Detective Fiorelle of the Cambridge police remembered me as a 'pushy guy, one of those intellectuals -I know the type, plenty around here.' The facts of Angel-ique Bernet's murder did nothing to support any link with Baby Boy or Julie: The dancer had been stabbed half a dozen times and dumped in an area of the college town that was well traveled during the day but quiet at night. No strangulation, no sexual posing; she'd been found fully clad.
The detective who'd worked the Wilfred Reedy case
was dead. Milo got a copy of the file. Reedy had been gut-stabbed in an alley like Baby Boy, but strong indications of a drug-related hit had surfaced at the time, including the name of a probable suspect: a small-time dealer named Celestino Hawkins, who'd fed the habit of Reedy's son. Hawkins had served time for assault with a knife. He'd been dead for three years.
China Maranga's file was thin and cold.
Milo phoned Julie Kipper's uncle and told him not to expect any quick solve. The uncle was gracious, and that made Milo feel worse.
Allison and I spent more time at each other's houses. I bought Guitar Player and read the profile on Robin. Spent a long time staring at the photos.
Robin in her new shop. No mention there'd ever been another one. Gorgeous carved guitars and mandolins and celebrity endorsements and big smiles. The camera loved her.
I wrote her a brief congratulatory note, received a thank-you card in return.
Two and a half months after Julie Kipper's murder, the weather warmed and the case file froze. Milo cursed and put it aside and resumed excavating cold cases.
Few of them were solvable, and that kept him grumbling and occupied. The times we got together, he never failed to mention Julie - sometimes with that forced blithe tone that meant failure was eating at him.
Soon after that, Allison and I drove up to Malibu Canyon to watch a meteor shower. We found an isolated turnoff, lowered the top of her Jaguar, reclined the seats,
and watched cosmic dust streak and explode. Shortly after we got home, at 1:15 A.M., the phone rang. I was skimming the papers, and Allison was reading V. S. Naipaul's The Mimic Men. She'd pinned her hair up. Tiny, black-framed reading glasses rode her nose. As I lifted the receiver, she looked over at the nightstand clock.
Most of the early-morning calls were hers. Patient emergencies.
I picked up.
Milo spit, 'Another one.'
I mouthed his name, and she nodded.
'Classical pianist,' he went on, 'stabbed and strangled after a concert. Right behind the venue. And guess what: This guy was on his way up, career-wise. Record deal pending. It wasn't my call, but I heard it on the scanner, I went over and took over. Lieutenant's prerogative. I'm here at the scene. I want you to see it.'
'Now?' I said.
Allison put the book down.
'Is there a problem?' he said. 'You're not a night owl anymore?'
'One sec' I covered the phone, looked at Allison.
'Go,' she said.
'Where?' I asked Milo.
'Hop, skip, and jump for you,' he said. 'Bristol Avenue, Brentwood. The north side.'
'Moving up in the world,' I said.
'Who, me?'
'The bad guy.'
Bristol was lovely and shaded by old cedars and marked
by circular turnarounds every block or so. Most of the homes were the original Tudors and Spanish Colonials. The murder house was new, a Greek Revivalish thing on the west side of the street. Three square stories, white and columned, bigger by half than the neighboring mansions, with all the welcoming warmth of a law school. A flat green lawn was marked by a single, fifty-foot liquidambar tree and nothing else. High-voltage lighting was blatant and focused. A stroll away was Rockingham Avenue, where O. J. Simpson had dripped blood on his own driveway.
A black-and-white with its cherry flashing half blocked the street. Milo had left my name with the uniform on duty and I got smiled through with a 'Certainly, Doctor.'
That was a first. Lieutenant's prerogative?
Four more squad cars fronted the big house, along with two crime-scene vans and a coroner's wagon. The sky was moonless and impenetrable. All the shooting stars gone.
The next uniform I encountered offered standard-issue cop distrust as he called on his walkie-talkie. Finally: 'Go on in.'
A ton of door responded to my fingertip - some sort of pneumatic assist. As I stepped inside, I saw Milo striding toward me, looking like a day trader whose portfolio had just imploded.
Hurrying across a thousand square feet of marble entry hall.
The foyer had twenty-foot ceilings, ten percent of that moldings and dentils and scrollwork. The floor was white marble inset with black granite squares. A crystal chandelier blazed enough wattage to power a third-world
hamlet. The walls were gray marble veined with apricot, carved into linen-fold panels. Three were bare, one was hung with a frayed brown tapestry - hunters and hounds and voluptuous women. To the right, a brass-railed marble staircase swooped up to a landing backed by gilt-framed portraits of stoic, long-dead people.
Milo wore baggy jeans, a too-large gray shirt and a too-small gray herringbone sport coat. He fit the ambience the way a boil fits a supermodel.
Beyond the entry hall was a much larger room. Wood floors, plain white walls. Rows of folding chairs faced a raised stage upon which sat a black grand piano. Several scoop-shaped, gridlike contraptions hung from the corners of the curved wooden ceiling - some sort of acoustic enhancement. No windows. Double doors at the rear blended with the plaster.
A pedestal sign to the left of the piano read SILENCE PLEASE. The piano bench was tucked under the instrument. Sheet music was spread on the rack.
The double doors opened and a thickset man in his sixties burst forth like a hatchling, trotting after Milo.
'Detective! Detective!' He waved his hands and huffed to catch up.
Milo turned.
'Detective, may I send the staff home? It's frightfully late.'
'Just a while longer, Mr Szabo.'
The man's jowls quivered and set. 'Yes, of course.' He glanced at me, and his eyes disappeared in a nest of creases and folds. His lips were moist and purplish, and his color was bad - mottled, coppery.
Milo told him my name but didn't append my title.
