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By Root 670 0

she didn’t like rock ’n’ roll, nor did hip-hop or rap appeal. Her tastes tended to female jazz singers like Ella Fitzgerald and Sarah Vaughan, Nancy Wilson and Billie Holiday. But while listening to the opera singer she recognized that this was, indeed, something special. How could anyone, male or female, produce such sounds? Singers like this must be aberrations, physical freaks, their superior vocal apparatus a gift from above. From God? Her mother would claim that, although Matilda Johnson’s daughter wasn’t sure, and probably never would be. It was hard to believe in a God while working Washington, D.C.’s mean streets, on which lives were taken for a pair of sneakers, or over petty jealousies.

Her mind drifted to the reason she was there, the murder. Had Charise Lee sounded like the woman performing at that moment? Would she have become a world-famous diva? Was she better than this young woman in the rehearsal hall, and if so, who would make that judgment? How long could such magnificent voices hold up? The singer sang in Italian. Were all operas written in foreign languages? If so, how could the singers learn all those languages?

She opened her eyes and observed the singer. She was tall and heavy, which fit the stereotypical belief about female opera singers. But Charise Lee had been described in the report as small, perhaps even petite. Asian-Canadian. In Washington to further her career, ending up stabbed to death. God must have had a bad hair day.

Christopher Warren and the singer finished the piece and conferred about the sheet music.

“You said it was an aria?” Johnson asked. “That’s a solo, right?”

“Right, but it’s more than that. Arias give the singers an opportunity to express their inner feelings and emotions musically, like a spoken soliloquy in a play.” She smiled. “A large percentage of opera audiences come just to hear the arias

“I see,” Johnson said, wondering whether what she’d just been thinking would qualify as an aria.

McCarthy led Johnson to the piano, where the two musicians were preparing to leave, and introduced the detective.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” Johnson told them.

The singer’s eyes misted and her fist went to her mouth. “Excuse me,” she said, and ran from the room.

“I’d better go after her,” Warren said.

“I will,” McCarthy said. “Detective Johnson wants to ask you a few questions

Johnson and Warren faced each other. She pegged him at six feet tall, five inches taller than her. He appeared to be in good physical shape beneath his jeans and powder-blue T-shirt with a silk screen of Mozart on the chest. He was good-looking in a conventional sense, facial features where they were supposed to be and of the proper size. More interesting to her were his eyes, as cold as a gray winter’s day, and his hands, large and strong, with long fingers. A pianist’s hands, she decided.

“I have nothing to say,” he said flatly.

“You don’t have a choice,” she said, her tone matching his.

“What kind of a person are you?” he asked. “My best friend has been murdered, and you want me to talk about it? Give me a break

“Your ‘best friend’ didn’t catch a break, Mr. Warren. I’d think you’d want to do everything you can to find her killer

“That’s your job,” he said. “Sorry, but I have nothing to say.” With that, he angrily grabbed the sheet music from the piano’s music desk and started to walk away.

“Mr. Warren,” Johnson called after him.

He stopped and turned. “Just leave me alone,” he said.

She pointed an index finger at him. “I can detain you as a material witness,” she said. “Maybe you’d prefer that

“I told you, I don’t know anything about what happened to Charise

“Fine,” she said. “Then you shouldn’t mind answering a few questions

“I’m going to call my embassy. I’m Canadian. I’m not an American citizen. I have rights

Johnson closed the gap between them. “I’m losing patience,” she said. “Either we sit down and have a nice, friendly chat, or we can have a less friendly talk at police headquarters. Your choice. And don’t pull your ‘I’m not an American citizen’ BS with me. When it comes to a