The Lost Concerto

by Helaine Mario

  Beckett looked down once more at the sleeping child. “I just wanted to be able to protect somebody’s kid,” he said.

  “I know, Michael.”

  His hands moved to grip her shoulders. “Sugar has his agenda, but I have my own. I won’t let anything happen to you or TJ. I swear it.”

  She pulled away from him. Beyond the window, the sky changed color all of a sudden, and rain clattered against the windowpane.

  The phone jangled once more on the desk, and the child whimpered in his sleep.

  “Don’t answer,” said Maggie.

  He reached for the phone.

  * * *

  “Beckett here.”

  “Mike!” Sugarman could barely contain the excitement in his voice. “Orsini’s made his move.”

  Beckett turned his back on Maggie. “Where are you?”

  “At your hotel, in Maggie’s bedroom. He’s been here.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Hell yes. He killed a bird. Broke its neck and left it here in the middle of her pillow, with a message.”

  Beckett felt his stomach turn over. “Jesus,” he breathed. “Read it to me.”

  “Bring the boy to Cézanne’s studio at one p.m., or there will be no music on Cape Cod tonight.” There was silence for a heartbeat. Then Sugarman read the chilling last words of Victor Orsini’s message.

  “Your son for mine.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  CAPE COD, MASSACHUSETTS. JULY 11

  It was six hours earlier on the northeastern coast of the United States.

  A thin ribbon of gold was just edging the horizon when two men in black track suits quietly closed the doors of a mud-splattered Honda parked behind a row of tall sea grass. They ran across the deserted Cape Cod beach toward a silver-shingled cottage half hidden in the dunes.

  On reaching their target, they disappeared behind the dunes and merged with the dawn’s gray shadows by the windows at the back of the house. A small penlight, shaded by a gloved hand, blinked on and off.

  “The O’Shea’s kid’s in there,” said the taller man under his breath, gesturing toward the corner window. He studied the screen door. “It’s an easy lock.”

  “Then shut the fuck up and do it,” said the second man. He pulled a silenced Luger from beneath his jacket and reached for the doorknob.

  * * *

  The scent of oil paint and dried flowers sickened her.

  On a hillside just outside Aix-en-Provence, Maggie stood alone in the art studio of Paul Cézanne. Preserved as a small museum, the unsettling studio was as it had been at the time of the artist’s death. Palette, beret and cape were scattered about. An unfinished canvas leaned against the far wall. Plastic fruit was laid out in a still life on a wooden table.

  The museum was closed for the day, and Maggie was alone. Rain slammed like bullets against the tall north window, screened now by trees grown taller over the years to block the view of Cézanne’s most famous landscapes. Maggie stared at a tender sketch of the artist’s son, asleep. I’m going to be sick, she thought. She leaned her forehead against the cool rain-slicked glass and bit her lip to keep from crying out.

  She was shivering uncontrollably. Please God, she pleaded, over and over like a litany. PleasekeepBriansafe.

  “Maggie.” Zach stepped into the room and stood looking at her in the splintered light. “Where is TJ?” His voice was as stony as his eyes.

  “Zach! He’s fine, waiting in a black Fiat, just across the square—”

  Zach spun toward the door, and Maggie cried out as she reached for him. “No! Where’s my son? The trade, Zach!”

  Zach turned. “Your son? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You know I have a son, you told me so, last night on the terrace—”

  At that moment Celeste LaMartine entered the room. In her hand was a pearl-handled automatic aimed at Maggie’s chest.

  “Celie!” Zach moved in front of Maggie. “There’s been enough trouble. Give me the gun.” Zach put his hand, very gently, over Celeste’s, and took the gun away from her. “Now go check the Fiat across the square and see if she’s telling the truth.”

  Celeste twisted away and ran through the door. As Zach turned to follow her, Maggie clutched the sleeve of his jacket. “No! It’s Brian who needs us now!”

  Zach stopped. “God help you if Celeste doesn’t find TJ.”

  “TJ is out there, I swear it! This is about Brian. Victor Orsini has taken my son.” Her voice shook with exhaustion and terror. “It’s a trade, Zach! I return TJ to you, and you make the phone call to release my son.”

