The long, daily hours alone at the piano were her only constants. She could wear whatever she felt like, and there was no clock to punch, no one to tell her what to do—except Shuji. But she didn’t have to listen to him or to anyone else. And there was seldom anyone around to see her sweat, concentrate, hurt.
She thought of Matthew Stark again—his remoteness, his wry sense of humor, his strong sense of self. He didn’t give a damn what The New Yorker or Vogue or anyone else said about her. Toots, he’d called her. Sweet cheeks. It was a change from the most beautiful concert pianist in the world.
She wondered where he was. What he was doing. If he was thinking about her as much as she was thinking about him.
Len was at the bar, and he didn’t mention her lapse into classical the other evening. “Another time we’ll talk,” he said. “You’ve got a crowd waiting.”
Nodding gratefully, she kicked off the vinyl boots and slipped on J.J.’s gold T-strap shoes from her satchel, then went straight to the piano. There was a crowd—an appreciative one. She didn’t think she could do much for them. She was too tired, too preoccupied. She wanted to know what Aunt Willie and her mother were saying to each other. She wanted to know who was after the Minstrel. And why. What she was supposed to do about it. How Senator Ryder was involved. What Uncle Johannes had been doing in Amsterdam. Who Hendrik de Geer was. How Matthew’s buddy was doing.
She wanted answers, and all she had were questions.
That wasn’t true. She had one big answer: she knew where the Minstrel was.
She began with a few Eubie Blake pieces, slipped in some Cole Porter, and then was moving. Lost. Transported. She focused on the music, on her playing. She stayed with it. Controlled it instead of letting it control her. Then lost the need to control or be controlled and played only to play. She could feel the motivation, if not define it; feel the need. For the first time in months, she had something real to communicate. Mood, feeling, loss, confusion, terror. It was all there at her fingertips.
When she finished, she bounced up, filled with energy, sweating, exhausted. She grinned at Al, who had her Saratoga water waiting. Len was there at the bar, clapping with the rest of the crowd. It felt good. She’d moved them, but more important, she’d moved herself.
“See those walls?” Len said. “They’re shaking, babe. I knew they would be when you put it all together. You’re letting loose, not holding on so tight. I like it. Now what’re—” He stopped and narrowed his eyes, watching her go white as she stared down the bar, mouth open, her entire body stiff. “Shit, not again. Stark?”
She gave a little shake of her head, unable to talk. She felt as if she were going to crack and crumble, like one of those cartoon characters, Sylvester the Cat or Wile E. Coyote when they’d slammed into a brick wall.
“Somebody I need to toss?” Len asked darkly.
“No.” It came out as a breath. “Please, no.”
“Okay, babe. You just tell me.”
“I will,” she mumbled.
She glided away, her feet not making a sound on the floor, and slid against the bar next to Eric Shuji Shizumi.
Matthew double-parked on the narrow tree-lined street in front of Senator Samuel Ryder’s townhouse. Cars could just squeak by his. If they couldn’t, the hell with them. They could back up and go another way. He wasn’t going to be long. Although they lived within the same half-dozen blocks, he and Ryder never seemed to bump into each other. For a while they had, at least on occasion, but that was back when Stark worked for the Washington Post and was still being invited to some of the more desirable Washington parties. The ones where you didn’t wear Gokey boots and drink beer and talk baseball. He’d still go to those parties when he didn’t have anything better to do, like read the latest books panned by the New York Times Book Review or catch a game, and he’d provide the touch of cynicism and distance people expected from him. In drawing rooms filled with antiques and sterling silver and men and women who used poll results to tell them what was going on “out there,” he was a reminder of how different they all were. The chosen people. They’d all read LZ, of course—or pretended they had. “It’s so realistic,” they’d tell him, as if they knew.
That was another thing about Juliana Fall, he thought suddenly: no damn pretending. If she didn’t know who the hell you were, you got that blank look and that was that. Of course, with her pale beauty and international reputation, she’d get along just fine with the Washington crowd. Artists weren’t supposed to keep up with current events. They could be forgiven their airheadedness.
