JONATHAN KELLERMAN. A COLD HEART

“Shy type?” said Milo. “Holing up in his room.”

“Yes. But he did like to stroll the garden at night. After he finished practicing. By himself.”

“Were there guests milling outside, too?”

“We discourage that, try to keep them indoors. Trampling the plants and all that. But it’s not as if we post armed guards.”

“No armed guards,” said Milo. “Just one security man.”

“For the neighbors—they prefer that Bristol be free of a Gestapo ambience. And there’s never been any need for an army of guards. This is one of the safest neighborhoods in the city. Despite you-know-who.”

“The only fence is at the rear property line.”

“Correct, behind the tennis court,” said Loh.

“How big’s the property?”

“A little over two acres.”

“What was the security guard’s specific assignment?”

“To provide security, whatever that means. I’m sure he wasn’t prepared for any . . . serious eventuality. This wasn’t exactly a rap concert. The average age of the audience had to be sixty-five. We’re talking perfect behavior.”

“That include the outsiders?”

“When it comes to the concerts, Stefan can be a bit of a martinet. He insists on dead silence. And his tastes run to soothing music. Chopin, Debussy, all that good stuff.”

“Do you share Mr. Szabo’s tastes?”

Loh grinned again. “I’m more into technorock and David Bowie.”

“Any David Bowie concerts scheduled for the odeum?”

Loh chuckled. “Mr. Bowie isn’t exactly within our price range. Nor would Stefan’s sensibilities survive the experience.” He shot a sleek black cuff and consulted a sleek black watch.

Milo said, “Let’s have a look at Levitch’s room.”

As we climbed the stairs, Milo said, “Big house.”

Loh said, “Stefan’s family escaped from Hungary in 1956. He was a teenager, but they managed to cram him into a large steamer trunk. We’re talking days without food or toilet facilities, a few air holes for breathing. I’d say he’s entitled to his space, wouldn’t you?”

The right side of the landing was taken up by two enormous bedrooms—Szabo’s and Loh’s. Open doors to both revealed flashes of brocade and damask, polished wood, soft lighting. To the left, were three guest suites, smaller, less opulent, but still stylishly turned out.

The room where Vassily Levitch had spent the past two nights was taped off. Milo broke the tape, and I followed him inside. Tom Loh stood in the doorway, and said, “What should I do?”

“Thanks for your time, sir,” said Milo. “Feel free to go about your business.”

Loh went back down the stairs.

Milo said, “Stay there while I toss, if you don’t mind. The evidentiary chain and all that.”

“Got to be careful,” I said. “Especially in light of you-know-who.”

The guest suite was papered in red silk, furnished with a canopied queen bed, two Regency nightstands, and an ornate, inlaid Italian chest of drawers. Empty drawers, as was the closet. Vassily Levitch had lived out of his black nylon suitcase. Even his toiletries had remained in the valise.

Milo examined the contents of the pianist’s wallet, went through the pockets of every garment. A kit bag produced aftershave, a safety razor, Advil, Valium, and Pepto-Bismol. A manila envelope in a zippered compartment of the suitcase contained photocopied reviews of other recitals Levitch had given. The critics lauded the young man’s touch and phrasing. He’d won the Steinmetz Competition, the Hurlbank Competition, the Great Barrington Piano Gala.

No driver’s license. A check-cashing ID card put him at twenty-seven years old.

Milo said, “Zero plus zero.”

I said, “Can I see the body?”

A rear patio as large as the odeum emptied to the rolling lawn and widely spaced birch trees walled by a twelve-foot-tall ficus hedge. A gothic arch cut into the hedge led the way to a fifty-foot lap pool, a tennis court, a cactus garden, a shallow pond devoid of fish and, tucked into the rear, right corner, a four-car garage.

I could see no driveway or any other direct access from the street to the garage, and asked Milo about that.

“They use it for storage—antiques, clothing, lamps. You should see the stuff; I could live off their castaways.”

“They leave their cars in front?”

“His and his Mercedes 600s. Concert nights they park on the street. Want the house to look ‘aesthetically pure.’ Nice life, huh? C’mon.”

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