  “Victor said nothing about any trade, Maggie. Nothing about your boy.”

  “No.” She shook her head, raw with fear. “You’ve got to get to Victor, you’ve got to make him tell you—”

  “I’m leaving. TJ needs me.” He pulled away from her. “Wait!” Her agonized cry tore the air. She gripped his arm, held tight.

  “Brian is your son, too.”

  Zach froze. “What did you say?”

  “Brian is ours, Zach. Born just after you disappeared in Beirut.” Her voice caught and broke. “Don’t let them hurt him. Don’t let Victor hurt our son.”

  * * *

  Some four thousand miles to the west, the dawning sun struck the silvery shingles on a quiet beach house and turned them to gold fire. Light sparkled on the frothing green sea and painted the underside of the gulls’ wings a deep rose against the high blue sky.

  When the sound of gunshot shattered the serene morning air, it was as shocking and obscene as a shouted blasphemy in a silent church.

  The shot echoed for a long time over the dunes, drowning out the sound of the car telephone that rang and rang in the vacant Honda hidden beyond the sand.

  Then there was nothing but the sound of the surging waves crashing on the empty beach and the cries of the frightened gulls as they whirled against the newly bright sky.

  * * *

  Beckett looked down at the little boy curled in the rear seat of the black Fiat and reached out to tousle his hair. The child gazed at him sleepily, then turned away to rub Shiloh’s fur. Sweet kid, thought Beckett, as he gazed through the pouring rain at the museum across the square.

  Where the hell was Maggie? What was going on in there? Rain slammed against the hood of the car, falling in a thick gray curtain.

  A figure, running across the square toward him through the rain. A woman. Maggie?

  He opened the car door, jumped out, ran to meet her. “What—”

  The woman drew closer. Not Maggie. He stopped, braced. Protect the child.

  The woman shouted, raised her arm.

  Fuck me, she has a gun!

  A bright flash.

  A loud, frenzied bark. He was back in Afghanistan. Farzad, no!

  She was closer now, he could see the mouth of the pistol pointed at his heart. He held up his hands.

  A frantic snarl. Another flash!

  The Golden smashed into him, sending him crashing to the cobblestones.

  Protect the boy… A sharp wet pain as he tried to raise his head. One more shot. Not Shiloh!

  Darkness.

  * * *

  In Cézanne’s studio, the sudden roar of gunshots echoed above the battering sound of the rain.

  “Oh, God, what was that?” Maggie spun around.

  “TJ!” Zach ran toward the exit. Maggie was only steps behind him.

  She saw the scene in the rain-lit square as if it were enclosed in a bright bubble. Michael, gray eyes glazed with shock, leaning against the side of the Fiat, trying desperately to stay on his feet. A scarlet stain obscuring his left eye and cheek, splashing onto his rain-soaked sweater. The Fiat’s back door hanging open, leather seat empty.

  Maggie stood as if caught in a nightmare. Someone had shot him? No. Please, no.

  A small crowd had formed a tight circle around the car. One woman screamed, a man’s voice shouted for help, others just stood silently in the pouring rain, confu
sion on stunned faces. Someone had phoned for an ambulance, and the distant sirens grew louder and louder.

  Pushing through the crowd, Maggie tore off her silk scarf and pressed it hard against Beckett’s temple. “Michael,” she cried, “talk to me, damn you. What happened?”

  At the sound of her voice, Beckett blinked. “Shiloh?” he whispered, trying to see past her shoulder. “Woman aimed a gun at my heart, crazy dog saved my life…” Then he saw the empty Fiat.

  “She took the kid,” he said in an odd voice. “Blew it.” A deep, shuddering breath rasped in his throat. “Should have known better. Beautiful women, nothing but trouble.”

  Zach looked at Maggie. “Celeste. She must have had a second pistol.”

  “Michael—” She tore his blood-soaked collar open to ease his breathing, saw the glint of a badly damaged medal against his skin. Had the bullet glanced off the medal?

  “Dammit,” groaned Beckett. “There’s no time! Heard her tell the boy—taking him to his father. Call Sugar. Go after them.” He shook his head back and forth. “Shiloh!” he shouted. “Where are you, boy?”

