Sugarman watched her. “Didn’t I read that he died somewhere in Europe?”
“Off the Marseilles coast. A boating accident, in a storm, last October.” Her voice was barely audible. “He always loved to sail…”
Sugarman let out his breath. She’d told him what he wanted to know. “An accident,” he repeated, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. One hell of a loss.”
She looked down at the gold wedding band on her finger. “They found his boat…broken against the rocks. I thought, when you asked to see me…” her eyes searched his. “You might know something more?”
Sugarman shook his head and told his first lie. “No, Mrs. O’Shea. This visit has nothing to do with Johnny O’Shea.”
“I just had to be sure. Of course you’ve really come to discuss this.” She lifted the photograph of the French café from her coffee table and held it out.
Sugarman nodded, relieved to be on safer ground. “This photograph could lead us to your godson,” he said. “Let me bring you up to speed.”
He leaned forward in the chair. “The first thirty-six hours are always the most critical in missing cases,” he admitted. “Took me twenty-four hours just to get to that damned island—and that convent on the edge of nowhere, where Sofia Orsini died.” He closed his eyes. “The nuns showed me where she was buried. On a hillside wreathed in fog, looking out toward the sea. She gave her life to protect her son…”
Slowly he took her through the investigation. The images were stark, powerful. Partial footprints made by a child—and by a pair of size eleven boots. A small Red Sox cap, a trace of Tommy Orsini’s blood on the rocks. The abandoned villa in Rome. Sugarman watched her face as his quiet, terrible words washed over her.
“You have the look of Sofia,” Sugarman murmured as he reached into his jacket pocket. “I found this with her things. Maybe you’d like to have it.” He held out a small photograph of a boy about five years old, with black curls and a pensive, shy smile.
“Tommy. Pictures are all I have,” she said quietly. “I haven’t seen him since his christening, almost six years ago. When Fee stopped our visits. Victor didn’t want me in her life.”
He waited, his eyes on her. Just let her talk, he told himself.
“After that, all I had were her letters,” said Maggie.
He hadn’t known about the letters. Where were they?
“Fee wrote that he was a resourceful kid,” Maggie was saying. “Dear God, he must have fought. He must have tried to protect her…” She stopped, paled, as if horrified by the images in her mind.
“Maybe there’s something in those letters Fee sent you that could help us?”
“She told me to burn them.”
He didn’t believe her. “Okay, whatever. But if you—”
“It’s been almost a year, Agent Sugarman,” she interrupted. “Do you really believe that my godson is still alive?”
“All our leads to Tommy ran cold,” he admitted. “Until now.”
She raised shining eyes to his. “Tell me!”
“I’m bettin’ my Arlington condo that your godson’s been hidden somewhere in Europe by his father.”
“If Tommy is with Victor, then he’s in real danger.” She held up the photograph of the four people in the café. “You think this will lead us to my godson.”
Suddenly the leather chair could not contain his energy. Sugarman stood and pointed a finger at her. “I do. This photograph was taken in Paris very recently.” He bent over her shoulder and tapped the older, barrel-chested man standing behind the café table. “You recognized Victor Orsini, of course.”
Clearly surprised, Maggie stood to face him. What had she expected him to say? He watched her stare down at Orsini’s half-hidden face.
“He’s gained weight since the one time I met him, and the clothing is far less elegant, but yes. That’s Fee’s murderer.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But I’m absolutely certain that you’re looking at the face of her killer.”
Once more she looked down at the faces in the photograph. “One of these three men?” Confusion—and fear—flickered across her face.
“Yeah. Or the woman. Ever seen her before?”
She took a step back, as if she knew where his questions were irrevocably headed. “No.”
“Or the blond guy staring into the camera?”
She suppressed a shudder. “I’d remember him. So let’s get to the point, shall we? What do you really want from me?”
“Okay, Doc, cards on the table.” Sugarman steepled his fingers against his lips. “Ten months ago, in my office, you said you would do anything to find your godson. Now I’m asking, Doc.”