He bounded up the curving front steps and gave the garnet-red door two firm whacks. Ryder’s was a high-style Federal with black shutters, a Palladian window, pilasters, shiny brass fittings, and a delicate wrought-iron rail. An unadorned pine cone wreath hung in the middle of the door, put there, undoubtedly, by a conscientious housekeeper. The appearance of taste and perfection was important to the Golden Boy. Stark thought of his own townhouse. It needed renovating. Badly.
Ryder answered the door himself, in neatly pleated trousers and a casual sweater that made him look even more the rich, handsome, perfect young senator. They’d be begging him to run for president before long. Matthew wasn’t fooled—or impressed. He knew what Sam Ryder was, and he wouldn’t be getting his vote come election day.
Stark took no pleasure when Ryder went pale at seeing him on his doorstep. “What do you want?”
“We need to talk.”
“I can’t, I haven’t the time—I’m going out.”
“It’ll just take a minute.”
Matthew pushed past him into the foyer, elegantly simple with its cream walls and Queen Anne furnishings. Such perfection. Ryder left the door open, and a chilly breeze floated into the warm house.
“I don’t want you here,” the senator said, his tone an unconvincing mix of arrogance and fright. “Get out before I—”
“Before you what? You’re not going to do anything, Ryder. You couldn’t risk it, not with Phil Bloch on your ass.”
The baby blue eyes widened, and Stark could feel his former platoon leader’s tension. But then Ryder gave a small supercilious laugh, as if he’d found relief in Stark’s words, as if to say, oh, so that was what all this was about. Just Phil Bloch.
“Bloch? I hate to disappoint you, Matthew, but I haven’t heard that name in years. I can’t believe you two are still at it. What’s he up to these days?”
Stark’s gaze was relentless. “You tell me.”
“Look, Matthew, honestly, I don’t have time to talk. I’m due at a dinner in half an hour—”
“I don’t care if you’re due at the White House.”
Matthew spoke in a level, deadly voice. “I want to know what you’re in with Bloch for, what you’re doing about it. And I want to know where he is.”
As he straightened up, Ryder made the mistake of looking into Stark’s black-brown eyes, and Matthew watched the air go out of him. “I—dammit, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Matthew clenched and unclenched his scarred fists. He wanted to choke the bastard—not that it’d do any good. Some people you could count on never to change. “Weasel’s been snitching to me,” he said. “The dumb bastard thinks he’s helping you. Bloch knows what’s been going on. I want to get to him before he gets to the Weaze.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“You owe him.”
“I don’t. He was just doing his job.”
“And you weren’t.”
“Look, I didn’t ask for his help.”
“I know. Weasel still thinks you’re worth more than he is. I don’t, Ryder. If Otis Raymond gets himself killed because he was trying to help you, I won’t forgive and I won’t forget. And I won’t keep my mouth shut. Not this time. Count on it.”
“If he gets himself killed, it’ll be because he trusted you!”
“Talk, Ryder.”
Matthew could see the sweat pouring down the senator’s face; he too
k no pleasure in it. “Otis Raymond is a drug addict and a loser,” Ryder said. “Whatever he told you about me I’ll deny. You have no proof, and you’ll get none.”
“Where you’re concerned,” Stark said, “I don’t need proof.”
Ryder licked his lips. “Don’t threaten me, damn you!”
“Tell me about the Minstrel’s Rough, Sam.”
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Okay, then let me give you an idea of what I know. Rachel Stein, the woman you were with the other night at Lincoln Center, said something that made you decide you could get your hands on the Minstrel, give it to Bloch, and solve all your problems. The Dutchman, de Geer, is your connection to the diamond. He went to Johannes Peperkamp in Antwerp, who took him to Amsterdam to get the stone—only it was a wild-goose chase, wasn’t it?” Matthew had no sympathy for Ryder’s white, stricken face, graying slightly around the mouth as he realized how much the former helicopter pilot already knew. Stark kept his voice steady, unemotional. “You’re not going to collapse, Ryder, so don’t pretend you are. The old man didn’t have the stone, did he?”
