JONATHAN KELLERMAN. A COLD HEART

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?”

Loh shook his head. “You’d have to ask Anita—the girl at the door.”

“I did. She doesn’t recall.”

“Sorry,” said Loh. “It’s not as if we were looking for—as if this could’ve been anticipated.”

“What can you tell me about Vassily Levitch?”

“Young, intense. Like all of them. Stefan would know more. Music is his passion.”

“And you?”

“I keep things organized.”

“Is there anything you can say about Levitch’s demeanor?”

“Very quiet, nervous about the performance. He barely slept or ate, and I heard him pacing in his room just before the recital. But really, Detective, that’s how it usually is. These people are gifted, and they work harder than can be imagined. Vassily arrived two days ago and practiced seven hours each day. When he wasn’t playing, he was holed up in his room.”

“No visitors?”

“No visitors and two phone calls. From his mother and his agent. He’d never been to L.A. before.”

“Gifted,” said Milo. “And on his way up.”

“That’s Stefan’s thing,” said Loh. “He seeks out rising stars and tries to help their ascent.”

“By offering them recital time, here?”

“And money. Our foundation issues grants. Nothing lavish, each artist receives a fifteen-thousand-dollar stipend.”

“Sounds generous to me.”

“Stef’s the soul of generosity.”

“How does Mr. Szabo locate the artists—how did he find Vassily Levitch, specifically?”

“From Vassily’s agent in New York. Now that the concerts have achieved a certain reputation, we get contacted frequently. The agent sent Stefan a tape, and Stefan listened to it and decided Vassily would be perfect. Stefan tends to favor soloists or small ensembles. We’re not exactly set up for an orchestra.”

“How long before the concert were the arrangements made?”

“A while back,” said Loh. “Months. We need ample time for preparation. The acoustics, the lighting, choosing the caterer. And, of course, the advance publicity. Such as it is.”

“Which is?”

“Occasional mention on selected radio stations. KBAK—the classic station mentions us twice a day for two weeks prior. That fits our budget as well as our aspiration. We can’t handle a large crowd, nor do we wish one.”

“Eighty-five on the guest list,” said Milo. “Why not prearrange all the seats?”

“Stefan left a few extras for outsiders in order to be public-spirited. Music students, teachers, that kind of thing.”

“Any publicity other than radio?”

“We don’t try for that,” said Loh. “Even the small bit of exposure we get means more seat requests than we can handle.”

“Was that true tonight?”

“I’d assume so.” Loh frowned. “You can’t seriously believe a member of the audience did this.”

“At this point, I’ll entertain any theories, sir.”

“Here’s mine: Someone intruded. The truth is, anyone could’ve gone back there behind the poolhouse and stabbed Vassily. Bristol’s an open street, we don’t like living behind walls and gates.”

“What would Levitch have been doing back there?”

Loh shrugged. “Possibly walking off his tension after the recital.”

“Any idea when he left the reception?”

“Not a clue. People were milling. Stefan suggests that the artists stick around. For their sake—making connections. Generally, the artists comply. Obviously, Vassily slipped away.”

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