“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 decided, and remained standing. “When did you arrive in D.C.?” he asked, leaning against a windowsill.

“Yesterday. My partner and I arrived yesterday.”

“You have a partner?”

“Yes.”

“What hotel you staying at?”

“I’m not staying at a hotel. I’m staying here.”

Portelain raised his eyebrows for a sweep of the room. Melincamp grasped what the detective was thinking. “The couch,” he said. “Pulls out into a bed. Charise and Chris each have a bedroom back there.” He pointed to two closed doors off the living room. “Your colleagues-I suppose that’s what they’re called-were here last night and searched the bedrooms. They left a mess.”

“That so?” Portelain said. “Evidence techs are usually pretty neat. You can lodge a complaint.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Your partner staying here, too?”

“No. She prefers a hotel. There’s only room for one of us here.”

Willie’s feet and back were bothering him now and he decided the couch would have to do. He sank into it, struggled to come forward, and managed a position that wasn’t too uncomfortable. “What’s your partner’s name?” He asked.

“Zöe Baltsa.”

He wrote the name in his notebook, spelling it phonetically. “So, tell me, Mr. Melincamp, when was the last time you saw the deceased?”

“She may be dead,” the agent said, “but she still has a name. Ms. Lee, you mean.”

“Okay. Ms. Lee.”

Melincamp said, “I didn’t mean to offend.”

“Takes a lot to offend me,” Portelain said. “Been offended by the best offenders. When you see her last?”

“A week ago.”

“A week ago? You didn’t see her last night? Yesterday?”

“No. Zöe and I arrived yesterday with the intention to spend time with her. Chris was worried. Charise hadn’t shown up in class or for her costume fitting yesterday afternoon. I was worried, too. Looks like I had reason to be.”

Portelain thought for a moment about the questions he’d intended to ask. “Did Ms. Lee and her roommate, this guy Chris, have more of a relationship than just sharing an apartment?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, were they boyfriend and girlfriend?”

Melincamp guffawed. “Of course not. They were both focused on their careers. Chris aspires to become an accompanist for singers. He’s remarkably talented. Charise had the whole world in front of her. My God, what magnificent music came from that little girl. I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years as a singer’s agent.”

“What about other guys? She must have had boyfriends.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Melincamp responded.

“Sure you would,” Portelain said. “Like you told me, a good agent gets to know his clients real well.”

“There are limits,” Melincamp said. “I don’t pry into their private lives.”

Portelain jotted nonsense in his notebook, not because he needed a written record of what was said, but because he was deciding where to next take the conversation. He looked up at Melincamp. “I’d like to see her bedroom,” he said.

“Why? They were all over it last night.”

“Indulge me,” said Portelain, getting up with an audible “Oomph.”

Melincamp pointed to one of the closed doors. “In there. That was her room.”

Portelain opened Ms. Lee’s bedroom door and observed without entering. It was a tiny space. A single twin bed took up one half. He noted that the bed was stripped, probably by the evidence techs, who would want the sheets and pillowcase for analysis. He stepped inside, and banged his shin against the bed’s footboard, eliciting a burst of four-letter words under his breath. A small, white dresser was against the wall. He opened its drawers. Empty. He turned and looked at the opposite wall, on which opera posters were attached with pushpins. He recognized one name, La Boheme.

“Anything else?” Melincamp asked from the doorway.

“No, that’s about it,” Portelain said. “I’d like to talk to your partner, and Mr. Warren.” He handed Melincamp his card. “Have them call me to set up an interview.”

“All right,” the agent said, “although I assure you, they know nothing that would be of help to you.”

Portelain ignored the disclaimer, thanked Melincamp for his time, and returned to his car, parked a half block away. He squeezed behind the wheel and made further notes before turning the ignition and pulling into traffic. It was almost eleven, which posed a dilemma. He was hungry, but wanted to wait until noon-conventional lunchtime-before eating again. Stopped at a light, he opened the glove compartment, found a Snickers bar, and savored it.

Sylvia Johnson extracted cash from an ATM before heading for Takoma Park. Dressed in tight, cream-colored slacks, a cinnamon T-shirt, a rust-colored button-down shirt worn loose and open, and black pumps, she garnered her usual number of turned male heads as she walked down the street and entered the bank. Her ebony coloring-face, body, and hair-was exotic, memorable, and altogether stunning. She walked with purpose, long-legged strides, head held regally, a woman to be reckoned with, a splendid specimen. She’d once been approached by a photographer who’d spotted her at a Maryland beach and wanted to feature her in a Playboy spread. She declined, not because of modesty or morality, but for three more pragmatic reasons: her mother would be horrified; MPD brass wouldn’t be pleased; and she didn’t want her cop colleagues to see her in the buff. Other than that, the offer had a certain appeal.

With a fresh hundred dollars in her purse, she returned to First District headquarters, where she checked out an unmarked blue Chevy sedan from the motor pool, headed up 16th Street to the Opera’s rehearsal space, took a right at Walter Reed Medical Center, soon to be demolished in favor of a more modern veterans’ health facility, and arrived at WNO’s Takoma Park building. She’d considered calling ahead but decided there might be more to gain by simply showing up. It was often more productive that way.

A marked patrol car with two uniformed officers sat near the entrance to the parking lot adjacent to the building. Johnson pulled up next to it and rolled down her window.

“Hey, Detective Johnson, you caught this case, huh?” the driver asked.

“Looks like it, with Willie Portelain. Carl Berry’s the lead. Anybody inside?”

“Nah. A couple of evidence guys were here earlier, cleaning out her locker, stuff like that. They told us to sit here.” He laughed. “That’s it, just sit here.”

Johnson knew why they were here. Department brass had recently initiated a policy of dispatching marked cars to places under investigation to create a visible police presence, more for PR purposes than anything. A TV remote truck and a couple of cars containing print reporters were parked across the street. Hopefully, video of the police vehicle on the evening news would establish that MPD was on the case.

She left her vehicle next to the squad car and entered the building, where she displayed her badge as an introduction. “I’d like to speak with whomever’s in charge of the Young Artist Program.”