“No disrespect to your theatrical productions, but I think escaping without being seen is beyond both your skill and your budget.”
He scoffed. “May I remind you I directed the Grand Theater’s critically acclaimed production ofViktor/Viktoria? You’d look dashing in a mustache, and better than you would in a gray prison jumpsuit.”
“I’ll never forget. That cheap mustache you slapped on the lead was a fire hazard; it melted under the stage lights. Besides, if I run, then I can never return.”
His face fell. She continued. “But itwasagreatproduction. Speaking of your theater, you need to let Fernando audition for your next show.”
“Don’t you have better things to focus on?” he asked, staring down his nose and tapping the teacup.
“I do. But if I end up in prison, I want him to visit me. Murder,he could forgive me for. But forgetting to put in a word with you?Never.”
“I’m hesitant. But he’s in luck. Our lead actor fell through suddenly,” he said, gnawing his lip with concern.
“Why?”
He sighed. “He took a better-paying gig at the Volkstheater. Fernando can audition, but nepotism won’t win him the part.”
Sterling mustered a weak smile weighed down by sorrow.
“If you insist on staying in Vienna, we need to clear your name,” he said.
“I need an alibi, which means identifying guests from that night.”
“Mr. K will throw you out if you turn over clientele.”
“He gave me a special dispensation.”
His eyebrow arched again. “Be careful with him. He’s generous and helped you when I couldn’t, but you can’t trust anyone that handsome. They don’t understand pain.”
“I trust him.”
He eyed his watch. “If you pull aside the Hotel’s veil of secrecy, be certain, because that’s a bell you can’t unring, dearie.”
Church bells outside chimed five o’clock. He must have timed it with his watch. The director could never resist a bit of drama. She closed her eyes. resting her cup on her knee, inhaling wisps of Christoph’s cologne. The grand bells from the Maria am Gestade Cathedral drowned out the tinny ring from the Schottenkirche, the Scottish church, down the street.
Sterling bolted up, splashing bourbon across her lap and onto Christoph’s leg. He gasped. “For the love of Marlene Dietrich, whatareyou doing?” he cried.
“I know where to find one of the guests!”
She dried the bourbon with a tiny camisole left by last Tuesday’s date, likely in hopes Sterlingwould invite her to collect it. Sterling tossed it aside. Christoph grabbed it and clicked his tongue as he folded it. She wouldn’t bother changing, liquor evaporated fast.
“I love you, but you need to go, I have work to do,” she said, pushing him to the door.
Christoph’s shoulders drooped, his expression somehow both mournful and amused.
“There’s nothing I can say to stop you?” he said, already looking defeated. Like any man who loved Sterling ought to.
— 19 —Neunzehn
The Goldfinch mansion loomed in the grapevine-laced hills of the Nineteenth District, painted Hapsburg yellow with the heavy hand of a brush bought with new money.
Austrians loved titles. Decades ago, Fräulein Gertrude Neuwald, BSc., married architect Herr Doktor Doktor Sebastian Goldfinch (Dr. techn., Dr. rer. soc. oec.). Ever since, she went by Frau Doktor Goldfinch. Unless she needed a short-notice appointment or to sign a letter of complaint, in which case she went by Frau Doktor Doktor Goldfinch.
David was their only son. He had completed no degrees.
While David made headlines, his parents were conspicuously absent from every corner of the internet. Their most recent photos on record were outdated passport pictures. The couple were named in news articles but never photographed. They donated generously to countless foundations but avoided any associated galas. Tall fences surrounded their estate. Clearly, they valued their privacy. Ironic, given their son’s mission to surveil every inch of Vienna.
Andreas rang the bell beside the front gate and informed thesnide voice on the intercom they were police. A mechanism clicked and the gate opened. They entered the garden, crossed a bridge over a narrow, frozen moat encircling the mansion, and found themselves stuck in traffic behind a crowd of white-coated pastry chefs carrying the largest cake Andreas had ever seen.