Her hand moved to her chest, as if to calm a rapid heartbeat. “Asking what?” she whispered.
“You know the one person who can lead me to that missing kid. You’ve recognized the third man in that photograph, haven’t you, Mrs. O’Shea?”
“The bearded one,” she said, almost inaudibly, “the man speaking to Orsini.” Her voice sounded hollow. “He looks like someone I loved a long time ago. His name was Zachary Law. But it can’t be Zach…”
“Are you sure?” asked Sugarman.
“And so it all falls into place,” she murmured, “like a well-ordered Bach Invention.” She looked Sugarman in the eye. “I’m sure. Zachary Law died thirty years ago.”
Sugarman gazed down at her, aware that his next words were going to hit her like a punch in the stomach.
Just tell as much of the truth as you can.
“Then that means,” said Sugarman, “that not too long ago Law’s daddy got a letter from a dead man.”
CHAPTER NINE
BOSTON. JULY 3
“Zachary Law is alive.” Sugarman looked directly into Maggie’s eyes as he spoke. “Late last summer he sent a letter to his father, Cameron Law, from Vienna. Now here he is again, just one year later, in this photograph. He’s as alive as I am, Doc.”
Maggie shook her head in denial. “Not possible. I don’t know who sent Cameron Law a letter, Agent Sugarman, but it wasn’t his son. They were estranged. And Zachary Law is dead.” Her voice was low and stony. “He was listed MIA in Lebanon. The Beirut bombings, in 1983. His father received confirmation from the Pentagon.”
“Means nada. Was Law wearing a dog tag?”
“A relief agency ID. It was delivered to his father.” She swallowed. “His body was never found, but—”
Sugarman shook his head. “Those tags made too much noise, you know? A few men hid them in boots or hats. But most left them behind.”
Maggie felt lightheaded and sick. “But…Cameron Law is my son’s grandfather. Surely he would have called us.” She shook her head back and forth in confusion. “And even if Zach is alive, how is he connected to finding my godson?”
“Just hear me out, Doc.” Sugarman tapped the photograph again. “Zachary Law is a means to an end. Just look at the expressions on their faces, Orsini’s hand on Law’s shoulder. These men are friends, they know each other well. Law is the link I’ve been searching for. If Law is close to Victor, he could get us to Victor’s kid.”
“Maybe,” she conceded finally, “but only if he’s alive.” She felt as if she were trying to learn a piece of new music when half the notes were missing. “This man you think is Zach—you don’t know where he is now?”
“I’ve been working with Interpol. They’ve found no trace of a Zachary Law in France or Italy. Or Europe, for that matter. I was hoping you could tell me how to find him.”
She raised shocked eyes to his. “Me! I’m a pianist, Agent Sugarman, I don’t rub lamps for a living. Until last night, I thought Zach died in a far-away desert. And frankly, you still have not convinced me otherwise. A letter and photograph prove nothing.”
Maggie watched Sugarman’s muscles shift with impatience under the fine fabric of his suit. But when he spoke his voice was neutral. “Just let me tell you what I know. I found a guy who survived the Beirut explosion that day. A medic. Turns
out he knew Law. He said—” Sugarman stopped. “You sure you want to hear this?”
“No. But I need to.”
Sugarman shrugged. “It was a surprise attack. Just after dawn. Six twenty-two a.m., to be exact. A 12,000-pound truck bomb does a lot of damage. The medic said that his unit carried a whole lotta injured out that day, including Zach Law. The guy saw him under a tarp, waiting for evac.”
She closed her eyes as if they were shields. Could it be true? Taking a jagged breath, she asked, “What were his injuries?”
“Bad. Real bad, was all he could say. Then another medic took over, and my guy never saw Zach again.”
“Bad injuries…” she swallowed. “So he didn’t survive.”
“Maybe. I went to the Pentagon, found a record of a Zachary Law treated at a field hospital near Beirut. Then—nothing. The trail went cold. Until the official death confirmation.” Sugarman gestured toward the photograph. “But that’s his face we’re looking at, isn’t it?”
