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28
Kennedy Center
FRIDAY NIGHT
Molly gave her daughter a final hug, careful not to mess up the light makeup on Emma’s beautiful face—a dash of pale pink lipstick, some powder because the lights were merciless, and nothing else. Her thick dark hair was a shining fall to below her shoulders, held back from her face with two gold clips. Her dress was midi length, long-sleeved, and black, as she preferred when performing. She wore only the golden locket around her neck with her family’s pictures inside it.
She held her daughter’s face between her palms for a moment. “Emma, when you hear the mountain of applause, you’ll know your father and I will be the loudest, louder even than Aunt Sherlock and Uncle Dillon and your grandfather and Elizabeth Beatrice.” Molly kissed her forehead. “We love you to pieces.”
Molly turned and left without looking back, closed the dressing room quietly behind her. It was their routine, hadn’t varied for the past three years. Molly took deep calming breaths as she walked down the side steps stage left and slipped in next to Ramsey. Dillon and Sherlock sat beside her, her father and Elizabeth Beatrice beside Ramsey. Molly gave Ramsey a quick kiss, another ritual, and leaned close. “Emma’s ready. She’s going to be remarkable tonight.” Ramsey didn’t have to ask if Emma was safe, not with six guards stationed at the periphery of the stage and around the concert hall, trying to blend in with the magnificently dressed audience and doing a pretty good job of it. Four of them were Ben Raven’s plainclothes police, and two were the men Mason had brought with him. The only difference was her father’s men wore custom-made tuxes. Ramsey had been more worried about Emma’s state of mind than he’d let on, but now Molly had put that to rest. He leaned over, whispered, “It’s a pity we couldn’t bring the twins.”
Molly spurted out a laugh, slapped her hand over her mouth, embarrassed at herself, but no one was paying any attention over the buzz of conversation in the packed concert hall. She rolled her eyes. “Can you imagine what they’d do when Emma walked onstage?”
He gave her a mad grin. “The mind balks.”
Molly turned to Sherlock sitting next to her, took her hand. “You’re sure you’re feeling all right?”
“Yes, of course.” Sherlock lowered her voice. “You can’t fault Mason’s taste. Elizabeth Beatrice is very beautiful.” She paused a moment, added, “He looks proud as punch, not at himself for acquiring such a prize, but proud of her, proud of them, together.”
Sherlock had done a double take when she’d first set eyes on Elizabeth Beatrice in the lobby at Kennedy Center. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder pure white dress, simple and elegant, her glossy black hair framing her exquisite face, like a princess with black-framed glasses and intelligent eyes. She wore diamonds in her ears and on her wrist, and her wedding ring sparkled and gleamed in the bright lights. At first Sherlock had been the cynic, wondering why this beautiful young woman would marry a man so much older than she. Of course there was a lot to be said for being young and newly married to a wealthy man who took you to Milan and had all your clothes designed for you. But now her cynicism had fallen away. She rather believed the obvious love between this odd couple would only grow in the upcoming years.
Molly said quietly, “I’ve never seen my father this content before, or so happy. It’s like he’s finally found the one person in this world to complete him.” She still marveled. He was treating his new wife, all of them, warmly, with approval. Elizabeth Beatrice was certainly beautiful. Molly had thought she herself looked very nice in her long blue gown lightly skimming her body, her hair piled on her head and diamond earrings flashing, until she’d gotten a glimpse of Elizabeth Beatrice when she, Ramsey, and Emma had met them at her father’s limo two hours before outside the Hay Adams to ferry them to Kennedy Center.
Her jealousy had gone to zero when her sweet Emma said, “Mama, you look so beautiful. I love the gorgeous shoes. Please don’t trip in them.”
Molly had laughed, squeezed her daughter’s hand. To her surprise, Elizabeth Beatrice had said, “I agree. Your hair looks incredible, Molly. And do you know, I’m always afraid of tripping if my shoes are higher than sneakers.”
Mason said then in a distant voice, “Molly’s hair is her grandmother’s, on her mother’s side.”
She grinned at her father, punched his arm. “Dad, Grandmother never liked you, and you didn’t like her. I have her hair. Get over it.”
Her father’s face was severe as he said to his wife, “Her mother believed I wasn’t good enough for her precious daughter.” He paused, his voice even colder. “She was wrong.”
Elizabeth Beatrice leaned up and kissed his cheek, said into his ear, “I bet she wanted you for herself.”
Mason Lord had stared at her, then, incredibly, laughed. He said in a clear happy voice, “You’re right, Molly, I’ve decided I’m now over it.”
He sat now next to Savich, both drop-dead gorgeous in tuxes. Mason said quietly, “I suppose you’ve spotted my two guards I’ve posted here tonight. Mine are the ones who are well dressed although the local police officers don’t look bad. They won’t take their eyes off Emma.”
Molly said to Sherlock, “I spotted them right away. They look like they belong in a box seat.”