  Maggie gazed past Beckett’s shoulder, saw the golden body lying so still on the wet cobblestoned street. “I can’t leave you like this,” she whispered.

  “You never hear the shot that kills you, Maggie. I’m okay.” His cold fingers gripped the medal. “St. Michael,” he murmured, “protector of cops and…dogs.” His breath caught. “Just get TJ. You can do it! I’ll protect”—his eyes began to close—“your son. Promised…you.”

  The fingers fell from her arm just as the ambulance lights turned the rain to flickering crimson. “Go,” he whispered.

  “Michael—”

  “Come on, Maggie!” Zach’s voice, urgent through the curtain of rain. “He’s right. We’ve got to go. Now!”

  “Wait. Law—” Beckett’s voice, rasping up at them. Zach bent until his ear was very close to Beckett’s lips. He listened, nodded, and whispered an answer. Then the medics ran over, and Zach grasped Maggie’s arm.

  “Damn you, Michael Beckett, don’t you dare die on me!” she shouted. “I won’t have it, do you hear me?” The tears were hot, running with the rain down her cheeks, as she reached out to touch his face. God, he was so cold.

  “He’s going into shock!” shouted one of the medics, pushing her aside.

  Crazy with fear, she struggled toward Beckett, but Zach put his strong arm around her and dragged her through the rain toward his car.

  As they drove away, she saw the Golden stagger to his feet and take a wild running leap into the ambulance just before two men in white slammed the doors. Twin taillights flashed in the darkness like small red eyes. Then she saw nothing but the rain.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  SOUTH OF FRANCE. AFTERNOON, JULY 11

  “What in blazes is going on over there?” The Admiral’s voice rasped across the miles.

  “Tommy Orsini has been grabbed, taken to his father,” said Sugarman. “Mike Beckett was shot. He’s in the hospital. Zach Law and Maggie are on their way to Cassis to find the kid.”

  “Did you get Orsini’s journal?” Jesus, thought Sugarman, lives are in danger here. “No, no journal. But I’ll get Orsini. He must be in Cassis.”

  “Where the hell is that?”

  “Fishing port just east of Marseilles, surrounded by cliffs. I’m leaving now.”

  “Just find that journal, Sugar.”

  A knock on the door. Sugarman disconnected, swung open the door.

  Vanessa Durand stood before him. The art gallery owner reached out to touch his arm. “I’m here to help you find Victor Orsini,” she said into the silence.

  * * *

  Zachary Law sped south through the narrow streets of Aix in the pouring rain while Maggie shouted into her cell phone. Finally she dropped her phone into her lap and turned to him. “Sugarman will meet us in Cassis.”

  She turned to face him, and he saw that her eyes had lost their hopelessness. Two bright flames burned in the sheet-white face. “Maggie?” he said.

  Fiercely, she wiped the tears away. “I won’t be used anymore,” she said in a voice that trembled with rage. “I’m fighting back, Zach. Hurry! Victor Orsini has the answers. We’ve got to help Brian.”

  “I know Victor. Let me handle it.”

  “How far?”

  “An hour, less.”

  “Hurry, Zach. Our son needs us.”

  Our son…Zach gunned the engine and turned the car toward the outskirts of Aix. “Then start talking. I want the truth this time, Slim. All of it.”

  “Everything, I promise. Just hurry, please.” She took a deep breath. “What did he say to you?”

  The car sliced across the rain-slicked road. “Beckett? He told me to watch out for you, because you can be an obstinate—” He shook his head at her. “He needed to know where Victor is hiding.”

  “You told him?”

  Zach nodded as he pressed his foot to the accelerator. “Of course. He’s convinced that TJ is in danger,” he said. “I believe him. Now I want you to tell me why.”

  “Because Victor Orsini is responsible for his own wife’s death.”

  “Victor murdered Sofia?” His voice shimmered with shock. “That’s impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “He was nowhere near that island, Maggie. He loves his son. And he’s been more of a father to me than my own father ever was.”

