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16
SHERLOCK
Kennedy Center
THURSDAY MORNING
Emma sat straight and tall at the glossy black Steinway. The orchestra was arranged in a horseshoe around her on the stage, an overhead spotlight making her beautiful dark hair glisten. Today for rehearsals her mother had braided her long hair in a thick fishbone braid, intricate and perfect. Emma was wearing a blue sweater and black pants and the simple locket Ramsey had given her for her birthday, with his photo with the twins on one side and her and Molly on the other. She was leaning slightly forward, her attention not really on her fingers, but on the sound of the music, as if she felt each note pulse through her body. She looked fierce. The conductor, Mr. Slatkin, stood quietly as she played, never looking away from her.
Sherlock sat in the rear orchestra near the back of the huge Kennedy Center concert hall listening to Emma’s fingers fly over the Steinway’s keys. She was playing Chopin’s Étude No. 5, known as the black key étude, one of Sherlock’s favorites. Sherlock wondered if she’d looked as fierce as Emma when she’d played that étude so many years ago. She remembered the immense energy she felt, remembered how her heart galloped when her own fingers flew over the keys. She wouldn’t want to try it now and embarrass herself, not after so many years of too little practice.
The concert hall acoustics were amazing, whether you sat center front, in the boxes lining the vast hall, or in the last seat in the second tier. From where she was sitting, Sherlock saw the other young prodigy and Emma’s new friend, Vincenzo Rossi, standing in the wings, his eyes on Emma, listening along with her. He was a handsome boy, with a mop of black hair and dark eyes, perfect for Emma’s first crush. Like Emma, he’d dressed up a bit, probably forced to by his parents, in black chinos and a dark green sweater. Not sneakers, but polished boots on his feet. Sherlock couldn’t wait to hear him play. She settled in, listening to Emma’s music, playing along with her as she always did when listening to other musicians.
Sherlock heard a door behind her quietly open, saw a brief beam of light. She turned to see someone quietly close the door and slip into the dim-lit rear orchestra. She rose slowly and stepped into the aisle, her hand on her Glock clipped at her waist. She watched the figure shrug out of a jacket under a narrow beam of light and saw it was a woman, her eyes on Emma, someone who worked here and wanted to listen to Emma play.
Sherlock caught the woman’s eye and nodded, turned her attention back to the stage. Emma finished the Chopin Étude, paused a moment as many musicians did, her hands quiet over the keys, getting centered and calm again. She rose and looked at Slatkin. Both he and the orchestra applauded loudly, with a lone whistle from a viola player.
Emma gave them a beautiful kid smile and a little bow. She turned to give Vincenzo a wave as he walked onto the stage. He was tall for his age, gangly, on the verge of growing into manhood, already handsome as sin.
Slatkin called out, “Thank you, Emma. You gave us Chopin’s heart. Now we will hear Vincenzo playing Chopin’s Étude in C Major.” He smiled at Vincenzo, nodded. Vincenzo seated himself, moved the bench back because he was taller than Emma. He settled. He looked up at Emma, who stood in the wings where he’d stood and grinned. He looked back down at his hands and let his fingers fly. Neither he nor Emma were dramatic like some pianists, weaving back and forth on the piano bench, hands going up and down, distracting from the music, Sherlock had always believed.
When Vincenzo finished, he flashed Emma a big grin and rose. He bowed to the orchestra as they applauded. Mr. Slatkin thanked him, looked down at his Piaget watch. “We’ll take a ten-minute break.” He smiled at Emma. “Then, Emma, you and the orchestra will play the Piano Concerto No. 2.”
Vincenzo and Emma walked down into the front orchestra section where their parents sat together, looking thrilled.
After a moment, Emma led Vincenzo to the back of the rear orchestra to where Sherlock sat. She was grinning madly. “Vincenzo, this is Special Agent Sherlock, she’s FBI and she could have gone to Juilliard but she decided she’d rather catch bad guys. Now, tell the truth, did we play well, Aunt Sherlock?”
Sherlock cocked her head to one side, looking from one prodigy to the other, gave them a slow smile. “Forgive me. I’m still catching my breath, calming my racing heart. I never did play those études as beautifully as you two did. I was so pleased to listen to both of you.” Both young people cocked their heads back at her, wondering if she meant it all. Sherlock crossed her heart. “Listen, you two, I’m not your parents. I don’t have to lie to you. Remember, I’m FBI. You were phenomenal.”
Emma beamed and Vincenzo said in the lilting accent Emma liked so much, “Grazie, thank you, Special Agent. Forgive my English, it is not very good.”
A few minutes later, Emma was back at the Steinway, ready to play Chopin’s Piano Concerto No. 2 with the orchestra. It was a long piece, demanding and romantic, a test of courage and endurance. Sherlock knew Emma would do fine with it, had already played this concerto with the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra, just as Vincenzo had already played his Piano Concerto in F at La Scala the previous year.
The two talented youngsters took Sherlock back to her youth, to the endless hours of practice when she was their age, and the joy she’d felt when she’d executed a piece perfectly. She wondered for the first time in a very long time what her life would have been like if her sister hadn’t been killed when Sherlock was still a teenager. Her murder had changed Sherlock’s life and set her on a different path. And that different path had led her to Dillon. There was no contest.
Midway through the concerto, Sherlock snapped to attention when the back door cracked open again, sending a narrow shaft of light into the hall. She turned and saw a figure peering around the door, not coming in, but standing silent, listening and watching. Another employee? Why didn’t he or she come in? She stood and walked down the aisle, toward the door. As Emma’s music filled the hall, the orchestra drums and trumpets sounding, Sherlock said quietly, “Come inside, why don’t you?”
A face peered through the door. She saw opaque sunglasses, a head covered with a ball cap.
Sherlock raised her Glock, said only loud enough for the man to hear, “FBI. Come in through the door. Now.”
He raised something to his mouth. A tube? Or was it a flute? Was he part of the orchestra? She heard a hissing sound, felt a sharp stab in her neck. It was the last thing Sherlock saw or thought. She crumpled, struck the arm of a seat and fell onto her side in the aisle.