Mason asked Savich, “Have you found out anything helpful today?”
Savich, knowing Lord was at once distrustful and hopeful, said, “I’ll let you know when we need your help.” Savich had included him. He saw Mason looked pleased.
Molly saw Vincenzo Rossi move into position with Emma, stage left. Like Emma, he was dressed in black, handsome as a young Italian nobleman. Both kids looked calm, settled, relaxed. Vincenzo’s parents sat on the opposite side of the concert hall, obviously afraid to even sit near them.
The lights dimmed, signaling five minutes until the performance began. The audience slowly quieted. The orchestra finished tuning their instruments, sat still in their chairs, ready. Conductor Leonard Slatkin came onstage in his bespoke tux looking like a king, his rooster tail of white hair towering high. He introduced his first violinist and beckoned to Emma.
Their beautiful girl walked onstage, head high, shoulders back. She bowed toward the darkened audience, sat on the bench, adjusted it. She took a moment to settle, took two deep breaths, as was her longtime habit.
Slatkin nodded to Emma. In the next moment the silence of the concert hall was broken by the first chords of Chopin’s popular Prelude in D Flat Major. Molly closed her eyes, listened intently for any sign of nervousness or anxiety. It was perfect. No, Molly wasn’t biased, not her, the mother of the Chopin goddess. Ramsey let out a breath and Molly squeezed his hand. She’d hold his hand until intermission, as always.
When the Chopin Retrospective came to an end, Slatkin called both Emma and Vincenzo to center stage. Holding hands, they bowed. Molly was on her feet, applauding wildly, along with everyone else. The applause continued until Slatkin said into his microphone, “Rather than individual encores, I’m pleased to announce Emma and Vincenzo have prepared a special surprise for you.” He said nothing more as another Steinway was wheeled onto the stage. Vincenzo and Emma sat down next to each other, adjusted their benches. The lights went down. Against the back wall of the stage, a large screen slowly descended. Emma smiled at Vincenzo, lowered her head, and played the Harry Potter theme, “Hedwig’s Song,” as animated images of the characters from the Harry Potter movies flashed across the screen. Vincenzo segued into “Moaning Myrtle.” There was laughter and oohs and aahs from the audience as the images morphed quickly, nearly blending together, but not quite. Emma continued with “The Chamber of Secrets,” and Vincenzo was next with “Gilderoy Lockhart.”
To close, Emma and Vincenzo played “Harry’s Wondrous World” along with the orchestra. On the screen, Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood looking out over the walls of Hogwarts, until the screen went blank.
There was thunderous applause again, many bows and smiles. The applause grew even louder when Slatkin presented both Emma and Vincenzo with huge bouquets.
Knowing two twelve-year-olds wouldn’t welcome the French food he favored, Mason had made reservations at Vincenti Restaurante, a popular Italian restaurant Savich recommended to him. It was rustic and softly lit, promised Italian comfort food for the children, and best of all, was only a mile and a half from Kennedy Center. The owner, Vincenti himself, directed white-coated waiters to serve their finest champagne to the adults and sparkling cider to Emma and Vincenzo. He congratulated both kids, told them he’d wished he could have heard them perform, and offered them spaghetti with his homemade meatballs.
Molly knew Vincenzo had insisted he and his parents join them, and they did, nervously, until they’d finished two glasses of champagne. Elizabeth Beatrice spoke Italian to the Rossis and they opened like roses blooming. When Emma spoke her few Italian phrases, they beamed at her.
Molly heard Sherlock’s cell beep a text. Sherlock pulled out her cell, read it, and excused herself. Molly followed her to the long hallway by the bar that led to the restrooms and kitchen. Sherlock pressed in numbers, waited, then “Hello, Ben. What’s up?” When she punched off, she slipped her cell back into her small evening bag. She grinned big. “That was Lieutenant Ben Raven. I already told you they’d found the rental car, a high-end Lexus. Now they know it was rented by an M. J. Pederson of Ender City, Nevada. The address was real, Pederson has lived there for twenty years, but he never left Ender City, didn’t know anything about a rental car. Evidently someone had spoofed his credit card and his driver’s license without his knowing it, because they were still in his pocket. The guy who has them is very likely Mr. Dart Gun. He was sloppy leaving his car so close, but of course, he didn’t expect it would be seen.”
Molly’s eyes danced with excitement. “Sherlock, look on my phone map—Ender City is very close to Las Vegas and Rule Shaker.”
“If that’s not a coincidence and Shaker is involved, he won’t be happy Mr. Dart Gun pinched an ID that close to Las Vegas. We’ll have video of the man from the car rental office tomorrow morning. Dillon will put him through facial recognition. If that doesn’t turn up his identity, then—” She paused a moment, looked over at Dillon, who was speaking to Mason Lord. “Hmm, regardless, I think Dillon will agree it’s time we took a vacation to Sin City. You’ll be leaving Washington tomorrow with your father, won’t you?”