'This is Mr Stefan Szabo, the owner.'
'Pleased to meet you,' I said.
'Yes, yes.' Szabo fussed with a diamond cuff link and offered his hand. His palm was hot and soft, so moist it verged on squishy. He was soft and lumpy, bald but for red-brown fuzz above floppy ears. His face was the shape of a well-bred eggplant and the nose that centered it a smaller version of the vegetable - a pendulous, plump, Japanese eggplant. He wore a white silk, wing-collared formal shirt fastened by half-carat diamond studs, a ruby paisley cummerbund, black, satin-striped tuxedo pants, and patent loafers.
'Poor Vassily, this is terrible beyond terrible. And now everyone will hate me.'
'Hate you, sir?' said Milo.
'The publicity,' said Szabo. 'When I built the odeum, I took such pains to go through every channel. Wrote personal notes to the neighbors, assured everyone that only private affairs and very occasional fund-raisers would be held. And always, the ultimate discretion. My policy's always been consistent: fair warning to everyone within a two-block radius, ample parking valets. I took pains, Detective. And, now this.'
He wrung his hands. 'I need to be especially careful because of you-know-who. During the trial, life was hell. But beyond that, I'm a loyal Brentwoodite. Now this.'
Szabo's eyes bugged suddenly. 'Were you involved in that one?'
'No, sir.'
'Well, that's good,' said Szabo. 'Because if you were, I can't say I'd have any great confidence in you.' He
sniffed the air. 'The poor odeum. I don't know if I'll be able to continue.'
'Mr Szabo built a private concert hall, Alex. The victim was tonight's performer.'
'The victim.' Szabo placed a hand over his heart. Before he could speak, the doors opened again and a young, lithe Asian man in snug black satin pants, a black silk shirt, and a red bow tie hurried toward us.
'Tom!' said Szabo. 'The detective says a while longer.'
The young man nodded. He looked to be thirty at most, with poreless, tight skin glowing ivory under a dense blue-black cirrus of hair. 'Whatever it takes, Stef. Are you okay?'
'Not hardly, Tom.'
The young man turned to me. 'Tom Loh.' His hand was cool, dry, powerful.
Szabo hooked his arm around Loh's biceps. 'Tom designed the odeum. Designed the house. We're partners.'
'In life,' said Tom Loh.
Szabo said, 'Is the caterer doing anything or just standing around? As long as she's stuck here, she might as well tidy up.'
Milo said, 'Mr Szabo, let's hold off on cleanup until the crime-scene people are through.'
'Crime-scene people,' said Szabo. Tears filled his eyes. 'Never in my life did I imagine that term would be relevant to our home'
Tom Loh said, 'Is the - is Vassily still here?'
'The body will be removed as soon as we're finished,' said Milo.
'Sure, fine, whatever. Is there anything else I can tell
you? About Vassily, the concert?'
'We've already been through the guest list, sir.'
'But as I told you,' Szabo broke in, 'the guest list is only part of the audience. Eighty-five out of a hundred and thirteen people. And you must take my word: every one of those eighty-five is beyond reproach. Twenty-five are our faithful season-ticket holders - neighbors whom we grant free admission.'
'Stroking the neighbors,' explained Loh. 'So we could get the odeum through zoning hassles.'
'Eighty-five out of one thirteen,' said Milo. 'Leaving twenty-eight strangers.'
'But surely,' said Szabo, 'anyone who'd be interested in Chopin would be too refined to...'
Loh said, 'Let them do their job, Stef.' His hand rested atop the older man's shoulder.
'Oh, I know you're right. I'm just a fellow trying to make the world a more beautiful place, what do I know about this kind of thing?' Szabo smiled weakly. 'Tom reads mystery novels. He appreciates this kind of thing.'
'Only in fiction,' said Loh. 'This is hideous.'
Szabo seemed to take that as a reproach. 'Yes, yes, of course, I'm babbling, don't know what I'm saying. Go about your business, Detective.' He touched his chest. 'I need to sit down.'
Loh said, 'Go upstairs, I'll bring you a Pear William.' Taking Szabo's arm, he guided the older man toward the landing, stopped and watched as Szabo trudged the rest of the way by himself, then returned to us.
'He's traumatized.'
'How long have you had the odeum?' said Milo.
'Same time as the house,' said Loh. "Three years. But
the project was over a decade in the making. We began right after Stef and I moved from New York. We were together two years before that. Stef was in the hosiery business, and I was in urban design, did public and private spaces. We met at a reception for Zubin Mehta. Stef had always been a classical music freak, and I was there because I'd done some work for one of the maes-tro's friends.'
Dark, almondine eyes focused on Milo. 'Do you think this will jeopardize the odeum?'
'I couldn't say, sir.'
'Because it's vital to Stef.' Loh plinked one end of his red bowtie. 'I really don't think there'd be any legal basis to stop it. The neighbors have been supportive. Stef buys their children's school raffle tickets by the score, and we contribute heavily to every neighborhood project. We're on good terms with the zoning board, and believe me that took some doing.'
'Zoning board raffle tickets?' said Milo.
Loh's eyes rolled, and he smiled. 'Don't ask - the point is, I'd hate for it to end. It means a lot to Stef, and he means a lot to me.'
'How often do you throw concerts?'
'Throw concerts,' said Loh, amused by the image. 'Stef schedules four a year. Last year, we added an extra one at Christmas, as a benefit for the John Robert Preston School.'
'Neighbor's kid?'
Loh's smile widened. 'I can see why you're a detective.'
Milo said, 'I went over the till and counted thirteen checks from people not on the guest list. That leaves
another fifteen who paid cash. The cash balance matches perfectly. Any idea who those fifteen are?'
