Readers of the Washington Post and viewers of TV news shows the following morning learned that the President’s poll numbers had dropped to their lowest point ever; that Iran had dispatched a team of diplomats to Iraq to help that country establish a fundamentalist government; that scientists had definitively linked the continuing increase in the number of hurricanes to global warming; and that a Canadian opera singer, enrolled in the Washington National Opera’s Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program, had been found dead in the Kennedy Center the previous night.

The front-page article in the Post reported that the corpse was that of Charise Lee, a twenty-eight-year-old female voice student from Toronto. Her body was found in a secluded area of the Kennedy Center and was being treated as a possible homicide. Her family had been notified and was en route to Washington from Toronto. No further details were available, according to a police spokesman. An investigation was under way.

The article was clearly written without a great deal of hard information to go on. A paragraph, lifted from a WNO press release, described the Young Artist Program. William Frazier, chairman of WNO’s board, who was reached at home, stated, “Naturally, all of us at the Washington National Opera are shocked and saddened by this terrible event. Ms. Lee was a young singer of extraordinary talent, whose star in opera was bright. Our hearts go out to her family.”

It was a little before seven in Mac and Annabel’s Watergate apartment. Sleep hadn’t come easily. Annabel had finally given up at four and tried to take her mind off the murder by going to the library and reading a book purported to be funny but wasn’t, at least not in her current mood. Mac joined her at five.

“Mr. Pawkins agreed to investigate on behalf of the company?” Annabel asked when he’d settled next to her on the couch. She knew the answer but was in need of confirmation, or starting the conversation.

“Right. And he doesn’t want to be paid. He says it’ll be his gift to the opera.”

“That’s so generous. What else did he say?”

“I don’t remember. He likes tossing out opera references, maybe to test me. I failed. I’m meeting him for breakfast.”

“Oh? Why?”

“He wants to bounce things off me.”

“I thought…”

“I don’t mind being a sounding board. It won’t go further than that.”

She sat back and closed her eyes.

“You’re in your thinking mode,” he said.

She came forward and faced him. “It had to be someone connected with the opera, Mac. That’s the only logical explanation.”

“Not necessarily.”

“How many people had access to the Opera House last night?”

“More than you realize. Lots of people work at the Kennedy Center who have nothing to do with the opera company, stagehands for the other theaters, back-office people, restaurant workers. Besides, I’m sure you’ve noticed those gaping loading doors for each theater in the complex. They’re left wide open when sets are being moved in and out. Not hard for someone to slip inside.”

“I wonder if she was seeing someone romantically.”

“If she was, he’ll be the first to be questioned. What I’m wondering is how Pawkins will go about investigating. At least having been a cop will help avoid ruffling feathers at MPD.”

“He won’t have any official status,” Annabel said.

“He will with your opera people. If you’re right-that it was someone involved with the opera-he’ll probably have better access to them than the cops will.”

He got off the couch, turned on CNN, mounted a stationary bike, and started peddling. “What’s on your agenda today?” he asked.

“Meetings. I’m on the Opera Ball committee. It’ll be here before we know it.”

“The murder will take some of the gloss off.”

“I hope not. It’s our biggest fund-raiser. I think it’s shaping up beautifully. Which reminds me, it’s black tie. You might want to pull out your tux and try it on.”

He stopped peddling. “Are you suggesting it might not fit me as well as the last time I wore it?”

“Of course not. I just thought it might need cleaning or some minor…adjustments.” She, too, stood. “Shower time. Put on the coffee?”

“My pleasure. I’ll need the car.”

“No problem. I won’t need it today.”

Annabel’s first meeting of the day was at WNO’s administrative offices at 2600 Virginia Avenue, NW, the Watergate office building in which the infamous Watergate break-in took place, and across from what used to be a Holiday Inn. Not exactly a holiday, it had served as a staging area for Nixon’s bungling burglars. As Annabel started up the stairs leading to the main entrance, Genevieve Crier burst through the doors.

“Good morning, Annabel,” the energetic supers’ coordinator chirped. “Can you believe it actually happened? I mean, right there in the Kennedy Center. I didn’t sleep a wink. Poor girl. I ache for her parents.”

“I know,” said Annabel. “Has the meeting started? I’m a little late.”

“No, but they’re gathering. Did you speak with your husband about Mr. Pawkins?”

“Mac spoke with him last night. He’s agreed to lend a hand. They’re having breakfast as we speak.”

“Splendid.”

“Won’t you be at the meeting?”

“Afraid not. Other fires to put out this morning. I’d better get on my horse. Later, Annabel.”

As Annabel again made for the doors, she noticed a TV remote truck parked across the street. A mini-van with THE WASHINGTON TIMES on its side occupied a space a few feet from it. They’re not here to do a retrospective on the Watergate break-in, Annabel thought as she entered the building and checked in with the first-floor receptionist.

A dozen men and women were milling about the large, second-floor conference room when Annabel entered. Chairman Frazier, a compact man who moved with the assurance of a top business leader-he’d made his millions providing state-of-the-art surveillance equipment to the Justice Department-greeted her. “Glad you could make it,” he said. He lowered his voice. “Did your husband speak with the private investigator?”

“Yes,” Annabel said. “He’s willing to help us, at no charge.”

“Does that mean he won’t give us his full attention?”

“I only know that Mac called him last night, and Mr. Pawkins agreed to work with us. Mac is having breakfast with him this morning, and I’m sure he’ll ascertain his degree of involvement.”

“Fine,” said Frazier. “We’d better get started.”

He had trouble establishing order. Everyone in the room was discussing Charise Lee’s death and resisted his repeated requests that they take their seats. When they finally did, he indicated a printed agenda at each place. First on the list was “Charise Lee.”

“I’m not suggesting that we spend much time discussing what happened at the Kennedy Center last night,” Frazier said, “except to say that we mustn’t allow it to impede progress on other fronts. Naturally, our hearts go out to Ms. Lee’s family and friends and we’ll do everything we can to help them cope with this tragedy. But we have the opening of Tosca, the marketing of future productions-there are some problems with Andrea Chénier-and, of course, there’s the ball. Before I get to that, I know that Laurie has something to say.”

Laurie Webster, WNO’s public relations director, said, “The media is all over this story, and it will only get worse. That a murder occurred at all is horrible. That the victim was one of our most promising students is tragic. What is important from our point of view is that we speak with one, unified voice, and that voice will be me and my staff. I urge all of you to resist media pressure to comment on last night, and to refer any press inquiries to my office.”