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soup was set before him. “That’s impossible to say at this juncture. What’s certain is that the murderer acted swiftly. Ms. Lee was obviously stabbed by something, a knife, scissors, any sharp instrument.” He paused. “Maybe a spear. There are always plenty of those backstage at an opera. At any rate, her assailant evidently—and I hasten to say that this is based purely on a cursory look I had at the wound—plunged the weapon into her chest, immediately withdrew it, and in an instant shoved some sort of material into the wound, which stemmed the flow of blood, at least long enough to move the body elsewhere without dripping a trail behind.”
    “Grotesque,” Annabel commented.
    “It sounds as though it was well planned,” Mac said. “Premeditated.”
    “A reasonable assumption,” said Pawkins, taking a spoonful of soup between thoughts.
    Annabel’s cell phone rang. She quickly answered, glancing about to see whether it had disturbed anyone. The adjacent tables were empty.
    “Hello?” she said. “No, I’m here at the Watergate bar with my husband. Now? A half hour? Of course. I’ll be there.”
    She clicked the phone closed and returned it to her purse.
    “What’s up?” Mac asked.
    “That was Camile Worthington.” To Pawkins: “She’s chairman of the Opera board’s executive committee.”
    “I’ve met her.”
    “They’re holding an emergency meeting in a half hour.”
    “They work fast,” Mac said.
    “I hate to run, but I have to,” she said, standing and extending her hand. “It was good meeting you. Mac often talks about how good a detective you were.”
    Pawkins stood and accepted her hand. “Knowing I might be cross-examined by your husband kept me on my toes. Good night.”
    Pawkins’ second course arrived and he offered Mac a shrimp.
    “Thanks,” Mac said, dipping it into the sauce. “So, tell me, Raymond, what you’ve been up to since retirement. I assume being a super in an occasional opera doesn’t take up all your time.”
    “I wish it could,” he said. “I love it. When I’m not in costume, which is most of the time, I keep quite busy. I’ve been collecting recordings of great opera performances for years now. I must have five hundred or so, all neatly cataloged. I’ve been doing some writing about opera for minor magazines. I still have my four feline friends, although I don’t think one of them has much longer to go. And I haven’t given up working completely. I have my PI license for D.C. and catch an occasional case, usually involving something musical—stolen instruments or valuable scores—or art. Amazing how hot the stolen art market is, Mac, and how stupid those who steal it can be.” He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, and sat back. “You now have my life story,” he said. “What’s yours since we last met?”
    “Two major changes,” Mac said. “Marrying Annabel was the big event. Scrapping my criminal law practice and becoming a law professor was another.”
    “I was sorry about your first wife and your son,” Pawkins said. “The drunk driver got off easy, as I recall.”
    “That’s right.”
    “You must have wanted to kill.”
    “I got over it.”
    Mac motioned for the check. “I’m glad we had a chance to catch up,” he said, “although it would have been nice if the rehearsal hadn’t ended the way it did.”
    Pawkins reached for his wallet, but Mac waved him off. “We’ll do this again, your treat.”
    They paused beneath the circular canopy that covered the hotel’s entrance. The humidity was now visible, enshrouding them in a low-hanging mist. Pawkins handed Mac his business card. “In case you ever need an opera-loving PI.”
    “You never know,” Mac said. “See you at the next rehearsal—if there is one.”
    “Oh, there will be. Nothing will keep Tosca from singing her ‘Vissi d’arte’ in Act II before she stabs the wicked Scarpia to death. Nothing. Not even a real murder. Sorry your wife had to run. She’s