Murder at the Opera

TWENTY-FOUR

Ray Pawkins awoke with a start. A shaft of light had managed to find a slit in the drapes and hit him in the eye like a laser.

He turned away from the brightness with the intention of dozing off again. But the body next to him moved, causing him to push up against the headboard and to rub sleep from his eyes. He glanced over. The woman snored softly and wrinkled her nose. He’d forgotten she was there.

They’d enjoyed dinner together following the supers rehearsal and had returned to his house to sample a new port that had been touted by a salesman at Rodman’s, Pawkins’ favorite wine shop, and to listen to opera. They’d argued, but only briefly, over which opera to choose from his expansive collection. She preferred a recording of Bizet’s Carmen with Leontyne Price and Franco Corelli, which she’d heard and enjoyed before. But Pawkins said, “If we must listen to Carmen, I prefer the Callas version with Georges Prêtre conducting. Frankly, though, I’m not in the mood for Carmen tonight.” He chose instead Satyagraha, written by Philip Glass and performed by the New York City Opera Orchestra and Chorus.

“I don’t know that one,” she said, the corners of her mouth turned down at having her selection dismissed.

“A gorgeous work,” he said. “It deserves a better recording than this one, although the singing is first-rate. Unfortunately, the orchestra sounds uninspired, thanks to a lackadaisical conductor. Come. Sit next to me on the couch. Your lesson is about to begin.”

Now, he continued to look down at her in bed. Her hair was long, and cascaded over the delicate yellow pillowcase. Pawkins was always impressed with the inky blackness and luxurious texture of Asian women’s hair. Her eyes fluttered open and closed immediately. Her hand went to her nose to swipe away an itch. Pawkins noted her fingers, tipped with polish the color of castor oil. Too short, he thought, referring to her fingers. The rest of her was longer. She stood as tall as he did.

They’d first met at a record store, where he purchased the latest opera CDs while she selected from the classical section. Their initial conversation confirmed that she knew something about opera, but only in a popular sense, familiar arias and the biggest names-“La donna e mobile” from Rigoletto; “Un bel di, vedremo” from Madame Butterfly; “Che gelida manina” from La Boheme; and Domingo, Anna Moffo, Brigit Nilsson, Richard Tucker, Caruso, Kiri Te Kanawa, and, of course, Pavarotti. But that was enough for him. So few women he met had ever even attended an opera, let alone had a working knowledge of that most elegant and complex of entertainments.

Their date last evening had been their second; the first involved dinner and a movie, and Pawkins had been certain that an encore would result in sex.

He slipped out of bed and walked naked to the bathroom. When he returned wrapped in a terry-cloth robe, she still slept. He sat in a chair by the window and parted the drapes. It was gray outside, as gray as his mood. He looked across the room at the yellow hills and valleys her body created beneath the sheet and sighed. This was the trouble with bedding a woman. They were there in the morning. He’d considered driving her home after their lovemaking, but by that time he wasn’t of a mind to get dressed, let alone end up in an argument. She’d said with a knowing smile as she was about to fall asleep, “It feels so good in the morning.”

Actually, she’d fallen asleep much earlier, a half hour into the playing of Satyagraha, which annoyed him. He’d been telling her about the opera and Mohandas Gandhi’s influence on the composer; how “Satyagraha” was the name Gandhi had given to his nonviolent resistance movement; and how Glass’s first opera, Einstein on the Beach, had been a success but had left the composer broke and driving a New York City taxi. He wanted to tell her these things-educate her-but she’d nodded off on his shoulder. He especially enjoyed the opera’s final scene and wanted her to appreciate it with him, but she was long gone, her small guttural sounds in his ear not enhancing the musical score.

She was wide-awake, though, once they’d undressed and were beneath the sheets, skin to skin, electrical pulses jumping the gaps, male and female sounds of sexual bliss creating their own aria.

“Good morning,” she said now, propping a pillow behind her and pulling the sheet up over her breasts.

“Good morning. Sleep well?”

“Very. You?”

“Yeah, fine.”

She smiled and motioned with her index finger for him to join her in bed.

“Love to,” he said, standing and tightening the robe’s sash, “but I have to get to an early appointment downtown. Sorry. We must do this again sometime.”

She showered first. When he emerged from the bathroom, she was dressed and watching the news on TV.

“Can you believe it?” she said. “Terrorists are planning to kill American big shots, maybe even the president.”

Pawkins stood behind her and watched the TV report. An anonymous but “highly placed” source in the government’s intelligence apparatus had leaked the news of al-Qaeda’s alleged plan to assassinate American political leaders. The reporter, whose breathlessness was a little too over-the-top, continued the story as BREAKING NEWS flashed at the bottom of the screen. Everything these days on cable news shows seemed to be “breaking news.”