“So you’re saying Zach survived but chose not to come home.” The words sounded in her ears like cold stones dropping into the room.
“Violence changes people. Maybe he lost his memory. Or maybe Law just needed to stay lost, Doc.”
She stared at him. “But why? How…”
“If people want to disappear, they can grow beards, gain or lose weight, get tinted contact lenses, shave or dye their hair, change their names. And people don’t look for a dead man.”
There was something in his voice. Her head came up quickly, but he was turned away from her.
What was she missing? The letter. “You said that someone you think is Zach sent a letter to Cameron Law from Vienna. What was in it? And exactly how did you find out about a letter sent to Zach’s father? What are you not telling me?”
“What are you, a mind reader? Yeah, there’s something more you don’t know, something you’re not gonna like.”
“Just say it, Agent Sugarman. This all happened a long time ago. It can’t possibly hurt me now.”
“You sure about that?” Sugarman began to pace back and forth across the Persian rug. “I may not have been entirely honest with you.”
She took a deep breath. “About?”
“About your husband.” He held up a hand when he saw the expression on her face. “When Cameron Law got the letter from Zach, last summer, he called your husband.”
Maggie took a step back, shaking her head as if someone had hit her. “Last summer? That’s not possible.”
“Yeah. It is.”
“Johnny knew? But…he would have told me!”
“Not if it concerned your son, Mrs. O’Shea. Those men bonded because of Brian. Your husband loved his stepson; Cameron Law loves his grandson. Neither man wanted to raise false hopes for you—and especially for your son. So—”
“So Cameron asked Johnny to help him find out the truth.”
“Bada-bing.”
She closed her eyes, trying to fit the pieces together. The thoughts skipped through her mind like arpeggios across a keyboard. All of Johnny’s overseas travels—of course he would have used every contact, done everything he could to help. “But you didn’t know Zach’s father—or my husband.”
The dark eyes gleamed at her. “You’re good,” he murmured with admiration. “I never met your husband, that’s true. But he knew about me. You told him yourself—that I was the agent in charge of investigating Sofia’s death.”
“Of course,” she said, remembering. “I told Johnny about meeting you in DC after Tommy disappeared.”
“Your husband told Cameron Law about me. That he should contact me if ever…well. Old Man Law got in touch with me after your husband’s death.”
She gazed blindly out the bow window. “But that was last October.”
“I went to see Cameron Law in New York when he called,” said Sugarman. “He told me that your husband had been searching for his son Zach, thought he was getting close. Law showed me old photographs of his son.”
The photograph. Suddenly the dots were connecting. “And when you saw this photo of Victor Orsini, you recognized Zach as well.”
“Yeah, so I flew to New York and showed my café photo to old man Law. He recognized his son, all right. Said it was time you knew.”
She stared at him. Was he telling her the truth?
“And all your threads suddenly came together.” Maggie ran her fingers lightly over the photograph. “The search for Sofia Orsini’s missing child. Cameron Law’s search for his missing son, Zach. And a photograph connecting Zachary Law to Victor Orsini, the child’s father.”
“The threads are still tangled as hell, but—yeah.”
Her eyes locked on his. “You think Victor has his son hidden somewhere. You think Zach can lead you to him. All you need is someone to find Zach.”
“You’re playin’ sweet music, Doc!”
“More like broken chords, Agent Sugarman. How did you get this photograph?”
“A source. Contacted me last month. We had a meeting late at night, outdoors, in a cold hard rain.” He shook his head. “The informer says I might find Victor Orsini in Paris. I just pulled on the string to see where it went. Our agent caught up with Vic at the Café de la Paix. That photograph in your hand was sent directly to my iPhone from Paris. But he disappeared like smoke.”
She sensed there was a great deal he wasn’t saying. She could hear the false note in his voice, as clearly as she could detect the off-key notes on a concert grand piano. “There’s more.”
Sugarman spoke behind her. “There was something else with that letter to Cameron Law. A CD.”
She swung around to face him. “What’s on that disc, Agent Sugarman?”
