Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

Szabo’s eyes bugged suddenly. “Were you involved in that one?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, that’s good,” said Szabo. “Because if you were, I can’t say I’d have any great confidence in you.” He sniffed the air. “The poor odeum. I don’t know if I’ll be able to continue.”

“Mr. Szabo built a private concert hall, Alex. The victim was tonight’s performer.”

“The victim .” Szabo placed a hand over his heart. Before he could speak, the doors opened again and a young, lithe Asian man in snug black satin pants, a black silk shirt, and a red bow tie hurried toward us.

“Tom!” said Szabo. “The detective says a while longer.”

The young man nodded. He looked to be thirty at most, with poreless, tight skin glowing ivory under a dense blue-black cirrus of hair. “Whatever it takes, Stef. Are you okay?”

“Not hardly, Tom.”

The young man turned to me. “Tom Loh.” His hand was cool, dry, powerful.

Szabo hooked his arm around Loh’s biceps. “Tom designed the odeum. Designed the house. We’re partners.”

“In life,” said Tom Loh.

Szabo said, “Is the caterer doing anything or just standing around? As long as she’s stuck here, she might as well tidy up.”

Milo said, “Mr. Szabo, let’s hold off on cleanup until the crime-scene people are through.”

“Crime-scene people,” said Szabo. Tears filled his eyes. “Never in my life did I imagine that term would be relevant to our home .”

Tom Loh said, “Is the- is Vassily still here?”

“The body will be removed as soon as we’re finished,” said Milo.

“Sure, fine, whatever. Is there anything else I can tell you? About Vassily, the concert?”

“We’ve already been through the guest list, sir.”

“But as I told you,” Szabo broke in, “the guest list is only part of the audience. Eighty-five out of a hundred and thirteen people. And you must take my word: every one of those eighty-five is beyond reproach. Twenty-five are our faithful season-ticket holders- neighbors whom we grant free admission.”

“Stroking the neighbors,” explained Loh. “So we could get the odeum through zoning hassles.”

“Eighty-five out of one thirteen,” said Milo. “Leaving twenty-eight strangers.”

“But surely,” said Szabo, “anyone who’d be interested in Chopin would be too refined to…”

Loh said, “Let them do their job, Stef.” His hand rested atop the older man’s shoulder.

“Oh, I know you’re right. I’m just a fellow trying to make the world a more beautiful place, what do I know about this kind of thing?” Szabo smiled weakly. “Tom reads mystery novels. He appreciates this kind of thing.”

“Only in fiction,” said Loh. “This is hideous.”

Szabo seemed to take that as a reproach. “Yes, yes, of course, I’m babbling, don’t know what I’m saying. Go about your business, Detective.” He touched his chest. “I need to sit down.”

Loh said, “Go upstairs, I’ll bring you a Pear William.” Taking Szabo’s arm, he guided the older man toward the landing, stopped and watched as Szabo trudged the rest of the way by himself, then returned to us.

“He’s traumatized.”

“How long have you had the odeum?” said Milo.

“Same time as the house,” said Loh. “Three years. But the project was over a decade in the making. We began right after Stef and I moved from New York. We were together two years before that. Stef was in the hosiery business, and I was in urban design, did public and private spaces. We met at a reception for Zubin Mehta. Stef had always been a classical music freak, and I was there because I’d done some work for one of the maestro’s friends.”

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.”