“Matthew…” Ryder’s voice was little more than a pathetic whisper. “Matthew, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Did he, goddamn you?”
Shit, Stark thought. Shit, damn, hell. The old man didn’t have the stone. Did that mean one of the Peperkamp women did? Is that what Ryder thought—de Geer, Bloch? With Phil Bloch, thinking something was so made it so. Matthew focused again on Ryder, barely able to control the impulse to back the senator up against the wall and make him talk. But he’d never operated that way, and he wasn’t going to start now.
“If anything happens to the Weaze or to the Peperkamps, Sam, I’m coming after you.” He didn’t raise his voice. “I don’t care what shitpile you’re hiding under. I’ll keep digging until I find you.”
“You’re a has-been, Stark.” But Ryder’s voice squeaked, undermining his words. “You’re grasping. You want a story so badly you’ll listen to nonsense. I don’t know what Otis Raymond told you, and I don’t care: I’m not involved. I’m not afraid of you, Matthew. Now get out.”
With the knuckles of one hand, Ryder brushed at the drops of sweat on his upper lip. Stark knew he had him scared, but not scared enough to talk—or at least not scared enough of him. Ryder had Phillip Bloch to worry about; the sergeant didn’t have any of Stark’s scruples getting in his way.
“I should have tossed your stupid butt out of my ship in Vietnam after the stunt you pulled then.”
“Get out, Matthew,” Ryder said hoarsely. “Damn you, get out!”
Stark’s dark eyes never wavered. “Make sure I don’t get a second chance at you, Sam. I might not resist.”
Shuji’s mouth was a grim, thin line, and his black eyes were two tiny pits of fury. He looked just as she’d envisioned he would at this moment—as if he was going to go after someone with one of his authentic short swords—namely, his sole student, one Juliana Fall, aka J.J. Pepper.
“Hello, Shuji,” Juliana said, surprised at how relaxed she sounded.
He looked at her. “A turban,” he said. “For Christ’s sake, a rhinestone-studded turban.”
“Usually I leave my hair down.”
“And no one recognizes you?”
“No, because it’s never blond. It’s pink or lavender. Sometimes blue.”
“Goddamnit,” Shuji said.
“How did you find out?”
“I have friends who frequent SoHo clubs and Lincoln Center and Carnegie Hall. One thought he recognized you, but he believed he had to be seeing things. I…my God, you look ridiculous.”
Juliana tried to smile. “I know. Fun, isn’t it?”
“It is not fun, Juliana.”
“It is for me. Why are you here?”
“I had to know if this black rumor were true.” He drank some of his martini, too much. “My God. Jazz, pop, blues.”
“Don’t be so damned sanctimonious. I happen to like jazz, pop, and blues.”
He sighed. “Do you have any idea what this will do to your reputation?”
“I’ve only been in this business since I was eleven years old. Since I’m so damned dumb, why don’t you tell me?”
“Juliana—”
“I know what I’m doing, dammit. I don’t care what this does to my precious reputation. That’s right, I don’t care. I enjoy playing the Aquarian, and if people don’t like it, well then to hell with them. Being J.J. Pepper gets me out of myself, out from under the pressures of being Juliana Fall all the time. It’s important to me, Shuji. And if I’m in a funk, this is helping me, not hurting. I need an outlet. And musically, playing here is enriching me, not ruining me.”
Shuji was unimpressed. “Your work in the practice room should be your outlet.”
“My work is my work. I don’t want to give that up—I can’t. But I need this, too.”
“Let me hear the Chopin,” he said, tight-lipped.
“Now?”
“Yes, why not?” He nodded to the baby grand. “There’s a piano.”
“I’m J.J. Pepper here.”
“Play the Chopin, Juliana, or I walk out of here.”
His gaze was hard and direct. Shuji wasn’t one to pussyfoot around, and she knew he meant what he said. “And then what?”
