“He denies it, says he and the deceased were good friends.”

“He’s big, man,” another detective said, “must go two-fifty, two-sixty. Got a voice like a one-man gang. If he doesn’t make it as an opera singer, he can always become a sumo wrestler.”

“Even bigger than you, Willie,” one said. “But not as pretty.”

The discussion continued. Eventually, it came around to Charise Lee’s agents, Philip Melincamp and Zöe Baltsa.

“Willie and Sylvia have interviewed them a couple of times. Ray Pawkins-he’s working as a PI for the Opera company-says Melincamp and his partner have a shady reputation back in Toronto.”

“How shady?” someone asked.

“They run a smarmy operation, according to Ray. He says-”

The door opened and a uniformed officer working desk duty in the Detective Division entered. He handed Berry a piece of paper. “Thought you might want to see this,” he said.

Berry read it and passed it to Sylvia.

“What’s up?” Portelain asked.

“Joey pulled this from the latest intelligence report from Homeland Security,” Berry said as it was passed around.

“Interesting,” Sylvia said, “but what does it have to do with the Lee case?”

“Probably nothing,” Berry said. “Any ideas?”

There weren’t any.

“I want to run this by Cole,” Berry said, picking up the intelligence report and ending the meeting.

Carl Berry’s meeting may have just ended, but Annabel Lee-Smith’s was just getting started.

Everyone on the Opera Ball committee gathered for a final run-through of the “Battle Plan,” a thick book in which-hopefully-every conceivable base had been covered, and every possible contingency accounted for. Annabel willed herself to concentrate on the business at hand, but was unable to keep her thoughts from straying back to the dinner with Marc Josephson and what had come out of it. She still wanted to believe that there was something wrong with Josephson’s claim, and his behavior with Mac on the phone that morning helped her in that regard. The man was certainly skewed; hopefully, his claim and alleged supporting evidence was, too. But try as she might to take umbrage in that thought, she knew down deep, felt it in her heart and bones, that Ray Pawkins had stolen the musical scores from Aaron Musinski’s home and…

Conceivably had murdered Musinski.

“You okay, Annabel?” someone asked as they prepared to break for an hour’s lunch.

“Oh, sure. I’m fine. I never dreamed putting on a fund-raiser of this magnitude involved so much planning and detail. You all deserve a medal.”

“We, you mean. It couldn’t have been done without you. It’s so good that you agreed to act as liaison with the White House. Isn’t it wonderful that the president and first lady will be at the ball?”

“Yes, it’s wonderful,” Annabel said. As far as she knew, her meetings with the various security forces involved had gone well, and all was in place to ensure a safe visit by President and Mrs. Montgomery.

“Grab a bite?” Genevieve Crier asked Annabel as they filed from the room.

“Sure,” Annabel said. “I’m famished.”

“Meetings like this always make me hungry,” Genevieve said, punctuated by her lilting laugh. “The tension eats away at your stomach lining.”

Annabel laughed, too. “I hadn’t quite thought of it that way, but I think you’re right.”

They popped into the nearest luncheonette and found a vacant booth, where both ordered salads and iced tea. Genevieve, always verbose, was especially talkative this day, and entertained Annabel with a succession of stories about her life, first as an actress in London and Hollywood, and more recently her job with the Opera.

“…and finding supers for every production can be a bloody nightmare,” she said. “I have my own techniques.” A wicked laugh. “I haunt health clubs and gyms. I want my supers to be in good shape-so do most directors, and I try to accommodate. You might have noticed that many gays are particularly fond of opera. I’ve gotten some wonderful supers at the yearly Miss Adams Morgan Pageant. And, there’s always church.”

“Church?”

“I watch single men go up for Communion and make mental notes which ones would be good supers.”

“You’re a mobile talent scout, Genevieve.”

“I suppose I am. Of course, when children are involved it can be really dicey. Thank God for our volunteers who are willing to play backstage nanny. And the parents!” She rolled her eyes and made a dismissive sound through pursed lips. “Most are okay, but some can drive you mad. Like last year when I was providing supers for Die Walküre.”

“I saw that,” Annabel said. “Were there children in it?”

“No. I’m not talking about children anymore. These were adults. I went mad, absolutely tore my hair out trying to please the director. Gawd, he was impossible. But I came through.”

“You always do, it seems.”

“Yes, and I love it!”

“Have you spoken with Ray Pawkins lately?” Annabel asked.

“That darling man? As a matter of fact, I have. Yesterday. We’re grabbing a bite tonight before tech rehearsal.”

“Do I detect a budding romance?” Annabel asked.

“No, silly. We’re just good friends. How many men do you find in this city who love opera?”

Annabel thought of Mac. “Not many,” she said. “Does he ever talk about his life as a Homicide detective?”

Genevieve screwed up her face in thought. “Hmmm. No.”

“I’m fascinated with that famous case he investigated six years ago, the one involving the Ph.D. musicologist from Georgetown, Aaron Musinski.”

“Wasn’t that something? Everyone was buzzing about it.”

“And Ray never mentions it?”

“No. I asked him once about that case. He said that was then, and this is now. I understand.”

“Well, we’d better get back. The afternoon session will be starting.”

They were approaching the entrance to the building when Genevieve stopped Annabel. “What do you think of Ray, Annabel?”

“Oh, I don’t know. He certainly is…interesting. Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered if you or Mac have noticed anything unusual about him.”

Was this an opportunity to share with someone other than Mac what Josephson had claimed? She thought not.

“He seems very self-confident,” Annabel substituted.

“Yes, he is that. He seems to have two sides, two personalities. But maybe that’s what makes him so attractive. Forget I even asked. Let’s get inside.”

Speaking of Ray Pawkins.

He spent the rest of the morning at his home, music pouring from the speakers in his elaborate study, and through wireless ones he’d placed in other areas of the house-Verdi, Wagner, Mozart, and Strauss. The volume was loud, louder than even he was accustomed to. He paced from room to room, still in his robe and slippers, and sang along with the sopranos and tenors, stopping every now and then to gesture dramatically in a particularly strong or poignant section of the score. At times, he conducted the orchestra, holding an imaginary baton and urging the musicians to instill more spirit into their playing, pointing at the brass section for emphasis, lowering the volume with outstretched hands, palms down, nodding his head in approval at how they’d followed his directions. It was a fatiguing performance, and by the time lunchtime rolled around, he was bathed in sweat, and hungry. He showered and dressed in gray slacks, a lightweight black mock turtleneck, and black sneakers. He slipped into his shoulder holster, which hung in the closet, donned a tan cotton safari jacket, and went to his study. He opened a small wall safe and removed not his licensed 9mm Glock that was there, but an unregistered.22-caliber he’d confiscated years ago from a drug dealer during a raid. He secured it beneath his armpit in the holster, and checked that the cats had water and food in the kitchen before leaving the house and sliding behind the wheel of his silver Mercedes. His first stop was the 600 Restaurant, across from the Kennedy Center, where he enjoyed a shrimp cocktail, steak sandwich, and a Bloody Mary at the bar.