“Intercepts of terrorist chatter have, according to this highly credible source, indicated that al-Qaeda and affiliated terrorist groups have decided to forgo large, spectacular targets like September eleven and focus on symbolic assassinations of American political leaders. In addition-and this has not been confirmed-there appears to be a connection between al-Qaeda and unspecified Jihadist cells in Canada. Stay tuned for further developments as they unfold.”

“You’d never think Canada would be involved,” she said as Pawkins used the remote to turn off the television. “They’re our friends.”

“He didn’t say Canada was involved,” Pawkins said. “And there’re terrorist groups in every nation in the world. Come on, I’m running late.”

He drove her to her apartment building, where a chaste kiss on the cheek sent her from the car. “I’ll call,” he said, not sure he would. No pox on her. She was attractive and sexy, aside from short fingers, and their bedtime tussle had been satisfactory.

But at the moment he had other, more pressing things on his mind. He had work to do.

He’d called a friend in Toronto a few days ago, a private detective for whom he’d done a few favors over the years, including having rescued a small Raphael still life that had been stolen from a Canadian collector, who’d hired Pawkins’ Toronto buddy to get it back. The thief, a barbarian with no appreciation of art, had cut the painting from its frame on the wall, which in Pawkins’ mind raised the crime to a capital offense, punishable by lethal injection. Pawkins traced the painting to a fat cat in Bethesda known to have a particular fondness for Raphael. Pawkins confronted the Bethesda collector and cut a deal: Give back the painting or face jail time. He delivered the work to his Toronto colleague and split a hefty fee with him. Of course, this was after Pawkins had retired from the MPD. It would have been a dicey deal had he still been a D.C. cop.

Pawkins had asked his Canadian friend to dig into the background of Charise Lee. He’d learned over his years as a Homicide detective that it was usually the victim who gave up the most useful clues. Know the victim and you know why someone would want him-or in this case, her-killed.

“Ms. Lee was an interesting young lady,” his friend reported on the phone. “Little girl, big talent-and a fiery disposition.”

“Fiery? How so?”

“Big on causes. Hung around with a group of like-minded wackos. Attended protests, carried signs, wants world hunger ended, protested your government’s invasion of Iraq. By the way, Ray, I agree with that.”

“Go on.”

“Had her share of boyfriends, none of whom she was likely to bring home to meet Daddy. Had a thing going with a piano player who, I’ve learned, went with her to Washington to study in this opera program you’ve got down there.”

“Christopher Warren.”

“Right. Anyway, after she played footsie with this Warren guy, she hooked up with an Iranian student at McGill U. He’s been linked to some organization that our government considers a possible terrorist sympathizer, fundraiser-feed the children but make sure there’s a little left over for belts that blow up. Of course, our government still hasn’t figured out what to do with mad cow disease, so its so-called war on terror is suspect.”

Pawkins was silent.

“Ray? You there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I’m trying to process all this. What the hell is a beautiful, young future opera star doing with that bunch of losers?”

“Hey, I don’t analyze. I just report. Just the facts, ma’am, like your TV guy Webb used to say on Dragnet. I loved that show.”

“So did I. What about the agents I told you about, Melincamp and Baltsa?”

“I’m working on that. I only have two hands, you know.”

“Was Christopher Warren involved with these wackos, too?”

“Evidently. By the way, you made this Charise Lee out to be a young kid. Young, hell. She was twenty-eight.”

“That’s young from my vantage point,” Pawkins said.

“I mean,” said his friend, “it’s a little old to still be marching for old left-wing causes.”

“No it’s not,” Pawkins said. “Lots of domeheads and guys with artificial knees marching these days. Gives them something to do, I suppose, makes them forget they have one foot in the grave. Thanks, buddy. Get back to me when you check out the agents.”

“They’re both coming!”

“Who?”

“The president and first lady.”

“We already knew that.”

“No, no, no, I don’t mean opening night for Tosca. They’re both coming to the ball.”

Annabel was one of a dozen women that morning attending a meeting of the Opera Ball committee, at which the announcement was made by chairwoman Nicki Frolich.

Frolich’s enthusiasm wasn’t shared by everyone else in the room. One spoilsport was the chair of the executive committee, Camile Worthington. “I’m not sure I’d be so excited about it,” she said. “Do you realize what it will mean having the president there? It was enough of a security nightmare with the first lady making an appearance. The president? It will be chaos, sheer chaos.”

“We can handle it,” Frolich said.

“We’d better handle it,” Laurie Webster, the opera company’s PR director, chimed in. “This is great. No president has ever attended the ball. We’ll get tremendous press out of it.”

