“Laurie is right,” Frazier said. “I know it’s a temptation to respond to reporters’ questions, but it’s in our best interest not to. Unless anyone has something to add, let’s move on to the second item on the agenda, the Opera Ball.”

Webster excused herself: “I’d better get back to my office. Media calls were piling up when I left.”

The Opera Ball chairwoman, Nicki Frolich, was next to address the gathering. It had occurred to Annabel more than once that if it had been twenty or thirty years ago, it was unlikely she would have been asked to join the Opera Ball committee. Back then, the women who led such highly visible fundraising efforts, known as “Ladies of the Balls,” were for the most part the wives of wealthy men who not only had the time, their husbands’ business connections generated large donations of money and services. But as more women entered the workplace, the number of wives available, or interested in such activities, diminished, and committees for premiere events like the Opera Ball, the National Symphony Orchestra Ball, the Corcoran Ball, and dozens of smaller social events drew from a less wealthy and socially connected corps of Washington women. Not that Annabel Lee-Smith wasn’t an active member of the city’s social scene. She and Mac were involved in a number of artistic and professional organizations, and if not on the A-list of party invitees, they had their share of invitations to events that were covered in the Post’s Style section.

Frolich, whose husband was one of the area’s best-known plastic surgeons, was experienced at spearheading big-ticket fundraisers, despite her relatively young age (no one except those who needed to know knew for certain how old she was, although the consensus was that her fiftieth birthday was still to be celebrated). Five feet, four inches tall, she gave the appearance of being taller by the way she held herself. Her silver-blond hair was styled short, with chunky highlights and short layers to make her seem taller, and to elongate her round face. Her energy level was capable of fatiguing marathoners, her smile wide, white, and genuine. She ran the committee as though it were a Fortune 500 company, and Annabel didn’t doubt that should the doctor’s wife have chosen to build a business career, she would have shattered the glass ceiling into many pieces.

Frolich concluded her status report by saying, “As Bill said, we mustn’t allow the tragedy of Ms. Lee’s death to derail our efforts to make this year’s Ball the biggest and best ever, to say nothing of the most profitable.” She spoke directly to Annabel and another woman who was on her committee. “We’ll be meeting with the full Ball staff at eleven. You’ll excuse me. I have an appointment with the florist.”

Frazier went through the remaining items on the agenda. The final notation was Internal Investigation. “Those of you at the emergency meeting last night are aware that we’ve decided to conduct our own investigation into Ms. Lee’s death. One of the supers in Tosca, a…” He looked to Annabel.

“Pawkins,” Annabel filled in. “Raymond Pawkins. He’s a retired MPD homicide detective, as well as an opera lover.”

“I know him,” said the woman in charge of WNO’s development program. “He has season tickets, has had them for years. He’s a charming man.”

“Yes, isn’t he?” Annabel said.

Frazier broke into their conversation. “Camile will coordinate with Annabel on the arrangements to be made with Mr. Pawkins.” He was referring to Camile Worthington, who headed up the board’s executive committee, and who’d called Annabel at the Watergate to tell her about the emergency meeting. They agreed to meet privately once this meeting was concluded.

Frazier concluded by saying, “I hope what Laurie said will be heeded. We don’t need the press twisting what any of us say, and that includes the use of this detective to help us investigate internally. Anything else?”

Annabel and Camile adjoined to a small office adjacent to the conference room.

“When can we get together with Mr. Perkins?” she asked.

“It’s Pawkins,” Annabel corrected. “I don’t know, but I can call Mac on his cell. Maybe they’re still together.”

Mac and Pawkins were in the middle of breakfast when his cell phone rang.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Annabel said. “I’m here with Camile Worthington. She’s wondering when she and others can get together with Mr. Pawkins.”

She heard Mac confer with Pawkins. “Ray says he’s free all day.”

“This afternoon at WNO headquarters? Say two?” was Annabel’s suggestion.

Another confab between the men. “We’ll be there,” said Mac.

Annabel found it interesting that her husband would be with Pawkins at the meeting. She knew he had a break in his teaching schedule while his students studied for final exams. Still, it was an indication that he would do what she suspected, take a more active part in the investigation than his protest had promised. His tendency to warm up slowly to something new wasn’t a matter of being difficult. Mackensie Smith was simply a man who didn’t leap into strange waters without first testing their depth and temperature. Like any good lawyer.

Mac and Pawkins were finishing their coffee. Mac had dressed casually in response to the hot weather that was pressing down on the city. He was in chino slacks, a tangerine-colored polo shirt, and sneakers. Pawkins, on the other hand, seemed impervious to the heat and humidity. He wore a beautifully tailored, blue poplin suit, a pale cream shirt, and a tie with a graphic of the Mona Lisa on its blue field. The air-conditioning in the restaurant was barely keeping up with the discomforting weather, and Mac dabbed at perspiration on his forehead from time to time. Pawkins never broke a sweat; Mac thought of the E. G. Marshall character in the film Twelve Angry Men.

“Where do you live, Ray?” Smith asked.

“ Great Falls.”

Mac’s eyebrows went up. “Lovely area,” he said.

“How does a retired cop live in such a high-rent district?” Pawkins said. “I fell into it. I rented a gatehouse for years owned by a wealthy real estate guy. He decided to sell and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Actually, it’s pretty modest, although I’ve put in some improvements. How do you like living in the Watergate?”

“We’re very happy there.”

“That’s what counts.”

“You said last night that something had been wedged into the wound to stop the bleeding. Any idea what it was?”

“A sponge.”

“Oh? I had the feeling that you didn’t know what it was.”

“I didn’t. I called Carl Berry this morning before meeting with you. He’s lead on the case.”

“You work fast.”

“The faster the better where homicide is concerned. Carl is a good guy, a straight shooter, at least with me.”

“You told him you were investigating for the opera company?”

Pawkins nodded.

“I imagine the powers-that-be there would prefer to keep it sub rosa,” Smith said.

“To the extent that it can be. I’ll need MPD cooperation, at least unofficially.” He pushed back his chair, cocked his head, and grinned. “A sponge,” he said. “Now, who would have access to a sponge on an empty stage at the Kennedy Center?”

“I have a feeling you’ll answer that question.”

“That’s my intention.” Pawkins motioned for the check.

They parted on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant and agreed to meet at the Opera’s administrative offices at two. As they shook hands, Mac laughed.

“What’s funny?” Pawkins asked.

“We spent an entire breakfast without any references from you to operas and opera singers.”

“Deliberately,” Pawkins said. “I sensed your discomfort when I fell into my habit of relating everything to opera. I promise to curb the temptation. Looking forward to working with you, Mac. It’s nice to be walking on the winning side of the street.”