Tess Gerritsen - The Apprentice

“Is this about the Ghents?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” said Rizzoli.

“Terrible. Just terrible. I saw them last week, right after they got into town. They dropped by to check out the hall.” He shook his head. “Seemed like such a nice young couple.”

“Were you on duty the night they performed?”

“No, ma’am. I just work here during the day. Have to leave at five to pick up my wife from day care. She needs twenty-four-hour supervision, you know. Forgets to turn off the stove…” He stopped, suddenly reddening. “But I guess you folks aren’t here to pass the time. You come to see Evelyn?”

“Yes. Which way to her office?”

“She’s not there. I saw her go into the concert hall a few minutes ago.”

“Is there a rehearsal going on or something?”

“No, ma’am. It’s our quiet season. Orchestra stays out in Tanglewood during the summer. This time of year, we just get a few visiting performers.”

“So we can walk right into the hall?”

“Ma’am, you got the badge. Far as I’m concerned, you can go anywhere.”

They did not immediately spot Evelyn Petrakas. As Rizzoli stepped into the dim auditorium, all she saw at first was a vast sea of empty seats, sweeping down toward a spotlighted stage. Drawn toward the light, they started down the aisle, wood floor creaking like the timbers of an old ship. They had already reached the stage when a voice called out, faintly:

“Can I help you?”

Squinting against the glare, Rizzoli turned to face the darkened rear of the auditorium. “Ms. Petrakas?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Detective Rizzoli. This is Detective Frost. Can we speak to you?”

“I’m here. In the back row.”

They walked up the aisle to join her. Evelyn did not rise from her seat but remained huddled where she was, as though hiding from the light. She gave the detectives a dull nod as they took the two seats beside her.

“I’ve already spoken to a policeman. Last night,” Evelyn said.

“Detective Sleeper?”

“Yes. I think that was his name. An older man, quite nice. I know I was supposed to wait and talk to some other detectives, but I had to leave. I just couldn’t stay at that house any longer…” She looked toward the stage, as though mesmerized by a performance only she could see. Even in the gloom, Rizzoli could see it was a handsome face, perhaps forty, with premature streaks of silver in her dark hair. “I had responsibilities here,” Evelyn said. “All the ticket refunds. And then the press started showing up. I had to come back and deal with it.” She gave a tired laugh. “Always putting out fires. That’s my job.”

“What is your job here exactly, Ms. Petrakas?” asked Frost.

“My official title?” She gave a shrug. “ ‘Program co-ordinator for visiting artists.’ What it means is, I try to keep them happy and healthy while they’re in Boston. It’s amazing how helpless some of them can be. They spend their lives in rehearsal halls and studios. The real world’s a puzzle to them. So I recommend places for them to stay. Arrange for their pickup at the airport. Fruit basket in the room. Whatever extra comforts they need. I hold their hands.”

“When did you first meet the Ghents?” asked Rizzoli.

“The day after they arrived in town. I went to pick them up at the house. They couldn’t take a taxi because Alex’s cello case made it a tight squeeze. But I have an SUV with a backseat that folds down.”

“You drove them around town while they were here?”

“Only back and forth between the house and Symphony Hall.”

Rizzoli glanced in her notebook. “I understand the house on Beacon Hill belongs to a symphony board member. A Christopher Harm. Does he often invite musicians to stay there?”

“During the summer, when he’s in Europe. It’s so much nicer than a hotel room. Mr. Harm trusts classical musicians. He knows they’ll take good care of his home.”

“Have any guests at Mr. Harm’s house ever complained of problems there?”

“Problems?”

“Trespassers. Burglaries. Anything that’s made them uneasy.”

Evelyn shook her head. “It’s Beacon Hill, Detective. You couldn’t ask for a nicer neighborhood. I know Alex and Karenna loved it there.”

“When did you last see them?”

Evelyn swallowed. Said, softly: “Last night. When I found Alex…”

“I meant while he was still alive, Ms. Petrakas.”

“Oh.” Evelyn gave an embarrassed laugh. “Of course, that’s what you meant. I’m sorry; I’m not thinking. It’s just so hard to concentrate.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why I even bothered to come in to work today. It just seemed like something I needed to do.”

“The last time you saw them?” Rizzoli prompted her.

This time Evelyn answered in a steadier voice. “It was the night before last. After their performance, I drove them back to Beacon Hill. It was around eleven or so.”

“Did you just drop them off? Or did you go inside with them?”

“I let them off right in front of their house.”

“Did you see them actually walk in?”

“Yes.”

“So they didn’t ask you inside.”

“I think they were pretty tired. And they were feeling a little depressed.”

“Why?”

“After all the anticipation about performing in Boston, it wasn’t as big an audience as they’d expected. And we’re supposed to be the city of music. If this was the best we could draw here, what could they hope for in Detroit or Memphis?” Evelyn stared unhappily toward the stage. “We’re dinosaurs, Detective. Karenna said that, in the car. Who appreciates classical music anymore? Most young people would rather watch music videos. People jiggling around with metal studs in their faces. It’s all about sex and glitter and stupid costumes. And why does that singer, what’s his name, have to stick his tongue out? What’s that got to do with music?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Frost agreed, warming at once to the topic. “You know, Ms. Petrakas, my wife and I had this very same conversation the other day. Alice, she loves classical music. Really loves it. Every year, we buy season tickets to the symphony.”

Evelyn gave him a sad smile. “Then I’m afraid you’re a dinosaur, too.”

As they rose to leave, Rizzoli spotted a glossy program lying on the seat in front of her. She reached across to pick it up. “Are the Ghents in here?” she asked.

“Turn to page five,” said Evelyn. “There. That’s their publicity photo.”

It was a picture of two people in love.

Karenna, slim and elegant in an off-the-shoulder black gown, gazed up into her husband’s smiling eyes. Her face was luminous, her hair as dark as a Spaniard’s. Alexander looked down at her with a boyish smile, an unruly forelock of pale hair dipping over his eye.

Evelyn said softly: “They were beautiful, weren’t they? It’s strange, you know. I never got the chance to sit down and really talk with them. But I did know their music. I’ve listened to their recordings. I’ve watched them perform, up on that stage. You can tell a lot about someone just by listening to their music. And the one thing I remember was how tenderly they played. I think that’s the word I’d use to describe them. They were such tender people.”

Rizzoli looked at the stage and imagined Alexander and Karenna on the night of their final performance. Her black hair lustrous under the stage lights, his cello gleaming. And their music, like the voices of two lovers singing to each other.

“The night they performed,” said Frost. “You said it was a disappointing turnout.”

“Yes.”

“How big was the audience?”

“I believe we sold around four hundred fifty tickets.”