As Portelain and Johnson headed out to interview Philip Melincamp and Zöe Baltsa, Berry met with his superior, Cole Morris.

“Anything new on the Kennedy Center case?” Morris asked.

“No,” Berry said. “Her roommate, the piano player from Toronto, Christopher Warren, isn’t off the hook. Johnson brought him in yesterday.”

“So I heard. He got banged up?”

“Yeah, but not to worry. He’s not bringing charges.”

“What’s with Willie Portelain?”

“He’s okay, out of the hospital. He and Johnson are interviewing two talent agents from Toronto, the ones who represented the victim and Warren. I’ve got the victim’s parents in town.” He checked his watch. “I’d better get over to their hotel. They didn’t want to come here.”

“Did you see the article on Ray Pawkins in Washingtonian?” Morris asked.

Berry laughed. “Yeah, I did. He always had a knack for self-promotion. I could never figure the guy. He was there the night they discovered the singer’s body at the Kennedy Center.”

“Was he? Why?”

“He’s an extra in the next opera they’re doing. He always loved that sort of thing. Oh, by the way, Pawkins is working for them.”

“Working for them?”

“He’s signed on as their PI.”

“To do what?”

“Catch the singer’s killer before we do.”

“I’ll be damned. That’s all we need, somebody working private and getting in the way.”

“I’m supposed to meet with him.”

“To do what?”

“Discuss the case.”

“The hell you are.”

“It can’t hurt.”

“We don’t discuss ongoing investigations, remember?”

“I know, Cole, I know, but maybe he’ll come up with something that will help us.”

“Or get something from us that’ll help him.”

“Let’s see how it plays out.”

“Suit yourself. Hey, Carl, speaking of Pawkins, there might be a break in the Musinski murder.”

“Musinski? The college professor at Georgetown U? How far back does that one go, five, six years?”

“Six. There was that graduate assistant at Georgetown who looked good, only we could never put enough together to charge him. Forensics might have linked him to the scene.”

“Took them long enough. They mention that case in the article on Ray.”

“We’ll want to talk to Pawkins at some point. He was lead on it.”

“I’ll mention it to him.”

“Yeah, do that. Be straight with me. Is Willie fit for duty?”

Berry nodded. “He says he is.”

“And you say?”

“I say that if he says he is, he is. He’s supposed to go on a diet.”

It got a fat laugh from Morris. “And the President’s press secretary will be candid at news conferences. Keep in touch.”

Charise Lee’s parents were staying at a downtown Holiday Inn on New Jersey Avenue. Berry went to the desk and asked for Mr. and Mrs. Lee’s room.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t have anyone named Lee registered.”

“They’re from Toronto,” Berry said.

“I can’t check names on that basis,” the young male clerk said. “Sorry.”

Berry considered pulling out his badge and encouraging the clerk to do better, but decided he’d wait before pulling rank. He took a seat in the functionally furnished lobby and took in the comings and goings of hotel guests. Across the room he saw an older Caucasian man and much younger Asian woman sitting close together on an orange vinyl love seat. Could be, he said to himself as he crossed the lobby and stood over them. “Mr. and Mrs. Lee?” he asked.

His sudden appearance startled them. The woman, slender and wearing a simple dress made of a shiny black material, as black as her hair, quickly stood; the man remained seated.

“I’m sorry,” Berry said. “I’m looking for the parents of a Ms. Charise Lee and-”

“Yes, yes,” the woman said. “I am her mother.”

“Oh,” Berry said, introducing himself. “I checked with the desk and-”

The man stood. Berry pegged him to be in his early seventies. Bald on top, spigots of unruly black-and-gray hair poking out on the sides of his head, and tufts of hair protruding from surprisingly large ears. He needed a shave, and was slightly hunched, the posture of a man who’d stood bent over for too much of his life. He wore a wrinkled gray suit and a plain black tie whose knot did not meet his throat.

“I’m Charise’s father,” he said in a raspy voice.

He and Berry shook hands. Berry surveyed the lobby. “Maybe you’d rather we went to your room,” he suggested.

“Yeah, that’d be better,” the man said.

His wife looked at a sign pointing to the hotel’s lobby-level restaurant.

“Would you like to go in for something to eat?” Berry asked. “Coffee or tea, maybe?”

“We don’t have to eat,” the man said. “Maybe a cold drink.”

Berry saw that the restaurant was virtually empty. He motioned for them to follow as he went inside and told the hostess he needed a table for three, preferably in a corner where they could talk. She took them to just such a table, placed menus on it, and left. Seated, Berry said, “I’m a little confused. The hotel doesn’t have any record of you having checked in.”

“The name’s not Lee,” the man said. “That’s Betty’s name.” He indicated his wife.

“But-”

“Yeah, I know,” the father said. “It’s confusing. My name’s Seymour Goldberg. Charise decided Goldberg wasn’t a good name for an opera singer, so she took Betty’s name. I told her names don’t matter and that she should be proud of her real name, but you know how women can be.”

Berry glanced at Betty for a reaction and received a blank look. “It was a better name to use,” she said in a soft, flat voice.

“See what I mean?” Seymour said.

“Yeah, well, I am really sorry to be meeting you under these circumstances,” Berry said, “and I am very sorry about the death of your daughter.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Lee-Goldberg said.

It was tea for her, coffees for the men, and Berry insisted upon a double order of English muffins to be shared.

“Have they asked you to identify the body yet?” the detective asked, wanting to get that question out of the way.

“We’re going later today,” Charise’s father replied. “Who did this to her?”

“We don’t know yet,” Berry said, “but we’re working hard to find out. I’m hoping you might have some information that will help us.”

“What could we know?” Goldberg said. “We live in Canada. Charise decided to come to Washington to study opera with the big names here. I didn’t want her to go, but-”

“It was her choice,” the mother said. “She said she would learn so much and become a better singer.”

“I admit I don’t know much about opera,” Berry said, “but I understand your daughter was a very talented young lady.”

“Yes, she was,” the mother agreed.

“She had the voice of an angel,” the father said. He placed his hand on top of his wife’s, and tears formed. Embarrassed, he wiped them away with the back of his other hand. “She got involved with the wrong people,” he declared.

“I’d be interested in hearing more about that,” Berry said, their drinks and muffins on the table.

“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about it,” the mother said.

“Why not?” Goldberg said. “It’s true. I warned her about the sort of people who take advantage of talented young women like her. Those two agents got ahold of her and-”

“Mr. Melincamp?” Berry said.

“That’s right. Melincamp and that woman he works with.”

“Zöe something,” Berry said.

“That’s her,” Mr. Goldberg said.

“What about a piano player named Warren?” Berry asked.

“Christopher,” Betty Lee-Goldberg said. “He’s a nice young man.”

“I don’t agree,” her husband said, taking a bite of muffin and a sip of coffee heavily doctored with sugar and half-and-half.

“Oh?”

“He used her, Mr… you said your name was?”

“Berry, Detective Carl Berry.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Berry-Detective Berry-I don’t remember names that good anymore. Christopher Warren used Charise’s talent to make his own career better. I saw through him the minute I met him.”