“And have Secret Service people tasting all the food,” Camile said. “Look, I know this represents a coup of sorts, and we don’t have any choice but to make it work. But I’m an old hand at these things. I’ve been involved before in events at which the president showed up. You have no idea what it entails.”

“I’ve had my share of those experiences, too,” Nicki said, not about to be trumped. Camile Worthington wasn’t the only woman in the room to have partaken in affairs important enough for the president to lend his name and presence. “It just involves more planning, that’s all, and coordination with the White House. Let’s not put blinders on. Laurie is right. We’ll have wonderful press coverage.”

“Sell lots of tickets, too,” someone offered.

“We’re already sold out,” said another.

“What do you think, Annabel?”

Annabel laughed. “I don’t think it matters what anyone thinks,” she said. “If the president of the United States says he’s coming to the Opera Ball, you can’t very well call and uninvite him. He’s coming, we know he’s coming, and that’s that. I’m sure he and the first lady will make every attempt to disrupt as little as possible.”

“Annabel is right,” Nicki said. “Let’s view this positively and enjoy the honor it means to us and the opera. I also suggest that we immediately select someone to coordinate the president’s appearance. Annabel? It sounds like a job you’d be more than qualified to handle.”

Annabel started to demur, but others seconded the suggestion.

“Will you do it, Annabel?”

“I’ll give it my best,” she said.

“All right, then,” Nicki said, “let’s get down to the other business at hand. I’m pleased to announce that the strike has ended at the manufacturer of our velvet goodie bags. He’s confident he’ll be able to meet our deadline. I might also say that…”

Pawkins headed for Takoma Park, where he found Chris Warren accompanying a young, black soprano from the Domingo-Cafritz Program. Pawkins sat quietly in a corner of the otherwise empty rehearsal room and listened to her tackle “Marten aller Arten,” a challenging aria from Mozart’s Abduction from the Seraglio. Not bad, he thought, although he considered her voice to be characteristically light. Too many light voices being developed in America, he mused, too many young sopranos being fed a diet of Mozart arias to develop airy, nimble voices; constricted, compacted voices; “sausage sopranos,” as they were snidely called. He preferred bigger voices, the kind European opera audiences responded to, older voices-but not too old-capable of filling a large opera house while plumbing the depths of their roles.

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?”

“Whatever you say. Love you. Bye.”

Mac put aside the Josephson call as he went back to the pile of papers on his desk. At eleven, the phone rang.

“Hope I’m not disturbing you and the missus in something sensuous and pleasurable,” Pawkins said.

“If you were, I wouldn’t have answered the phone, Ray. What’s up?”

“First, I thought you looked splendid last night at the rehearsal.”

“I’m getting into my role, as the thespians say. You looked okay yourself. So did that lovely woman who was waiting for you.”

“Yes, very nice. I love the idea of there being two sexes, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Mac said with a chuckle.

“Thurber’s view precisely. Free for lunch?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Good. I have a few things to report on the murder. I’m at Takoma Park now. It’s been an interesting morning.”

“Looking forward to hearing all about it,” Smith said. “Twelve thirty?”

“Sounds good. I’ll come to the Watergate.”

“I’ll make a reservation downstairs at Aquarelle.”

“Shame Jeffrey’s closed there. Must have broken the Bushes’ hearts when they were in D.C.”

“Nothing’s forever, including administrations and restaurants-especially restaurants. They can enjoy their Tex-Mex meals back in Austin. Twelve thirty.”

Pawkins was in his car and heading for the Watergate when his cell phone rang.

“Ray. It’s Carl Berry.”

“Hey, buddy, good to hear from you.”

“I got your message about lunch. No can do. But can you find time this afternoon to swing by here?”

“For you, I have all the time in the world. What’s up?”

“The Musinski case.”

“Oh? Making progress?”

“I think so. I need to go over your reports from when you investigated.”

“Nothing I can add,” Pawkins said. “Everything I know is in those reports.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” said Berry, “but there are some loose ends we’d like to tie up before we go any further.”

“Like what?”

“Not over the phone. What’s good for you?”

“Since you didn’t get back to me until now, I found someone else to break bread with. Three?”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Aquarelle was busy, as usual, when Pawkins walked in, spotted Mac at a window table overlooking the Potomac, and took the seat opposite him. Remembering Annabel’s comments about the way the ex-detective dressed, Mac made a point of taking in what his luncheon companion wore that day-British tan chinos with razor creases, blue button-down shirt with a collar slightly higher than those bought off the rack, an intricately patterned tie in gold and browns, and a coffee-colored corduroy sport jacket with leather elbow patches and buttons. Whether his outfit was expensive to put together escaped Mac. All he knew was that Pawkins wore whatever he happened to have on extremely well.

