“I’ll tell you why, sir. Detective Johnson asked you questions at that place where you were playing the piano-Takoma Park, right?”

Warren nodded.

“And she told me that you weren’t very cooperative.”

“I had nothing to tell her. I didn’t have anything to do with Charise being murdered.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But you were her roommate, which means you were close to her. We tend to look first at people who were close to a murder victim.”

“Close? You mean like husbands or wives, or boyfriends and girlfriends?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I wasn’t anything like that with Charise. We roomed together, that’s all.”

“You’re both from Toronto.”

“That’s right.”

“You knew each other there? I mean, before coming here to Washington?”

“Yes,” he mumbled. Then he said with more animation, “But not well.”

“She was a pretty girl, as I understand it,” Berry said.

“She was. Yes, she was.”

“And talented.” He grinned and spread open hands in a helpless gesture. “I don’t know anything about opera, but I’m told she had a great future as an opera singer.”

Warren shrugged. “She was okay,” he said.

“Just okay?” Berry asked, his interest heightened.

“Yeah. I’ve worked with better singers.”

“As I said, I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Where’s my music?” Warren asked.

“What music?”

“I had music with me when they arrested me.”

“I wouldn’t know about that, either.”

The door opened and a detective handed Berry a note.

“Looks like your embassy is on the ball,” Berry said. “Someone from there wants to speak with you. You can use that phone over there in the corner. I’ll leave you alone.”

Berry left the room as Warren went to where the phone rested on a low, empty bookcase and picked up the receiver.

“They’re sending a lawyer,” the second detective said.

“Yeah, I’m sure they are,” Berry said. “I wanted to get into that so-called alibi he said he had before a lawyer got involved.”

“What’d he claim?”

“He claims he was out drinking and got drunk, too drunk to remember who he was with or where he was.”

The other detective laughed. “Maybe he went out to celebrate offing the kid.”

“Maybe he didn’t go out at all,” Berry said. “He’s no big drinker. I’m sure of that.”

“Looks like he might have gotten in a fight wherever he was. That’s a mean-looking face.”

“Willie.”

“Portelain?”

Berry smiled. “Sylvia says the kid made a run for it and Willie’s arm happened to get in the way.”

“Plays for me,” said the second detective.

“We’ll see how it plays for his lawyer. I can smell a brutality charge on the horizon.”

Berry looked through the glass. Warren had concluded his phone conversation and retaken his chair.

“Let him sit there until his mouthpiece arrives,” Berry said.

Berry had no sooner returned to his office than a clerk delivered the news that a judge had approved the surrender of Warren’s passport, pending any legal challenge that would cause the decision to be overturned.

“Great,” Berry said, thinking that every once in a while judges do the right thing.

He took a call announcing the arrival of Warren’s attorney, and met him in the interrogation room.

“Harlan Kendall,” the attorney said, handing Berry his card. “Our firm is on retainer with the Canadian Embassy. What are you charging Mr. Warren with?”

“Nothing at the moment,” Berry replied. “He’s a person of interest in the murder of his roommate, Charise Lee.”

“The opera singer,” Kendall said. He was a sausage of a man wearing a tailored blue suit, white shirt, and regimental tie, which would have draped better on a taller, thinner man. “Looks like you caught yourself a big one.”

“We’ve caught bigger,” Berry said.

“Is my client a target of the investigation?” Kendall asked while ruffling through papers from his attaché case.

“I told you, he’s a person of interest in the case. I should also tell you that he’s been booked for resisting arrest and assault on an officer.”

“That’s a lie,” Warren said, rising a few inches from his chair.

“They beat me up.”

Kendall dropped the papers on the desk. “Judging from his face,” he said, “I’d say he was beaten.”

“File a charge,” Berry said.

“Who was the arresting officer?” The attorney asked.

“William Portelain. He’s in intensive care at the hospital as we speak. He had a heart attack trying to subdue your client.”

Kendall looked at Warren.

“He hit me in the face,” Warren said, “and knocked me on the ground.”

“I’d like to speak with my client privately,” Kendall said.

“Sure,” Berry said, and left, instructing the uniformed officer on duty outside the room to shut off the concealed microphone.

After ten minutes, Kendall opened the door and asked Berry to rejoin them. “My client,” the attorney said, “is willing to drop any charges of police brutality in return for you dropping all charges of resisting arrest and assault on a cop.”

“I’ve got a veteran detective in the hospital clinging to life because of your client’s dumb behavior. All we wanted to do was question him, and he takes off like a three-strikes-and-you’re-out felon. Consciousness of guilt?”

“Can we talk privately?” Kendall asked Berry.

“Sure.”

Again outside the room, the attorney said, “Look, this is no killer, and he’s no tough guy who assaults cops. I spoke with the people at the program he’s in with the Washington Opera. He’s a sensitive, brilliant pianist, maybe a little high-strung, like most artists, but an okay kid. No record back in Canada. I checked. He’s minding his own business on a sunny afternoon and two detectives confront him on the street, scare the hell out of him. He bolts. Come on, Detective, let’s be reasonable here.”

Berry’s response was to hand Kendall the court order concerning Warren’s passport.

“This’ll never stand up,” Kendall said.

“I think it will,” Berry said. “We drop the charges on the condition that he reconsiders charging my detectives with brutality and he answers questions concerning the murder. Deal?”

“He doesn’t legally have to. Answer questions.”

“Right. He also doesn’t have to leave here as long as the charges are pending against him. A couple of nights in our five-star hotel until a judge gets around to arraigning him might help clear his high-strung head. Of course, we don’t have a baby grand for him to practice on, but…”

“I’ll encourage him to answer your questions.”

“Do more than just encourage him, Counselor. If he acts like the innocent person he claims to be, and if he makes sense, we have a deal.”

Kendall and Warren conferred again in the interrogation room. Kendall emerged and nodded at Berry, who rejoined them around the table.

“Okay,” Berry said, “let’s start over, Mr. Warren. Tell me where you were the night your roommate, Ms. Lee, was killed.”

Warren looked at Kendall, who nodded.

Warren avoided Berry’s inquisitive eyes. “I was-I was at a piano recital that night.”

“Where?”

“The Kennedy Center.”

“You were at the Kennedy Center that night?”

“Yes.”

“You told Detective Johnson that you’d been out drinking with friends.”

“I know, I…”

“Why did you tell her that if it wasn’t true?”

“I don’t know. I guess I thought it would sound better.”

Kendall’s eyebrows went up.

“Okay,” Berry said, “let’s get this straight. You weren’t out drinking that night but you were at a recital at the Kennedy Center. Sure that’s the truth?”

Warren nodded.

“What time was the recital?”

“Six, I think.”

“Where in the Kennedy Center?”

“The Millennium Stage.”

“What theater is that?”

“It’s not a theater. It’s a stage they set up in the lobby. They have performances just about every night there. It’s free.”

“Who was the pianist?”