“I’ll certainly keep that in mind, Ray. I have a wonderful pair of purple cashmere socks I intended to wear on opening night. I suppose that’s out of the question now. Any other admonitions?”

“Just one. Never whistle when you’re on the deck.”

“More bad luck?”

“Right.”

“Why?”

“I plead the Fifth, meaning I don’t know. Thanks for lunch, Mac. See you at rehearsal.”

Smith watched the former detective stride from the restaurant, turning a few female eyes as he passed their tables. Mac’s feelings were mixed. On the one hand, he enjoyed Pawkins’ company and respected what the man had accomplished-decorated cop elevated to detective status early in his career, and the lead investigator in high-profile cases; successful private investigator specializing in stolen art; and myriad personal interests, including opera to the extent that he volunteered to be an extra-a super-in various productions. All in all, a full and diversified life made richer.

On the other hand, there was a piece missing, one that Mac couldn’t identify at the moment. Annabel had picked up on it even sooner. The self-assuredness and easy banter seemed, at least to Mac, to cover up a void of some sort. An emotional vacuum? Possibly. Pawkins had never married. Did that indicate an inability to truly connect with another person, to engage in the give-and-take necessary for successful relationships, whether heterosexual or homosexual? Mac wasn’t a fan of cheap-shot, pop psychology and avoided indulging in it. But understanding other human beings was crucial to his success as a criminal lawyer. That’s what trial law was all about, anticipating the opposition’s moves and preempting them, getting under the skin of a witness by pushing his or her right psychological buttons, knowing what made people tick and how to throw them off their stride. He was good at it, sometimes so good that it caused him moments of guilt. Justice wasn’t always served in a courtroom, not when good attorneys plied their trade and used the system as advocates for a side or point of view, even if it represented a miscarriage of justice. But that was the game, the profession, and Mackensie Smith had played it as well as any lawyer ever has.

Ray Pawkins. What was it that had stirred Annabel’s interest and extended her antennae? What was it that caused Mac a minor-league discomfort as he sipped his coffee and abandoned his resolve against dessert for warm flourless chocolate cake?

He’d been tempted more than once during lunch to mention the call from Marc Josephson, but didn’t. He had no reason to think that Josephson’s sudden trip to Washington had anything to do with Pawkins. But something inside said it might well involve the retired detective, and he walked back to the apartment with that unsettling thought very much on his mind.

TWENTY-FIVE

It had been a busy and frustrating morning at MPD for Carl Berry.

His superior, Cole Morris, had informed him that he was being pulled from the Charise Lee case, at least for the time being.

“Why?” Berry had asked. “I think we’re making progress.”

“I’m sure you are,” Morris said, “but I take orders like you do. They want a task force assembled to focus on the Lee case.”

Berry started to respond but Morris waved him off. “I know, I know,” he said, “it’s all PR. But we’re getting pressure from Justice and the Canadians to solve this thing, to say nothing of the press. A task force sounds like it’ll make a full-frontal assault, waves of cops swooping down on the culprit. At least that’s the way the public will perceive it. Let them make the announcement, enjoy the accolades, and things will get back to normal. Meantime, I want you to bring in Grimes.”

“He’s being charged with the Musinski murder?”

“He’s being told he’s being charged. We’ll see if that breaks him. I don’t know, Carl, the new forensic evidence is shaky. A good lawyer will poke holes in it like Swiss cheese. But it’s better than what we had before. Bring him in and we’ll see what falls.”

“I’ll send Willie and Sylvia, now that they’re off the Lee case.”

“Good, but tell Willie to go easy. I don’t need the threat of another brutality charge hanging over us.”

At one, Berry, Johnson, and Portelain sat in an MPD interrogation room with Edward Grimes, an adjunct professor of music history at Georgetown University. Grimes was, he claimed, thirty-six years old, but he looked older. He was of medium height, and deathly pale. Totally bald on top, he’d grown his hair long on the sides and back and secured it into a ragged ponytail, which only highlighted his baldness. He wore wrinkled chinos, sandals over white sweat socks, and a burgundy T-shirt with GEORGETOWN U on it in white. His rimless glasses were round, thick, and too small for his face. All in all, Berry decided, he was not a college professor out of Central Casting. He looked positively frightened as he sat across the scarred table from the three detectives. Johnson and Portelain had found him in his office at the school and brought him in without incident.

“I appreciate you coming in like this to talk to us,” Berry said pleasantly, as if welcoming a long-lost friend into his home.

“I don’t understand,” Grimes said. “This is very embarrassing. My colleagues saw me being led from my office by two detectives. I just don’t understand why I’m here.”

“Well,” said Berry, “we just wanted to ask you a few questions about Professor Musinski.”

“I knew it,” Grimes whined, wringing his hands. “I knew it. Why do you want to talk to me again about that dreadful thing? Professor Musinski was my friend. He mentored me. I loved him like a father.”

“I’ll be straight with you, Mr. Grimes. Or is it Professor Grimes?”

“I am a professor. Adjunct.”

“Not full,” Johnson said.

“That’s right. Next year. If things go well, I’ll be offered a full professorship. That’s why this is so terrible, bringing me here like this. What will they think of me at the school?”

“They won’t think nothin’ of you if you didn’t kill Musinski,” Portelain said flatly.

An anguished groan came from Grimes.

“Did you?” Berry asked.

“What? Kill Professor Musinski? Of course not. I swear to you I had nothing to do with it. He was revered. I loved him-”

“Like a father,” Johnson finished the thought. She was unsmiling.

“Yes. Why won’t you believe me?”

“It isn’t that we don’t believe you, Professor Grimes,” Berry said. “We want to believe you. But there’s new evidence that causes us to have some doubts.”

“What evidence?” Grimes asked. “What new evidence could there possibly be?”

“DNA,” Berry replied. “We’ve found some on the fireplace poker that killed the professor.”

“It isn’t mine,” protested Grimes. “It can’t be mine. You tested everything six years ago when it happened. You said you found nothing to link me to his death.”

“True,” Johnson weighed in, “but that was six years ago. We were looking for prints back then and couldn’t match the partials on the weapon with you or anyone else.”

Berry added, “But new and more sophisticated DNA tests now tell us that you had contact with that poker. Why would you have had contact with it?”

A small, crooked smile suddenly came to Grimes’ lips. “You’re lying to me,” he said. “Even if I had touched that poker, my hands wouldn’t leave any DNA traces.”

“Maybe you drooled on it,” Portelain said.

“Sweat,” Johnson added.

“Why would you be handling a fireplace poker in that weather?” Berry asked.

“Unless-” Johnson said.

“I probably touched that poker other times when I visited with Dr. Musinski. Don’t you understand? I did not do this!”

“Some of your colleagues at the school say you and Musinski didn’t get along too good,” Willie said, basing the claim on nothing.