When the soprano and Warren finished the piece, Pawkins applauded, startling the performers and causing them to squint to better see into the dark recess where he sat. He approached. “Bravo!” he said, his hands still coming together.

“Thank you,” the singer said.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Pawkins said.

“You aren’t. I’m off to a class.”

Warren started to walk away with her, when Pawkins said, “Got a minute, Mr. Warren?”

The pianist turned. “Who are you?”

“Raymond Pawkins,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m investigating the murder of Charise Lee for the Washington National Opera.”

“I’ve already been interviewed by the police,” Warren said.

Pawkins cocked his head and leaned a little closer to Warren. “Accident?” he asked, referring to Warren’s facial bruises.

Warren shook his head.

“I’m a private detective, former Washington MPD. Let’s sit over there.” He indicated a well-worn, red velour couch against a wall behind the Steinway.

“I have nothing more to say,” Warren protested.

“Maybe, maybe not,” replied Pawkins. “Come on, indulge me a few minutes.”

They sat side by side on the couch. Warren’s nerves were on the surface. He kept intertwining his long fingers, and there was a tic in his right eye. Pawkins said nothing, allowing the pianist’s nerves to come full-blossom. Finally, he said, “So, Mr. Warren, tell me about this radical group you and Ms. Lee were involved with back in Toronto.”

Warren’s expression was a mix of surprise and confusion.

“You know what I’m talking about, and I know about it, too. So, let’s make this a short and sweet conversation. How involved was Ms. Lee in the group’s activities?”

“She-she was into it, I suppose.”

“‘Into it’? Be a little more specific.”

“She was always latching on to some new cause. Seemed like whoever she talked to last was the one she listened to.”

“A Dionysian personality,” Pawkins said.

“Huh?”

“Easily influenced, probably easily hypnotized, too. What was her latest cause before coming here to D.C.?”

Warren shrugged. “The war, I guess.”

“Iraq.”

“Yeah. She was really hot over that. Look, I have to go. I have a class, too, and-”

“Sure,” said Pawkins. “You go ahead.”

Warren stood, cradling sheet music to his chest, and took a step away.

“One last thing,” Pawkins said.

Warren turned.

“How did you react when Ms. Lee dumped you for the Arab guy?”

“She didn’t-I didn’t-I wasn’t dumped.”

“I hear different.”

“Oh, man, I can see where you’re going with this,” Warren said. “For your information, I was the one who broke off the relationship, not Charise.”

“Because she was seeing the Arab guy behind your back?”

Warren seemed to be searching for something intelligent to say. Failing, he left the room, causing Pawkins to grin. He’d gotten to him, and he had no doubt that there had been bad blood between the pianist and Charise over the breakup of their romance. Motive to kill her? You bet. Hell hath no fury like a piano player scorned.

He called Carl Berry’s office at MPD and was told the detective was unavailable. “Tell him Ray Pawkins called and was hoping to have lunch with him. I’ll try again later.”

Mac Smith had arisen early in order to catch up on paperwork, professional and personal. Annabel had gone off to yet another meeting of the Opera Ball committee-her life was consumed by meetings these days. He was hard at work in his study at eight that morning when the phone rang.

“Mr. Smith?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Marc Josephson, sir. We met a couple years ago when you and your lovely wife were in London. Lord Battenbrook introduced us.”

“Of course, Mr. Josephson. What a pleasant surprise hearing from you. I trust you are well.”

“Quite well, thank you. You and Mrs. Smith?”

“Busy, happy, and healthy.”

“Splendid. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Just shuffling papers around,” Smith said, laughing. “The computer age was supposed to create a paperless society. Quite the opposite has occurred.”

“Yes. I’m calling from London, Mr. Smith, at the airport, actually. I’m about to board a plane for Washington.”

“Oh? Please, call me Mac.”

“All right. I apologize for this last-minute call, but my trip is last-minute, I’m afraid. I was hoping to get together with you when I arrive.”

“Annabel and I would enjoy seeing you again. How long will you be staying?”

“Only a few days. Let me be direct. I need legal counsel.”

“You do realize that I no longer practice law,” Mac said. “I teach it.”

“Oh, yes, I’m quite aware of that. You discussed your change in careers when we met. Frankly, I need to speak with someone with a knowledge of your laws, not necessarily to engage an attorney. Lord Battenbrook spoke so highly of you and-”

“Aside from the pleasure of seeing you again, I’d be more than happy to provide answers to your questions, provided I know the answers.”

“I can’t ask more than that. Would it be possible to see you this evening?”

“This evening? I-”

“I realize that this is terribly short notice, but I would sincerely appreciate getting together with you at the earliest possible moment.”

“Mind telling me what this is about, this legal question you have?”

“I’d prefer to not discuss it on the phone, but I will say that it involves the murder of a friend and colleague a number of years ago.”

“A murder?”

“Yes, in Washington. His name was Aaron Musinski.”

After a moment of silence, Mac said, “I see.”

“I only have a few minutes before my plane leaves,” Josephson said. “I’ll be staying at the Watergate. My flight is due into Washington at four o’clock your time. If I could possibly buy you dinner tonight, I would be most appreciative. Oh, and please don’t mention to anyone that I am making this trip.”

“All right,” Mac said.

“Thank you, Mac. You must excuse me. They’ve announced my flight. I look forward to hearing from you this evening.”

Mac hit the “Off” button on his cordless phone, lowered it into its charging cradle, and sat quietly for a few minutes, reflecting on the conversation that had just taken place. He tried to recall what he’d read on the material about the Musinski case that Annabel had pulled up from the Internet. Had a Marc Josephson been mentioned? He didn’t think so. Josephson had termed Musinski a friend and colleague. A colleague in what? Oh, yes, Josephson had been introduced to him and Annabel in London as the owner of a shop specializing in rare manuscripts and art. They’d visited his Mayfair shop two years ago, four years after the Musinski murder. Josephson had never mentioned Musinski or his murder during that visit. Mac and Annabel had been in London so Mac could take part in a series of legal seminars hosted by the British Bar. Now, two years later, this phone call comes from out of the blue.

He called Annabel on her cell. “We have an interesting dinner on tap tonight,” he said.

“Sounds intriguing.”

“That’s why we’re doing it.” He filled her in on Josephson’s call.

“The Musinski murder? What does he have to do with that?”

“I don’t know, although my assumption is that it has to do with those missing Mozart musical scores. Allegedly missing.”

“Sure you want me to come along?”

“Yes.”

“You have a supers rehearsal tonight,” she said.

“I know. I’ll call Mr. Josephson and see if we can get together after it. It should be over by eight thirty or nine.”

“Most likely. Have to run. We’ll talk later. Oh, Mac…”

“Uh-huh?”

“Maybe you should call Ray Pawkins and tell him about it.”

“I considered that, Annie, but don’t think I will. Let’s find out what this is all about before bringing in Ray. Okay?”