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indication that he would do what she suspected, take a more active part in the investigation than his protest had promised. His tendency to warm up slowly to something new wasn’t a matter of being difficult. Mackensie Smith was simply a man who didn’t leap into strange waters without first testing their depth and temperature. Like any good lawyer.
     

     
    Mac and Pawkins were finishing their coffee. Mac had dressed casually in response to the hot weather that was pressing down on the city. He was in chino slacks, a tangerine-colored polo shirt, and sneakers. Pawkins, on the other hand, seemed impervious to the heat and humidity. He wore a beautifully tailored, blue poplin suit, a pale cream shirt, and a tie with a graphic of the Mona Lisa on its blue field. The air-conditioning in the restaurant was barely keeping up with the discomforting weather, and Mac dabbed at perspiration on his forehead from time to time. Pawkins never broke a sweat; Mac thought of the E. G. Marshall character in the film Twelve Angry Men.
    “Where do you live, Ray?” Smith asked.
    “Great Falls.”
    Mac’s eyebrows went up. “Lovely area,” he said.
    “How does a retired cop live in such a high-rent district?” Pawkins said. “I fell into it. I rented a gatehouse for years owned by a wealthy real estate guy. He decided to sell and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Actually, it’s pretty modest, although I’ve put in some improvements. How do you like living in the Watergate?”
    “We’re very happy there.”
    “That’s what counts.”
    “You said last night that something had been wedged into the wound to stop the bleeding. Any idea what it was?”
    “A sponge.”
    “Oh? I had the feeling that you didn’t know what it was.”
    “I didn’t. I called Carl Berry this morning before meeting with you. He’s lead on the case.”
    “You work fast.”
    “The faster the better where homicide is concerned. Carl is a good guy, a straight shooter, at least with me.”
    “You told him you were investigating for the opera company?”
    Pawkins nodded.
    “I imagine the powers-that-be there would prefer to keep it sub rosa,” Smith said.
    “To the extent that it can be. I’ll need MPD cooperation, at least unofficially.” He pushed back his chair, cocked his head, and grinned. “A sponge,” he said. “Now, who would have access to a sponge on an empty stage at the Kennedy Center?”
    “I have a feeling you’ll answer that question.”
    “That’s my intention.” Pawkins motioned for the check.
    They parted on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant and agreed to meet at the Opera’s administrative offices at two. As they shook hands, Mac laughed.
    “What’s funny?” Pawkins asked.
    “We spent an entire breakfast without any references from you to operas and opera singers.”
    “Deliberately,” Pawkins said. “I sensed your discomfort when I fell into my habit of relating everything to opera. I promise to curb the temptation. Looking forward to working with you, Mac. It’s nice to be walking on the winning side of the street.”

 

    NINE

    D etective Carl Berry didn’t care that his coffee had gotten cold. It was bad station-house brew, hot or cold, pure shellac. He’d been at First District headquarters since returning from the Kennedy Center and was feeling the effects of having pulled an all-nighter. With him were two detectives called in to assist in the Charise Lee investigation—William Portelain, an imposing, black, bearish, twenty-year veteran whose cynicism about almost everything in life had grown over the years until reaching a point of ongoing annoyance with bosses and colleagues; and Sylvia Johnson, another African American, who’d joined the D.C. force eleven years ago after being turned down by the police department in her native New York City—too many applicants, too few slots. A cousin from Washington had urged her to come here to seek the career in law enforcement she’d coveted since