A call to MPD resulted in two uniformed cops and an evidence tech arriving in a panel truck and removing files, papers, and Grimes’ computer. Sylvia and Willie helped, but another look at her watch told Sylvia she was running late.

“I have to go,” she whispered to Willie. “I’ll drop off the car. You can get a ride with them. Will you stay here until they’re done?”

“Where you going?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I have a date.”

“Oh, ho,” he said. “Cheatin’ on Willie, huh?”

She looked at the officers unloading things from the office to see whether they’d overheard the exchange. “See you in the morning,” she said.

“You have trouble with this dude, you call me,” Willie yelled after her, to her chagrin.

Mac Smith walked through the stage door to the Kennedy Center’s Opera House and signed in as “talent”-he had to admit he was getting a kick out of doing that-and was met by Genevieve Crier.

“Mac, darling,” she said, planting a kiss on his cheek-everyone in opera seemed to kiss one another on the cheek. “There’s been a change in the rehearsal schedule. Anthony is so pleased with the way the supers and chorus have been performing that he’s decided to use tonight for a Sitzprobe.”

“Is that like a sitz bath?” Mac asked, mirth in his voice.

“No, silly, it’s a special sort of rehearsal. La prova all’italiana in Italian. A sitting rehearsal. The singers will go through their music with the full orchestra, rather than with just piano accompaniment.”

“A dress rehearsal,” he said.

“Hardly,” she said. “No costumes, no props, no stage business. The singers simply sit in chairs, or stand, and sing with the orchestra. It’s my favorite type of rehearsal. It was supposed to be night after tomorrow, but Anthony pushed it up to tonight. You’ll love it!”

“I have some things I can be doing at home,” Mac said.

“Not on your life,” she said, grabbing his arm and propelling him down the corridor and into the theater. “We’ll sit here. Is Annabel coming?”

“Yes, but we can’t stay for the entire rehearsal. We’re meeting someone for dinner.”

“Ah, the life of a favored couple in a city of favored couples. Anyone I know?”

“I don’t think so. That reminds me. I have to call him. Back in a minute.”

He went to the lobby, called the Watergate Hotel, and asked for the guest room of Marc Josephson, who answered on the first ring.

“Mac Smith here.”

“I’ve been waiting for your call. Is dinner still on the agenda?”

“Oh, yes. I’m here at the rehearsal I mentioned to you. My wife will be joining me shortly. We can be free by eight-thirty.”

“That sounds fine. Where shall I meet you?”

“Enjoy fish?”

“Very much.”

“Good. I’ll make a reservation at Kinkead’s. It’s on Pennsylvania Avenue, a fairly good walk. Take a taxi. Every driver knows where it is. See you at eight thirty.”

When he returned to his seat after calling the restaurant and securing a table on the quieter second level, he saw that Ray Pawkins had joined Genevieve.

“We’re in luck,” the retired detective said as he and Mac shook hands. “You’ll finally get to hear the voices you’ll be enjoying every night when the show goes on.”

“Looking forward to it,” Mac said, turning to see whether Annabel had arrived.

“Where’s your lovely wife?” Pawkins asked.

“Helping protect the president,” Mac replied.

“How exciting,” said Pawkins. “She packing heat these days?”

Mac thought of a double entendre, but stifled the urge. “She’s conferring with the Secret Service about the president’s visit to the Opera Ball.”

“I am impressed,” Pawkins said. “The fate of the free world rides on your wife’s beautiful shoulders.”

Genevieve bounded away to take care of something backstage.

“Hopefully, they won’t just be marking,” Pawkins said, his eyes on where a row of chairs was being set up. The musicians in the pit went through their ablutions, the tuning of the myriad instruments creating a cacophonous, atonal wash of sound, but not unpleasant.

“Marking what?” Mac asked, feeling he had to.

“Not giving it their all vocally. Going through the motions. I understand the soprano, our Madame Tosca, is fighting a cold, although I’m told she always claims to be on the verge of a terminal head cold. Never misses a performance, though. Likes the attention, I suppose.”

“Anything new on the Lee murder?” Mac asked.

“No, but I’m on the case. It looks more and more like Chris Warren is taking center stage.”

“And the Musinski murder? You said new evidence has shed light on it.”

“For me, Grimes, the guy who was a grad assistant to Musinski, is the culprit.” He laughed. “I sound more and more like a private eye, don’t I, ‘packing heat’ and ‘culprits’? Next I’ll be talking about gats, gams, and molls.”

Genevieve returned with some of the other supers in tow, including Mac’s boss at GW, Wilfred Burns, who said he was taking advantage of the change in schedule to catch up on things back at his office.

“Where’s the young pianist, Warren?” Mac whispered to Genevieve.

“I told him earlier of the new schedule and he’s opted to stay away,” she replied in her own low voice. “Is he-?”

Mac finished her thought. “A suspect?” he said. “Everyone is, Genevieve.”

As Burns was about to leave, he leaned close to Mac and asked, “Is there anything new?”

“No,” Mac said, uncomfortable at having ended up the conduit for such information. He looked to where Pawkins was chatting with another super, the navy commander. He’d been tempted since seeing Pawkins to mention the call from Josephson and to relay the final line of their most recent phone conversation: “The scores are no longer missing.” Certainly, Pawkins would be interested in this development, and by extension so would the detectives working the Musinski case. But Mac had determined that until he knew more, there was nothing to be gained by passing along Josephson’s offhand comment. Maybe it wasn’t true. All Smith had to go on was what a man he hadn’t seen in two years had said to conclude a telephone conversation. Yes, if the Mozart-Haydn string quartets had surfaced, they might help point a finger in the direction of whomever had killed Musinski. If Mac decided there was credence to what Josephson had to say, he wouldn’t hesitate to share it with Pawkins. So for now, and until after his dinner with Josephson, he’d keep it to himself. It wasn’t easy.

Annabel arrived shortly after the Sitzprobe had started, and the singers, including the soprano and tenor leads and lesser characters, had begun running through the music with the orchestra. During a break, when the conductor stopped the aria being sung to adjust something in the orchestra’s score, Annabel said quietly to Mac, “What’s this dinner tonight all about?”

He started to respond, but the rehearsal resumed, and they fell silent. The music was lovely, the power and richness of the voices sending chills up Mac’s back at times. He was torn; he wanted to be there to enjoy the music, but at the same time he wanted to be where he could fill in Annabel about Josephson before meeting with him.

A natural pause occurred a few minutes past eight when the soprano announced she wasn’t feeling well and would not be able to continue the rehearsal. Her “cover,” a younger soprano, who’d been sitting quietly onstage along with the others, said she was ready to pick up where the diva had left off.

“Maybe they gave her Coke instead of Pepsi,” Mac said.

Genevieve gently punched his arm.

Mac said, “Annabel and I have to run. That dinner I mentioned.”

“I’ll walk you out,” she said.

As they headed up the aisle, Pawkins fell into step with them.

“You’ll miss the best part,” he said cheerily. “The cover has real pastoso. She sings ‘Vissi d’arte’ better than the lead.”