“I thought you were going to call me today,” the detective-super said offhandedly.

“I intended to, but the day got away from me.”

“What was the reason?”

“For the call? I don’t remember. Couldn’t have been important.”

Pawkins fixed him in a hard, probing stare.

Mac laughed. “No, I mean it,” he said. “I have no idea why I was going to call you. Maybe to further my education in opera.”

He was desperate to get Pawkins aside and ask him directly about his involvement in the Musinski case, but knew he couldn’t raise it at the moment, given the presence of the others in the cramped dressing room.

Pawkins secured his locker door and turned to Mac, his sport jacket open at the waist, enough for the Glock in its holster to be visible. He’d substituted it for the.22 at home before coming to the Kennedy Center. Satisfied that Smith had seen it, he closed the jacket and said, “Going to be a great production, Mac. Agree?”

“I’m sure it will be,” Mac said. He lowered his voice. “Do you always arm yourself for opera rehearsals?”

Pawkins laughed. “Oh, that? You noticed, huh? No. But I’ve decided that with all the street crime in D.C. these days, especially with the weather getting warmer-it brings out the bad guys-I might as well tote some protection. By the way, it’s registered.”

“I’m sure it is,” Mac said. “Wouldn’t do for a former cop to carry an unregistered weapon.” When Pawkins didn’t respond, Mac added,

“Would it?”

“No, it wouldn’t, Mac. I see that Annabel is here. Feel like a drink? I promised Genevieve one. We were supposed to have dinner, but I bailed.”

“I don’t think so, Ray. It’s been a long day for both of us. It’s straight home.”

Am I missing an opportunity? Smith wondered. He decided he wasn’t. He and Annabel had more to discuss before confronting Pawkins with a question as serious as whether he was a thief and murderer.

“Well, see you tomorrow for dress rehearsal,” Pawkins said. “If you remember what it was you wanted to call me about, I’ll be home most of the day.”

“Sure,” Mac said as they went up the aisle to where Annabel and Genevieve waited.

“Good evening, Mrs. Smith,” Pawkins said, his face creased with a wide smile. “Enjoy your husband’s performance?”

“I think he made all the right moves,” she responded. “Walked straight ahead.”

“All the right moves,” Pawkins repeated. “That’s been the story of the counselor’s life, hasn’t it?”

The edge in his voice caused Annabel to meet his eyes without saying anything.

“Well,” Pawkins said, “this lovely lady and I are on our way for a nightcap. Ready, Genevieve?”

“I’m always ready for a nightcap,” she said brightly. “Especially in the morning.”

“I invited you and your husband to join us,” Pawkins said to Annabel, “but he claims advancing age. You two enjoy an early to bed. Ciao!”

Mac and Annabel decided to have a nightcap, too, but not at the Watergate Hotel bar or 600 restaurant, where Pawkins and Genevieve might have gone. Instead they walked up 25th Street to the River Inn’s Foggy Bottom Café. The manager was in the process of closing, but invited them to have a drink, his treat. It was the perfect setting for a serious discussion. They were the only customers there.

“Did he have anything to say to you tonight?” Annabel asked after they’d been served and the manager had disappeared into the kitchen.

“Ray? No.”

“He was acting strange.”

“So I noticed. He’s always smug, or a little strange, but there was an extra dollop of it tonight.”

“I’m worried about Genevieve.”

“Because she went out for a drink with him?”

“Yes.” She gripped his arm on the bar. “Mac, the man may be a murderer.”

“I’m well aware of that, Annie.”

“You have to go to the police.”

“With what? We’ve been over this before. I have nothing except the word of a slightly unbalanced Englishman. He took all his supporting evidence with him, every scrap.”

“The police can call Josephson.”

“To what end? If Ray paid Josephson off, he undoubtedly bought his silence. Josephson doesn’t give a damn about who killed Musinski. He opted to not go to the police while he was here because that would muddy the waters about the money from the musical scores, and who it belongs to. Frankly, I wonder if he’s even entitled to half of it. He never showed us any piece of paper between him and Musinski regarding the scores.” He downed the remainder of his cognac.

“There’s only one approach,” he said, “and that’s for me to confront Pawkins.”

“For us to confront him, you mean,” she said.

“No, you stay out of it, Annie.”

“Absolutely not. I was there when Josephson told his tale, and I’ve been in the loop ever since.”

“Which doesn’t mean you have to stay in it. If Ray is to be approached, I’m the one to do it.”

“It was my idea to bring him into the Charise Lee murder.”

“And I was the one who actually did it. Speaking of Charise Lee, I haven’t heard another word about it except what the papers say, and that isn’t much anymore.”

She, too, finished her drink. “Maybe we should ask Pawkins about that-not what he’s come up with, but whether he killed her, too.”

“Let’s not get carried away, Annie. We have no reason to suspect that of him.”

A vision of the Asian woman waiting for Pawkins at rehearsal came and went.

They thanked the manager for the drinks and walked back to their apartment, where Rufus greeted them with rowdy enthusiasm.

“I’ll call Ray tomorrow and try to set up a date with him,” Mac said after returning from walking the “beast,” the Great Dane.

“Maybe you should wait,” she said.

His face mirrored his surprise. “I thought you were anxious for me to do it,” he said.

“I was anxious for us to do it. But dress rehearsal is tomorrow night, opening night after that, and then the ball. I don’t want to do anything to taint those things.”

“All right,” Mac said. “We’ll give it a few days, let the show go on, and then deal with it. As long as he doesn’t know we know, there’s no reason to rush it.”

They climbed into bed and Mac turned off the bedside lamp.

“By the way,” Annabel said, “you looked splendid in your costumes tonight.”

“Thank you. I have to admit, I’m enjoying it.”

“I knew you would. Good night.”

“Good night, Mrs. Smith.”

Both slept fitfully that night.

THIRTY-FIVE

“How come we’re pulling this duty, Carl?”

Willie Portelain and Sylvia Johnson sat in Berry’s office. They’d been assigned to a contingent of metropolitan police working security for the Opera Ball at the Brazilian Embassy.

“Supply and demand, Willie,” Berry said. “We have to provide X number of cops to the event, uniformed and plainclothes. That’s the demand. We’re shorthanded. That’s the supply. Think of it this way. Plácido Domingo himself might spot you, recognize your talent, and make you an opera star.”

Sylvia laughed. “You’re sure built like one, Willie,” she said playfully.

“Lost two pounds,” he said proudly.

“Yeah, I noticed right away,” said Berry, shooting a bemused glance at Sylvia, who lowered her head and smiled.

Before Portelain and Johnson had arrived, he’d been reading that morning’s paper, including a long article about the production of Tosca. According to the writer, a relatively new addition to the Post’s Entertainment section, the dress rehearsal she’d been invited to attend gave promise of a spectacular production the following night.

Aside from a few rough spots that I’m sure the director, Anthony Zambrano, will smooth out before the opening, this particular reincarnation of the Puccini classic has all the trappings of greatness. The Washington National Opera has slowly but surely worked its way into the top tier of American opera companies. This Tosca will go far to cement its well-earned, lofty position.