“How can you say that?” she countered. “I think it’s everyone’s business. After all, I am on WNO’s board. We all have an obligation to do whatever we can to help find her killer.”

“Wrong,” he said, his finger stabbing the air for emphasis. “The police are responsible for that and-”

“And your Detective Pawkins.”

“Right. They’re pros, Annie. I’m sure that between them they’ll talk to anyone and everyone who might have something to offer. As for us, we’ve already done our duty. Pawkins is on the case because of you and me. Leave it at that.”

“And you?” she asked.

“What about me?”

“You’ll be content to simply sit back and let the so-called pros do the job? What if we can come up with something that would be helpful to them?”

“If that happens by accident, fine. Aside from that, we have other things to worry about, like my classes and your gallery. And, of course, my debut as an opera star.”

“That’s right,” she said brightly, as though he’d made a revelatory statement. “Your debut. A star is born. I hope the paparazzi aren’t lurking downstairs.”

They left the terrace and went their separate ways, agreeing to meet up at the Kennedy Center at seven. He headed for his office at GW to catch up on paperwork, and she said she was going to her Georgetown gallery to do the same.

“You take the car,” he said. “I’ll walk.”

“Sure you can?” she asked wickedly.

As he headed off at a pace health fanatics would term a “power walk,” she climbed in their car in the parking garage beneath the Watergate and pulled out onto the street. But instead of going to Georgetown, she went up 16th Street toward Takoma Park and the Washington National Opera’s satellite facility. Although she knew that Mac was right-that they were not in the business of solving murders-there was a compelling need to touch base with those who’d been affected by the crime. Since joining the board, she felt very much a part of the Washington opera community. Besides, she silently admitted to herself, I’m as curious as the next person when it comes to the murder of an opera singer inside one of the nation’s cultural icons, the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts.

As she drove, she found herself hoping for one thing, that the person who killed Charise Lee wasn’t one of the young singer’s colleagues in the Domingo-Cafritz Young Artist Program. Let it not be someone who would sully the sterling reputation of that program, and of the Washington National Opera itself. But hoping, she knew, was one thing. Reality so often turned out to be damningly different.

Chris Warren was delivered to the First Precinct, processed at the front desk, and placed in a holding cell until Detective Carl Berry was ready to question him. The young musician had become silent and sullen during the ride in the patrol car and refused to answer questions posed by the desk sergeant, including giving his name. The only thing he would say was “I’m a Canadian citizen. I want a lawyer.”

“Sure, son,” the dour sergeant said. “The Mounties will be here any minute to rescue you.”

As the processing took place, Berry was on the phone in his office talking with Sylvia Johnson, who’d called from the hospital.

“How’s Willie?” Berry asked.

“Okay, I guess. He’s in the emergency room. They’re running tests.”

“Looks like a heart attack?”

“That’s what I thought, but I’m no doctor. I’ll get back to you once I know more. Look, Carl, about the Warren kid. He gave us a hard time, ran off, tried to hide in an alley behind a Dumpster. He made another run for it but ran into Willie’s fist.”

“Ran into it?” Berry said, his tone mirroring his amusement at the description.

“Exactly. Willie stuck out his arm and the kid ran into it.”

“Okay,” Berry said. “Did he say anything before making contact with Willie’s arm?”

“Nothing incriminating. He just kept harping on the fact that he’s Canadian.”

“I know. Kowalski at the desk told me that. He’s asked for a lawyer.”

“He’s not dumb.”

“We’ll see. You read him his rights?”

“No. It was too chaotic with Willie down.”

“Okay, I’ll do it. Maybe he’ll want to talk without counsel. We’ve got his passport. We’ll notify his embassy, like the law says. Are you going to hang in there with Willie?”

“Yes.”

“Stay in touch.”

His next call was to have Warren brought to an interrogation room-“interview room,” as they preferred to term it. Warren had been allowed to clean up a bit, but his swollen nose and purple cheek couldn’t be washed away, any more than the rust-colored stains on Mozart’s face could be.

Berry stood outside the room with another detective and observed Warren through the one-way glass. The Canadian sat slouched in a straight-back wooden chair. He was alone in the room. His eyes darted from wall to wall, frequently coming to rest on the mirror. Berry held four pieces of paper in his hand, one the standard Miranda warning; the second a statement to be read to any foreign national being detained or arrested in the United States; the third a series of notes he’d taken during his earlier meeting with Portelain and Johnson; and a standard form, already filled out, to be faxed to the Canadian Embassy alerting it that one of its citizens was in police custody.

“He looks guilty as hell,” the other detective commented.

“He sure acted it,” said Berry. “What’d he run for if he had nothing to hide?”

“You’ll find out,” the second detective said, slapping Berry on the back. “Want me in there with you, play good cop, bad cop?”

“No. Too early for that, but hang around. Let’s see how it goes.”

Berry’s entrance into the room caused Warren to straighten in his chair.

“Mr. Warren, I’m Detective Carl Berry,” Berry said, taking the only other chair in the room.

“I want a lawyer, and I want to talk to somebody from my embassy. I’m a Canadian citizen.”

“I know that,” Berry said. He slid a printed copy of the Miranda warning across the table and asked Warren to silently read it while the detective read it aloud. When he was finished, he pushed a pen at Warren and asked him to sign it. Warren angrily swept the paper and pen off the table.

“Have it your way,” Berry said. He consulted the second sheet of paper he’d carried in with him. “As a non-U.S. citizen,” he read, “who is being arrested or detained, you are entitled to have us notify your country’s consular representative here in the United States. A consular official from your country may be able to help you obtain legal counsel, and may contact your family and visit you in detention, among other things. If you want us to notify your country’s consular officials, you can request this notification now, or at any time in the future. After your consular officials are notified, they may call or visit you. Do you want us to notify your country’s consular officials?”

“What do you think I’ve been saying all along?” Warren replied.

“Had to read it to you,” Berry said, smiling. “For the record.” He showed Warren the fax. “Everything correct on it?” he asked. “We’ll fax it over to your embassy right away. You can see I’ve indicated that you want an attorney assigned to you. I’m sure the folks at the embassy will arrange that.”

“It looks okay,” Warren said, the defiance in his voice fading.

Berry let silence dominate for a few seconds.

“I don’t know why you arrested me,” Warren said softly. “I didn’t do anything.”

You’ve been warned you don’t have to say anything without a lawyer, Berry thought. Anything you say can, and will, be used against you in a court of law.

“You haven’t been arrested,” Berry said. “We just wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“Then why did you send cops to bring me here?”