“Music. Cameron Law said it was a piano concerto.”
Maggie’s stomach constricted. “Which one?”
“Got me.”
“I want to hear it. And see the letter you say is from Zach.”
“You’ll have all of it, Doc. Because I’m lookin’ for a guy I’ve never met. His father is in a wheelchair. You’re the only other person left who still might give a damn about him.” His eyes flashed at her. “It’s all connected, Zach Law and the kid and the music. You feel it, too, I know you do.”
She looked away.
“Do you speak French, Doc?”
Maggie spun around as if he’d hit her. “You want me to go to France?”
He smiled. “Cherchez l’homme, as they say. Find the man, and he’ll lead us to Tommy Orsini.”
“Just how do you expect me to find a man who’s been missing for three decades?”
“I’ve done my homework, Doc. You’re a concert pianist. And Law was a piano player, too.”
“A ‘piano player’…” she repeated wryly. “Zach was on the edge of a brilliant musical career when he went overseas.”
“Okay, whatever. Music is a key connection here. Listen to that CD, Doc. Zach may have changed his name, his appearance, but I’ll bet he’s still into music. And there are some major music festivals in France this month.” He gestured at a poster on the shop wall. “Avignon, Nice, Aix, Orange—”
“You expect me to run into Zach at a French music festival? Someone whose appearance would be totally different. And say what? ‘Hello, I’m the mother of the child you never knew.’”
Intense eyes, wavering. “Okay. Not exactly. We would arrange for you to give a few concerts. The publicity alone would draw him out of hiding.”
“No! No concerts.”
The raw, unexpected pain in her voice surprised both of them.
“Hey, Doc, you’re it! People who’d recognize Zachary Law after thirty years are not exactly beating down my door. And I’ll do anything to find that kid.”
She moved closer, looked up into his eyes. “So will I. But my best friend and my husband both died in France. Isn’t there any other way I can—” She stopped, hearing the hollowness of her words.
“Sorry, Doc, but you’re my only shot.” Sugarman hesitated
. “What’s really going on here, Mrs. O’Shea?”
The anger welled up, tore from her throat. “If Zachary Law is alive, then the man I loved with all my heart wanted me to think he was dead. He lied to me, he abandoned me! Why would I ever want to see Zachary Law again? I don’t want Brian to know that his father didn’t want to come home to us!”
“Lies just cover truth.” Sugarman’s eyes darkened. “This isn’t about Law, or even your son. It’s about finding Fee’s son. We’re alive, Doc, she’s not. Are you gonna sit at that silent piano and mourn forever? Or are you going to get up and help me find your godson?”
She could hear her husband’s words in her head. You need to live your life.
“This isn’t about Tommy,” Maggie said suddenly. “You want Orsini. Why?”
“I want your godson. Victor is our best shot at finding him.” He handed her a manila envelope. “Here’s the CD, and the letter from Zachary Law.” He snapped the case closed and moved toward the blue door. “You know you’re going to France, Doc. Hell, we both know you’ll do anything for Fee and her son. But take a few hours to think about it. Listen to that music.”
“Think about it?” she whispered, staring at the envelope in her hand. “Really?”
“One more thing,” said Sugarman. There was a determined light in the dark-brown eyes. “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about the things that matter. Doesn’t your son deserve to know if his father is alive? Do right by him, Doc.”
As he closed the blue door, his words hung in the air around her like the final coda of a symphony.
CHAPTER TEN
WASHINGTON, D.C. AFTERNOON, JULY 3
Dane moved toward a tall mirror in the formal wear shop on Capitol Hill. There he saw the reflection of a stranger—a tall, dashing figure in a well-cut designer tuxedo. Blue-tinted glasses, long, newly-brown hair secured at the nape of his neck, the trimmed, darker mustache, the beard skimming his jaw. The diamond flashing in his left ear.
It was almost time to play his latest role. The years of acting had taught him to change his appearance—and his voice, his character—at will. It had allowed him to remain faceless all these years.
The Lost Concerto Page 5