  “Zach—”

  “I told you. I went to him at Le Refuge several years ago. Damned heroin had me in a vise, I had nowhere else to go. Told him his sister had been my friend. Victor was good to me. Stood by me during my recovery, hired me to authenticate his collection of music manuscripts, sold me the vineyard. He trusted me with his son’s life’”

  “Victor Orsini is not the man you think he is,” she insisted. “There’s a blond man who works for Victor, a man with mirrored glasses—”

  He swung toward her with shock. “You know Dane?”

  “Dane.” She said the name out loud, slowly, as if it tasted like bile in her mouth. “Yes. I know Dane.” And she told him then about Simon Sugarman’s photograph, and the murder of Sofia Orsini, while they sped south into the dark heart of the storm.

  * * *

  Zach’s face was like a stone in the silent car.

  He’s thinking about TJ, thought Maggie, hurting for him. TJ, innocent witness to his mother’s unspeakable death. Locked in his silent world because of it.

  As oncoming headlamps outlined the hard planes of Zach’s face, the burning rage leaped in her chest. She knew with certainty that she would do anything to fight for TJ and her son. Anything, she repeated in the darkness.

  She peered out the black, rain-swept windshield. Hurry, hurry. She turned to Zach. “How much longer?”

  He gestured with his chin toward a blurred road sign. “Cassis. Thirty more kilometers.”

  The car swerved sharply as a sheet of rain slammed into the windshield, and Maggie caught her breath. Zach’s foot eased off the accelerator, and the Mercedes steadied under his strong hand. For the first time he turned his head to look directly at her.

  “Tell me about my son. How old? Thirty? After Beirut, I was told I’d never father a child, and now… Jesus, Maggie, how the fuck am I supposed to feel?”

  “I don’t know, Zach. You’re the one who chose not to come home.”

  He shook his head. “What did you tell him about me?”

  “What I believed to be the truth, damn you! That you died in Beirut, working for peace.”

  “And now?”

  “He knows I’ve come to look for you… But I had to be sure.”

  He was silent for a moment, thinking about her words. “Of what?” he asked finally. “That I won’t abandon him this time? Or that I’m not a murderer?”

  She looked down at her fingers, clasped tightly in her lap. “That you wouldn’t hurt him.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  “You’re not…one of the
m. I know it.”

  His face changed. “Thank God for that.”

  “I tried to tell you last night,” she said. “In the garden at Le Refuge. But then TJ called to you, and you went to him…”

  “It wouldn’t have changed anything, ultimately. What does he look like?”

  “You. You and your father. The same bony face, the same long hair, the same dark, expressive eyes. But Brian’s taller than you are. And not quite so…intense.”

  The lights of Marseilles blinked through the fog. “Not long now,” he murmured. “He’s into music?”

  She nodded. “Studied music and history at Penn. He’s an amazing classical pianist, but now he’s into jazz and blues.”

  Zach’s head swung toward her, and she saw the pleased surprise flash in his eyes. “You taught him to play?”

  She smiled for the first time in hours. “Worse than teaching him to drive.”

  Zach chuckled. “He any good?”

  “The best.”

  When she remained silent, he said, “Brian. A strong name.”

  “Brian Zachary Sophocles,” she corrected. “Who is now married and going to be a father in a few months.”

  “I’m going to be a grandfather?” His breath came out in a long, disbelieving whoosh. “I should have been there for you, Maggie. For both of you. I never meant to hurt you.”

  “But you did hurt us, Zach. You weren’t dead. You made a choice not to come home. You missed all those sweet unfurling moments of his life. The smell of his damp cheek after a bath. The singing of a lullaby…” Her voice caught.

  The small sign for Cassis appeared out of the fog. He took the exit ramp too fast and remained silent.

  Suddenly, after all the years, her anger was uncontainable, rushing from her like the hot tears that slid unchecked down her face. “I saw every day how much he missed having a father. Where were you when Brian took his first step, hit his first home run? Where were you when he broke his arm, discovered girls? When he played Basie and Bach on a stage and heard his first applause?” Her voice broke. “You weren’t there, Zach, when I found my grown son crying alone in the garden because he’d blown his audition at Juilliard…”

  Zach pulled the car over and turned off the lights and engine. Now the only sound in the car was Maggie’s sobbing. When he turned to her, there were tears in his eyes as well.