“Is anyone expecting you?”

“No, but that’s okay.”

The receptionist placed a call. When she hung up, she said, “Ms. McCarthy will be out shortly.” She lowered her voice. “Have you found the killer yet?”

“We’re working on it,” Johnson said. “Did you know the victim?”

“Sure. She was here every day. She was so nice, a really great gal. And talented, too.”

“So I understand. But she must have had some enemies, someone she didn’t get along with.”

The receptionist’s face twisted in thought. “I can’t think of anybody,” she said.

“Did you socialize with her?” Johnson asked.

“No. Well, we had coffee together sometimes, and I got to go to some events where she was performing.”

“I’ve seen pictures of her,” said Johnson. “She was very pretty, must have had plenty of guys hitting on her.”

The receptionist started to reply, when a woman entered the area and extended her hand to Johnson. “I’m Louise McCarthy, assistant to the director of the Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program.”

“Can we speak privately?” Johnson asked.

“Sure. We’ll go to my office.”

After some preliminary conversation about the program and Ms. McCarthy’s role in it, Johnson got to the point. “I need to know everything there is to know about Charise Lee.”

“Whew,” McCarthy said. “Everything?”

Johnson nodded, a notebook on her lap, pen poised.

“Where do I begin? You must understand that any knowledge I have of Charise is from my dealings with her in the program. We weren’t friends in the usual sense. My role is as an administrator.”

“Let’s start there,” said Johnson. “What sort of a student was she?”

“In what way?”

“Serious? Not so serious? A rule breaker? In trouble? Abrasive? Get along with others?”

McCarthy’s responses were uniformly positive.

“Did she have any friends? Close ones?”

“I, ah-I suppose so.”

“The reason I ask is that from what I’ve heard about opera singers, they tend to be temperamental and high-strung.”

McCarthy laughed. “I suppose some are,” she said, “but our students are encouraged to get along with one another.”

“But there has to be some jealousy among them,” Johnson offered.

“I wouldn’t know about that,” McCarthy replied, not sounding as though she meant it.

Johnson decided to change the subject. “When did you last see Ms. Lee?”

“I really don’t remember. I know she didn’t show up for classes yesterday, because one of her instructors reported it to the office.”

“Did she miss many classes?”

“No” was accompanied by a shake of the head. “Her attendance record was good, I think. I can check.”

“Please do.”

McCarthy opened a file drawer behind her desk, removed a folder, and looked at it. “No,” she said, replacing the file and closing the door. “Her attendance record is about average.”

Johnson smiled. “You make it sound as though an average attendance record means missing a lot of classes.”

“I don’t want to mislead you,” McCarthy said. “Singers in the program-all opera singers, for that matter-are naturally concerned with their voices. They’re blessed with wonderful voices and take very good care of them. Charise missed her share of classes for medical reasons. She’d been seeing one of the physicians at George Washington University ’s Voice Treatment Center. They’re tops in their field. Many of our students have doctors there.”

“I see,” Johnson said, noting what McCarthy had said. “Who else can I talk to, someone who was particularly close to Ms. Lee.”

“Let me think,” McCarthy said. “There’s Chris Warren. He and Charise are both from Toronto. They roomed together.”

Johnson nodded. Warren was who Portelain had been told to interview.

“Their agent would probably have more to offer than anyone. He’s from Toronto, too. His name is Melincamp. Philip Melincamp. He has a partner, who might be able to help you. Her name is Zöe Baltsa.”

Johnson noted the names, closed her notebook, and stood. “I appreciate your time, Ms. McCarthy. Here’s my card. Please call if you think of anything that might be of interest, if anyone else goes missing.” She’d picked up the “gone missing” elocution from a British cop show.

“Of course. All I can say is that I hope you find who killed Charise, and do it fast. Having some nut wandering around the Kennedy Center killing young women is setting everyone on edge.”

“We’ll do our best. Now, I’d like to see the facility.”

“I’ll be happy to show you anything you’d like, Detective.”

After an impromptu half-hour tour, which included the costume rooms, they ended up in one of the rehearsal spaces, where a young woman practiced an aria, accompanied by a pianist.

“That’s Christopher Warren,” McCarthy told Johnson, referring to the pianist.

“Ms. Lee’s roommate.”

“Yes.”

Obviously Willie wasn’t questioning him. Next thought: What was he doing here playing the piano so soon after his roommate had been murdered?

“I’d like to speak with him,” she told McCarthy.

“I’ll go tell him.”

“No,” Johnson said, “I’ll wait until they’re finished. I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

She and McCarthy took seats across the large space from the performers.

“It’s beautiful,” Johnson said. “I don’t know that song.”

“It’s an aria from Donizetti’s Lucia. ‘Regnava nel silenzio,’ I believe.”

Like most Americans, Johnson’s exposure to opera was nonexistent, aside from those occasional snippets that managed to slip into the public vocabulary. She closed her eyes and allowed the sheer power and beauty of the singer’s voice to penetrate her senses. She loved music, and had enjoyed the usual teenager’s dream of becoming a rock star. But she didn’t like rock ’n’ roll, nor did hip-hop or rap appeal. Her tastes tended to female jazz singers like Ella Fitzgerald and Sarah Vaughan, Nancy Wilson and Billie Holiday. But while listening to the opera singer she recognized that this was, indeed, something special. How could anyone, male or female, produce such sounds? Singers like this must be aberrations, physical freaks, their superior vocal apparatus a gift from above. From God? Her mother would claim that, although Matilda Johnson’s daughter wasn’t sure, and probably never would be. It was hard to believe in a God while working Washington, D.C. ’s mean streets, on which lives were taken for a pair of sneakers, or over petty jealousies.

Her mind drifted to the reason she was there, the murder. Had Charise Lee sounded like the woman performing at that moment? Would she have become a world-famous diva? Was she better than this young woman in the rehearsal hall, and if so, who would make that judgment? How long could such magnificent voices hold up? The singer sang in Italian. Were all operas written in foreign languages? If so, how could the singers learn all those languages?

She opened her eyes and observed the singer. She was tall and heavy, which fit the stereotypical belief about female opera singers. But Charise Lee had been described in the report as small, perhaps even petite. Asian-Canadian. In Washington to further her career, ending up stabbed to death. God must have had a bad hair day.

Christopher Warren and the singer finished the piece and conferred about the sheet music.

“You said it was an aria?” Johnson asked. “That’s a solo, right?”

“Right, but it’s more than that. Arias give the singers an opportunity to express their inner feelings and emotions musically, like a spoken soliloquy in a play.” She smiled. “A large percentage of opera audiences come just to hear the arias.”

“I see,” Johnson said, wondering whether what she’d just been thinking would qualify as an aria.

McCarthy led Johnson to the piano, where the two musicians were preparing to leave, and introduced the detective.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” Johnson told them.

The singer’s eyes misted and her fist went to her mouth. “Excuse me,” she said, and ran from the room.