“And then I’ll remember fondly the eleven-year-old girl who begged me to teach her, not the thirty-year-old ingrate who has turned her back on me and everything we’ve worked for together for almost twenty years.” His tone was scathing, filled with bitterness, edged with sadness. “You’ve been J.J. Pepper for eight months. Eight months, damn you, and not a word.”
“I wanted to tell you.”
“You didn’t.”
She stiffened. “You’re right—I knew what a jackass you’d be about it.”
“The Chopin,” he said.
She got up and walked over to Len. “That’s Eric Shuji Shizumi at the end of the bar,” she said, whipping off the turban. Her blond hair tumbled onto her shoulders. “I’ve lied to you, Len. My real name’s Juliana Fall. I’m a concert pianist.”
Len folded his arms on his chest. “Names aren’t what’s important here. It’s who you are, babe, what you want to do, that counts.”
“I don’t know the answer to that.”
“Well, until you do, it’s okay by me if you want to keep up with your J.J. Pepper act. Just no hairy-assed stuff, okay?” He grinned at her. “Unless you want to do brunch.”
She managed a smile. “That would really kill Shuji. May I play now?”
“Piano’s yours, Juliana Fall, muddy bass and all.”
She glanced over at Shuji. He was still working on his martini, not smiling, not understanding, wrapped up in his own hurt and anger. A pang of horror sliced through her as she tried to imagine going on without him. What would she do?
She sat at the piano and played the first chord of Chopin.
But she couldn’t continue. She couldn’t betray Len, her Club Aquarian audience—J.J. Pepper’s audience. She couldn’t betray herself. And, finally, she couldn’t betray Shuji. Playing the Chopin now, here, would be a lie. He wouldn’t see it that way, of course, but she couldn’t help that. She switched to a short Duke Ellington piece she thought everyone might like, even Shuji.
But when she finished and turned around, he was gone. In his place at the bar there was only a half-drunk martini.
Seventeen
Hendrik de Geer blew on his frozen fingers as he stood at the edge of Central Park opposite the Beresford. It would be a bitterly cold night. He longed for a bottle of gin, but he had forsworn drink. Sentiment and drink would make him careless. He couldn’t permit that to happen. It was clear to him, now that the coward Ryder had told Bloch everything, that the sergeant would have to find out for himself if the Minstrel was lost. He would never settle for anyone else’s word; the possibilities for the stone were too tremendous. Hendrik well unde
rstood that kind of thinking.
It left him with two choices. One, he could walk away. Two, he could act.
But first, before he made up his mind, he must gather information. He had already discovered that Catharina was being watched. Now he was at the Beresford, and he could see one of Bloch’s men standing out at the bus stop in front of the Museum of Natural History, stamping his feet in the cold.
So the daughter was being watched, too. Bloch was taking no chances—he never did—but he was not yet prepared to make his move. The sergeant was a hard, unyielding man with no apparent weakness. He was just starting out in this business, but already he had a solid reputation. He paid well and on time. That was what had drawn Hendrik to his employ. Profit and survival. They had been his chief interests for many years, and if Phillip Bloch wished to make them possible, then Hendrik would work for him.
Several well-dressed men and women, in tuxedos and furs, came out of the Beresford, followed by a stout old woman in an unremarkable wool coat, a scarf tied peasant-style around her head, and ankle boots.
Across the street, Bloch’s man threw down his cigarette.
Hendrik squinted as the woman came into the glare of the street lamp, and he saw the plain, square face.
Wilhelmina!
He almost laughed aloud. Of course she would be here! Even given the underworld in which he’d operated for forty years, Wilhelmina Peperkamp remained the most suspicious person he had ever encountered. Ah, Willie. He could see she’d already spotted Bloch’s man. Once Hendrik had been attracted to her bluntness and competence and had found her plainness comforting, even appealing. She was so reliable. For a while, that had been enough.
She went across West Eighty-first, walking at a good clip, and Bloch’s man started after her. Hendrik stayed where he was. He wasn’t worried. Willie had outwitted the Nazis for five years. She would have outwitted them until the end, had she not trusted Hendrik de Geer.
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