“I haven’t been here since they reopened,” Pawkins said, indicating the dining room with a sweep of his hand.

Aquarelle had opened in the Watergate in 1996 and was a favorite of President and Mrs. Clinton during their White House days, although Jean-Louis’ Palladin saw its share of the first couple, too. The Kennedys had a special fondness for the Jockey Club, a distinctly nonpartisan choice since the Republican Reagans also were regulars there. President and Laura Bush made it known when they arrived on the Washington scene that they missed the Texas-based restaurant Jeffrey’s, and so Aquarelle gave way to that Tex-Mex establishment until 2003, when it closed, in part due to the stay-at-home Bush family’s lack of presence. Aquarelle was brought back, much to the delight of many Washingtonians, particularly those residing in the Watergate apartments, for whom Southwestern food was not the be-all, end-all.

“Consistently good,” Mac offered as a waiter placed menus before them. “Crab cakes?”

“Why not.”

“So, Ray, you say you have some interesting developments in your investigation of the murder. I’m anxious to hear.”

“Where do I start?” He motioned for a waiter and ordered a Bloody Mary. Mac declined a drink. “I spent time with the victim’s friend from Toronto, the pianist, Christopher Warren. In fact, I just left him at Takoma Park.”

“And?”

“He’s high on my suspect list.”

“Based on what?”

Pawkins laughed. “You sound the way you did when you were trying cases and grilling me on the stand.”

“Old habits die hard. Tell me more about this pianist.”

“He’s a former boyfriend of the deceased. Toronto. She jilted him for some Arab stud, which would make any guy angry, maybe enough to kill.”

“You got that out of him?”

“I had a little advance info that greased the skids.”

“What about those agents?”

“They’re next on my agenda, Mac. And there’s a guy at the Kennedy Center I’m taking a closer look at.”

“Who’s that?”

“No names at this point. Let’s just say that he’s known to have a thing for Asian women.”

Smith’s immediate thought was of the attractive Asian woman who waited for Pawkins at the supers rehearsal the previous night, but didn’t comment. Most men, he knew, tended to gravitate to a certain type of woman-blonde, redhead (certainly true in his case with Annabel), brunette, tall, short, plump, skinny. Second wives tended to mirror in some fashion first wives, although not always. Smith’s first wife, who’d died along with their only son in that dreadful auto accident, had been a brunette and considerably shorter than Annabel. No hard-and-fast rules, but tendencies.

“Was he there the night Ms. Lee was killed?” Smith asked.

“What? Oh, sorry, My mind wandered. It tends to do that more these days.”

Pawkins was thinking of his meeting later that afternoon with Detective Berry.

“The pianist,” Mac repeated. “Was he there the night she was killed?”

“Sure he was. Genevieve pressed him into duty as a super.”

“Yes, I remember him at the first get-together.”

“I’ll know more about him later today. I’m meeting with MPD after I leave here.”

As they ate, Pawkins said, “So, tell me, Mac, how your first brush with opera is going.”

“Going well,” he replied.

“Good. I’d hate it to be an unpleasant experience for you. Heard the latest bit of scuttlebutt?”

Mac’s raised eyebrows called for an explanation.

“Seems our diva in this production is unhappy with the soft drinks. They’re using Coke onstage for the drinking scenes. She’s a Pepsi fanatic and refuses to go on unless they change to Pepsi.”

“So,” Mac said, enjoying a final bite of crab cake, “give her Pepsi.”

“My thought exactly,” Pawkins said. He looked at his watch. “I’d better go. I’ve got a busy afternoon on tap.”

“Don’t let me stop you.”

Mac’s cell phone rang. It was Annabel. When the brief conversation was over, Mac said to Pawkins, “Annabel has just come from a meeting of the Opera Ball committee. I have a bit of scuttlebutt to report, too.”

“Oh?”

“Not only are the president and first lady attending the opening night of Tosca, they plan to make an appearance at the ball.”

“How did the ladies get so unlucky? It’ll be crawling with Secret Service.”

“I’m sure they’ll manage. Go ahead and run, Ray. I’m going to have coffee. The check is mine.”

“If you insist.” He started to get up, but sat down again. “Mind a word of advice, Mac Smith?”

“Depends on what it’s about.”

“Opera,” Pawkins said. “I couldn’t help but notice that purple sweater you wore last night at rehearsal.”

“Actually, it’s plum-colored, but go ahead.”

“It looked purple to me,” Pawkins said. “At any rate, purple is considered bad luck in opera.”

“Why?”

“I feel like I’m back on the witness stand,” said Pawkins. “But to answer your question, Counselor, purple denotes religion, and operas were not to denote religion in their themes and stories. Samson and Delila broke through that prohibition, but purple is still considered bad karma onstage.”

“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.