“Boris Larkin.”

“What did he play?”

“I don’t know, different things, pieces from well-known operas.”

“Did you speak with him after the performance?”

“No.”

“What time did it end?”

“About seven thirty.”

“That’s pretty early. Did you see Ms. Lee at the Kennedy Center while you were there?”

“No.”

“What did you do after?”

“I had dinner.”

“Where?”

“A little Indian restaurant downtown.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t remember. I felt like Indian food and walked into the place. I never did catch the name.”

“You were alone?”

“Yes.”

“How did you pay?”

“Cash. I gave them cash.”

“They give you a receipt?”

“Maybe. I don’t remember.”

“And then?”

“Then I…then I went back to the apartment and watched TV.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“I understand your agent is in town and staying at the apartment. Was he there?”

“No. I never saw him that night.”

The questioning lasted another fifteen minutes. Berry ended the session by saying, “We’ll be keeping your passport, Mr. Warren.”

“You can’t do that,” Warren almost shouted. “I’m a Canadian citizen!”

Kendall calmed his client and explained that he and the Canadian Consulate would work on his behalf to get the passport back. The attorney reminded Berry that he and his detectives were not to question his client again without his being present.

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Berry assured. “You’re free to go, Mr. Warren, for the moment.”

After Kendall and Warren had left the building, Berry went to his office, where Sylvia Johnson had just arrived.

“What’s with Willie?” Berry asked.

“They’re keeping him overnight, but they ruled out a heart attack. The doctor read the riot act to Willie. His blood pressure is off the chart, and a test showed an enlarged heart.” She laughed. “They told him he has to eat a healthier diet, lose weight, exercise, the works. No more chili dogs, or pizza for breakfast.”

“He’s lucky. It’s a good warning.”

She asked about Warren, and Berry filled her in on how the questioning had gone.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“I think we should keep close tabs on Mr. Warren. In the meantime, let’s call it a day. You up for dinner?”

“Sure. And a drink. I’m off duty.”

“So am I. Come on, let’s hoist one for Willie.”

When the rehearsal at the Kennedy Center was over, the director, Anthony Zambrano, assembled the supers for some last-minute comments, which quickly shifted into a discussion of Tosca and Zambrano’s vision of this particular production. Annabel had joined Mac on the stage, where he was sitting with his boss, GW’s president, Wilfred Burns, the other academicians-cum-supers, and Ray Pawkins in a semicircle around the director. It struck Mac that aside from him and his professorial colleagues, everyone else was well versed in Tosca and opera in general, and eager to display their knowledge. He felt a little out of it as Zambrano spoke in baroque terms about how he intended to break new ground and set a higher standard for future directors of the Puccini masterpiece.

“Is Tosca considered his best work?” Mac asked, wanting to have something to offer.

Zambrano’s face lit up. “An excellent question. But who is to judge which work by a genius is his best? For me, I find the raw emotional power and dramatic foundation of Tosca to be compelling. But he also wrote Madame Butterfly and La Boheme, among other magisterial works. Who can say?”

“Is Tosca the most widely produced opera?” another super asked.

“Strangely not,” Zambrano replied, chewing his cheek as he sought a basis for his response. “I believe-and correct me if you know better-that Madame Butterfly has been the most produced opera in the past ten years, at least in the United States. La Boheme? They are one and two, if I’m not mistaken. But Tosca is Puccini’s strongest work. Sarooodledum, as George Bernard Shaw termed it-he was fond of playing on the name of the playwright Victorien Sardou, whose play, La Tosca, was the basis for Puccini’s operatic version.”

It was enough of an answer for Mac, but Zambrano segued into his analysis of how Puccini’s operas stacked up against the operas of Mozart, Verdi, Bartók, and other familiar names, as well as some that weren’t. Mac’s mind wandered, his eyes going to that portion of the main stage where Charise Lee’s blood had been spilled. Someone had attempted to clean it, leaving a milky circle around where the stain had been.

Zambrano finished his dissertation, thanked everyone for coming, and announced that future rehearsals would be at Takoma Park, until the technical and dress rehearsals, which would be held at the Kennedy Center.

Genevieve Crier, who’d been there at the beginning of the rehearsal and quickly disappeared, returned as Mac and Annabel were about to leave with Pawkins.

“So glad I caught you,” Genevieve said in her lilting British accent. “Did it go well?”

“Sure,” Pawkins said. “How can a supers rehearsal go bad?”

“I can think of a way,” said Annabel as they walked through the Hall of Nations, the flags of every nation with which the United States has diplomatic relations lining the spacious public area.

“Gracious, yes,” said Genevieve. “Having a super murdered certainly ranks as…well, I don’t know, something going bad.”

“It didn’t happen at a rehearsal,” Pawkins said, sounding annoyed at having been challenged.

In her relentless cheerfulness, Genevieve didn’t seem to have picked up on the former detective’s shift in mood. As they stopped at one of the exit doors, she reached into her bulging shoulder bag and pulled out a magazine.

“May we have a drum roll, please,” she said, handing it to Pawkins. “Page one thirteen. You’re now famous, Mr. Pawkins.”

“What’s this?” Annabel asked.

“An advance copy of the latest Washingtonian. Our Raymond Pawkins, former Homicide detective on the city’s mean streets, more recently art and music connoisseur, is all over the place.”

Pawkins opened to the page Genevieve had cited and held it up for Mac and Annabel to see. Looking back at them was a large color photograph of Pawkins leaning casually against the set from Washington National Opera’s previous production, Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte, more popularly known as The Magic Flute.

“Grrrr,” Genevieve growled. “I had to positively break his arm to get him to agree to the interview and photo shoot. The editor loved the idea, a profile of a hard-nosed Homicide detective pursuing the arts, including performing as a super in our productions. It’s such good press.”

“You didn’t tell us about the article,” Annabel said to Pawkins.

“My natural modesty wouldn’t allow it,” he said, hand to his heart.

“I can’t wait to read it,” Annabel said.

“Here,” Pawkins said, giving it to her. “I already know what I said. Anyone up for a drink?”

“Not us,” Mac said. “We need an early night.”

“Genevieve?” Pawkins asked.

“I thought you’d never ask-or forgive me.”

As Mac and Annabel started to walk away, Genevieve said, “Annabel, don’t forget the Opera Ball meeting tomorrow.”

“I won’t,” Annabel said over her shoulder. “It’s on the calendar.”

Mac walked Rufus, and mixed his own blend of coffee for the morning, before changing into pajamas and joining Annabel in bed.

“A nice early night,” she said. “Good book?” He’d picked up where he’d left off in E. L. Doctorow’s The March.

“Excellent,” he replied, glancing at what she was reading, the magazine Pawkins had given her. “Any startling revelations about our gadfly detective?”

“Is that how you view him?”