“There’s nothing to be concerned about, Annie. He doesn’t know we know. Better to keep it that way, at least for now.”

A kiss and he was gone, the bathroom door closing behind him.

The last time Ray Pawkins had spoken with Marc Josephson was six months after the murder of Dr. Aaron Musinski, almost six years ago. He’d taken the call at MPD, where he was still a detective.

Josephson had introduced himself as a professional colleague of Musinski. He owned, he said, a shop in the Mayfair section of London dedicated to rare manuscripts, art, and musical scores. He was, he said, terribly dismayed at the death of his colleague and friend, and wondered whether Pawkins could shed some light on the circumstances surrounding Musinski’s murder.

Pawkins had said he wasn’t at liberty to discuss an ongoing case, but would be glad to take Josephson’s phone number and call once he was free to release information. That prompted Josephson to thank the detective for his courtesies, and to ask about the disposition of Musinski’s personal effects.

“His niece, a Ms. Felicia James, has taken control of Dr. Musinski’s assets. She’s his next of kin.”

“Yes, I know of her,” Josephson said. “Let me be candid, Detective Pawkins. Dr. Musinski and I were involved for many years in searching out rare musical manuscripts written by Mozart in collaboration with Joseph Haydn. They were string quartets.”

“Well,” Pawkins said, “I wouldn’t know about such things. As I said, once we concluded our investigation at Dr. Musinski’s house, Ms. James took control of anything that was in it. Sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t be of any help to you.”

“I’ve spoken with Ms. James,” Josephson said. “She tells me that those musical scores had been in her uncle’s home but disappeared shortly after his murder.”

“Look,” Pawkins said, “I’m a Homicide detective, not a music critic. I don’t know anything about string quartets by Mozart and…who?”

“Joseph Haydn. I understand this is not your area of expertise, but I just thought you might have some information that would be helpful to me. You see, those scores are worth a great deal of money. Dr. Musinski had taken them with him when he returned to Washington from London, to begin the authenticating process. They’ve simply vanished into thin air.”

“I doubt if they vanished into thin air, as you put it. Whoever killed Dr. Musinski undoubtedly took them,” Pawkins said. “Maybe that’s why he was murdered.”

“Precisely my thought,” Josephson said. “Well, sir, I’ve already taken too much of your time. Thank you.”

This second call from Marc Josephson woke Pawkins.

“Mr. Raymond Pawkins?”

“Yeah.”

He looked over at the clock. Seven thirty. He’d been out late, hadn’t gotten home until three. He’d been at a birthday party at a friend’s apartment off Dupont Circle. His friend, whose birthday it was, had lived with his gay partner for the past twenty years and was part of a small circle of opera-loving friends. They’d consumed large quantities of wine, good wine-his friend had impeccable taste in almost everything, his collection of CDs rivaling Pawkins’. They’d listened to the complete recordings of Alban Berg’s twelve-tone Lulu, with a spectacular performance by Teresa Stratas playing the amoral slut Lulu, who corrupts every man she meets until getting her comeuppance at the end from none other than Jack the Ripper; and to the Angel recording of Jules Massenet’s Werther, with stirring performances by the lyric tenor Alfredo Kraus and the late Tatiana Troyanos, who played the doomed Charlotte. A spirited argument broke out among the fifteen guests about the significance of Werther in today’s society, with no clear-cut winner.

Pawkins’ head throbbed as he pushed himself up in the bed and held the receiver to his ear.

“This is Marc Josephson.”

“Who?”

“Marc Josephson. You don’t remember me?”

“Obviously I don’t. Oh, wait a minute. Yeah. You were in business with Musinski.”

“We were colleagues, Mr. Pawkins. I would like to speak with you in person.”

“About what?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “If you want to know how the investigation is going, you can call Detective Berry at MPD.”

“I’m not here to speak with any detective, Mr. Pawkins,” Josephson said, fighting to keep his voice under control. “I wish to speak with you!”

“Where are you?”

“I am here in Washington.”

“Yeah, well, I’m really busy and-”

“You remember Mr. Georges Saibrón, of course,” Josephson said.

The mention of the Frenchman’s name caused Pawkins to swing his legs off the side of the bed and to focus more on the call.

“Mr. Pawkins? Are you there?”

“I don’t know anybody named Saibrón.”

“Oh, yes you do. And you know about your bank account in the islands and-”

“What the hell do you want, Josephson?”

“I want my money, Mr. Pawkins.”

“What money?”

“Don’t force me to go to the authorities, Mr. Pawkins. I have all the evidence.”

“Look, Josephson, I…All right, I’ll meet with you. But I’m telling you, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I’m staying at the Watergate Hotel, and will be here for two more days. Come to my room this afternoon.”

“I can’t today. It’ll have to be tomorrow.”

Josephson’s voice raised an octave. “Don’t put me off, Pawkins. I want to see you today!”

Pawkins waited a beat before saying, “All right. What time?”

“Four o’clock. Don’t disappoint me.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.”

“And Mr. Pawkins, should Mr. or Mrs. Mackensie Smith call, please inform them that they no longer represent me. Good day.”

Pawkins slipped the cordless phone back into its bedside cradle and went to his elaborate study, where he turned on the computer. He went to “My Favorites” and clicked on Google. It took only a few minutes to find a photograph of Josephson from one of the interviews he gave to British media. Pawkins studied it, turned off the computer, and put a CD into the changer, Verdi’s Otello, featuring opera’s greatest modern Otello, Plácido Domingo. Music always helped him think.

He sank into a red leather recliner and processed what had just transpired on the phone. Josephson sounded ancient, his voice feeble. He said he had “evidence.” What evidence could he possibly have? Whatever it was, Pawkins could handle it, and him, the old Englishman.

Mackensie and Annabel Smith were another matter.

THIRTY-TWO

This morning was not unlike most other mornings for Joseph Browning III.

He awoke before sunrise and took a cup of coffee and the newspaper to the small brick patio outside the kitchen of the Alexandria, Virginia, home he shared with Christine, his wife of thirty-two years. He’d been a Washington bureaucrat for twenty-seven of those years. Possessing a freshly minted Yale law degree, he’d gravitated to the nation’s capital as a young attorney for the Department of the Interior before progressing through a succession of jobs, each with a higher GS rating and increasingly involving intelligence functions-State, Justice, the FAA, and now the Department of Homeland Security (DHS). Cynics might view his career as one in which he was incapable of holding a steady job. But Joe knew better. Surviving changing administrations was a talent unto itself, and Browning took pride in still being gainfully employed after seeing a string of presidents join the ranks of the unemployed.

The summons to assume a post at the newly created DHS represented, at least to family and friends, an important step up in his career. The safety and security of the United States of America, and the fate of its citizens, necessarily took center stage after 9/11. Being in the forefront of protecting the republic would be a heady experience, one that he’d attack with purpose and dedication.