Zambrano rubbed his surprisingly small hands together and his eyes widened. “Aha,” he said, “now comes the best part. Tosca pleads for Cavaradossi’s life. Scarpia, scoundrel that he is, says he’ll pardon Cavaradossi if Tosca will go to bed with him. She agrees. Scarpia tells his second in command, Spoletta, to stage a mock execution of Cavaradossi, and writes an official note granting Cavaradossi and Tosca safe passage from the country.

“He finishes writing the note and hands it to Tosca, who slips it into her bosom. Then she stabs him to death, and places a crucifix on his breast and candles at his head and feet. She slips away.”

Smith’s boss, Wilfred Burns, laughed and said, “Looks like she could have used a good defense lawyer like you, Mac.”

“And I’d take the case,” Mac said lightheartedly. “I’d put the victim, Scarpia, on trial, and get the jury to view it as justifiable homicide.”

“Might make a good exercise for your students,” Burns said, “how they’d defend Ms. Tosca.”

“Madame Tosca,” Zambrano corrected, obviously anxious to continue with his story. “The third act takes place at the Castle of Sant’Angelo. Cavaradossi bribes a jailer to let him write a final note to Tosca-you see, he doesn’t know that the execution will be for show only, and that he will live. Tosca arrives and tells Cavaradossi about having murdered Scarpia, and that it will be a simulated execution. She instructs him how to fall realistically when the shots are fired.

“She leaves, and Cavaradossi faces the firing squad. He falls! She rushes to his side and is horrified to see that the execution was real after all. He’s dead! She hears shouts in the distance announcing that Baron Scarpia has been murdered. As the police rush in to arrest her, the despairing Tosca, vowing to avenge herself before God, leaps to her death from the parapet.”

Some of the supers applauded Zambrano’s telling of the tale.

The director checked his watch. “We’d better get on with the rehearsal,” he said. “Before I do, though, I should mention the famous story of the bouncing Tosca.”

“I love this story,” a super announced. “I wish I could have seen it.”

“We all wish that,” Zambrano said. “When Tosca flings herself to her death, it’s supposedly into the Tiber River, although anyone who is familiar with Rome knows that it would be impossible for her to reach the river. In reality, I think she simply flattens herself on the cobblestones below. In any event, Toscas throughout eternity have made that leap onto a mattress positioned just out of sight of the audience and held by stagehands. This one particular Tosca, Rita Hunter, an especially stout woman performing in Cape Town, South Africa, complained that the mattress was too hard. The stage crew, accommodating fellows that they were, substituted a trampoline for the mattress. Our complaining diva landed on the trampoline and then bounced back up for all in the theater to see.”

There was much laughter.

“There have been a few Toscas, usually the heavier ones, who have refused to make the leap and simply toddle off the stage, much to the directors’ chagrin.”

“Ever had that happen to you?” Mac asked.

“No,” Zambrano said, “but if it did, I would personally and with pleasure fling that Tosca to her death.”

Zambrano’s anecdote prompted others, including one that took place at a regional opera house outside Rome. An aging tenor, not up to the role he’d wangled for himself, elicited boos and shouts of displeasure and whistles from the Italian audience. In the third act, while singing “Di quella pira,” his voice cracked on a high note. The audience went into a frenzy, standing on their seats and hurling curses at him along with accusations of him being a beast, a criminal, and a murderer. The tenor became so enraged, he stomped downstage, sword in hand, and yelled, “All right, you morons, you come up here and sing the high note.” The curtain was drawn and the rest of the final act was never performed.

Zambrano indicated he was aware of that episode, thanked them all for being there, clapped his hands, and snapped, “Places, everyone!”

An hour later, Zambrano called an end to the supers’ walk-through and reminded everyone of the upcoming rehearsal schedule. He’d become agitated when he realized that two supers had failed to show, the pianist Christopher Warren and former detective Raymond Pawkins. His assistant called Genevieve Crier, who said that Warren was ill and that Pawkins had another commitment, which he couldn’t change, but he would try to be there before rehearsal ended.

Mac was about to leave when Genevieve came bursting through the doors. She was always bursting through doors, never simply walking through them, and Mac wondered if she sometimes went through walls. Her energy reservoir seemed perpetually topped off with high-octane fuel.

“Ah, Mac,” she said. “How did rehearsal go?”

“Fine. I learned all about the opera from the director. Fascinating stories behind Tosca.”

“That’s why it’s always being staged somewhere. Where’s Annabel?”

Mac looked up at a clock. “Waiting for me at a restaurant and wondering why I’m late. Join us?”

“I don’t know if I can.” She, too, looked at the clock. “Where are you meeting?”

“Cafe Milano.”

“You devils,” she said. “How can I pass up that invitation? I need ten minutes to soothe Anthony at two of my supers not showing and I’ll be on my way. Do you have a reservation?”

“Annabel does-she made it. She has clout there now that she’s on the Opera board. I understand the owner is on the board, too.”

“Franco. A charming man. Maestro Domingo has his own private room there. Ah, to be rich and famous. Go, go, don’t keep your Titian-haired beauty waiting. I’ll be there in a flash.”

Mac had no sooner left the building and was heading for his car when Ray Pawkins called out, “Hey, Mac. Rehearsal over?”

“Yes. You were missed.”

“Couldn’t be helped. I was tied up and couldn’t get away. Zambrano’s angry, I’m sure.”

“I suppose so. Look, Ray, I’m running late myself. Annabel’s waiting for me at Milano.”

“I’m impressed.”

Genevieve joined them. “Anthony wouldn’t talk to me, which is just as well. I’m not in the mood to be verbally assaulted. Good evening, Mr. Pawkins. I hope your newfound fame from Washingtonian hasn’t gone to your head.”

Pawkins laughed. “Of course it has,” he said. “My days as a super are over. It’s strictly leads now.”

“You’re still here,” she said to Smith. “Annabel is probably on her cell phone to a divorce attorney as we speak.”

“She doesn’t have to be,” Mac said. “She was a matrimonial lawyer, remember? Coming?”

“You’re going with them?” Pawkins said to Genevieve.

“Of course.”

“Want a fourth?” Pawkins asked.

“Sure,” Mac said. “Why not? But if we don’t go now, it’ll be the three of us at a Burger King.”

He walked to his car, followed by Genevieve and Pawkins, who decided to go together in Pawkins’ car. Genevieve had to return to Takoma Park after dinner, and Pawkins said he’d be happy to drive her.

Cafe Milano, on Prospect Street in Georgetown, had replaced the Jockey Club as Washington’s prime celebrity gathering and gawking spot since opening in 1992. Its owner, Franco Nuschese, an acknowledged master host, was capable of making everyone feel famous and at home. That skill, plus superb northern Italian food, made it the hottest table in D.C.

Like all good hosts, Nuschese recognized Mac by name as he came through the door, despite Mac having been there only a few times before. “Ah, Mr. Smith,” he said, “it is good to see you again. The signora is waiting.” He threaded a passage through a knot of people three deep at the bar, to another dining room, away from the bar’s cacophony. Annabel sat alone at a table for four, set for two.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Mac said, kissing her on the cheek and taking his seat. “The rehearsal ran long, and I was waylaid by Genevieve and Ray Pawkins on my way out.”