TEN.

Jimmy crossed his legs and leaned back in the darkness, a large yellow legal pad perched on his lap, his right hand at the ready with a pen. On the black wall of the unfinished studio a flat-screen monitor sparked to life and the digital recording that Ellen had dropped through the mail slot of the carriage house began to play. The first image was of a street sign on the corner of 27th Street and 7th. From there the camera-positioned at waist height-moved down the block, coming to a stop outside her building. With jerky movement, it went up the outside steps of Barrett's building. A click, and the security door pushed open.

The scene shifted to a tile-walled stairwell and to a pair of men's rubber-soled shoes on worn marble steps. The video grew dark from a missing light on the third-floor landing, then another door and a hallway, and then a gloved hand inserted a pick into the first of two locks. The cylinders clicked, the door opened, and the camera was inside.

Enthralled, Jimmy turned the player to a slower speed, needing to catch every detail. He had a chilling sliver of fear as he wondered what would have happened if Ellen were discovered in Barrett's co-op.

Writing fast, he took in the arrangement of the furniture; the framed black-and-white photographs of Jazz players, the near-total absence of color as though someone had been afraid of anything more vibrant than beige upholstery, eggsh.e.l.l walls, and a muddy burnt ocher trim.

The camera panned across the living room, focusing on an ebonized grand piano. Ellen's gloved hand opened up the bench, affording Jimmy a view of Barrett Conyors' most-played repertoire. One by one she held up the t.i.tles for him to read; he was pleased to see annotated and dog-eared Schubert, Beethoven, Rachmaninoff, and four volumes of Chopin's etudes, nocturnes, polonaises, and waltzes-all of them used to where the spines were broken, and if not handled carefully, the pages would fall out. Most of these he already had-leftovers from Ellen.

When the camera focused on the keyboard, he could tell from the wear marks on the ivories that she still played. There was no dust-and straining, he could hear those long-ago notes as a nine-year-old Barrett attacked the Revolutionary etude with mesmerizing precision and artistry; she'd stolen the show. He remembered how Ellen had been furious; no way would she share the limelight with anyone other than her brother. He was only thirteen, but Jimmy now knew that his pa.s.sion for Barrett had been born on that stage.

As the camera resumed its tour, Jimmy winced at the sight of a deep splintered gash in the piano's outer edge. She deserved better, although he appreciated her choice of the 1920s Mason and Hamlin. It displayed a knowledge lost on those more interested in the sn.o.b appeal of Steinways, Baldwins, and of course, the creme de la creme, the Bosendorfer. The damage disturbed him, like untended wounds. Had it been at the hands of loutish and uncaring movers? Or was that the only way she could afford the instrument? Perhaps he could have it repaired.

Behind the piano, on an Ikea shelving unit, was a small grouping of framed photographs. He looked at her mother and sister, as they smiled out at him. Next to that was a picture of an older couple in front of the building where she grew up, and where he knew her mother still lived. The woman, whose silver hair was in a bun, was Sophie Gluck, Barrett's piano teacher, whose pre-war recordings he'd purchased on eBay.

He then looked at a posed graduation picture of Justine Conyors in a dark green gown and ta.s.seled cap. And then a wedding photo with Barrett in white silk, wrapped in the arms of her husband. The camera zoomed in, and Jimmy stared into the eyes of the concert-trombonist-Ralph Best. Bile rose as he saw the plain gold band on his finger.

The camera then shifted to a picture of Barrett as a little girl sitting beside her teacher. They peered over the top of a piano-the same one in her condo-smiling, as though sharing a secret. Jimmy couldn't help but think back on his own experiences with music teachers. They'd all been "the best," but none had been allowed to continue with him. Father would say he needed to take from them what they could give, and then move on. Now, Jimmy realized that Father's reasons had less to do with furthering his skills as a cellist, and more with concern that Jimmy would confide in one of these artists who came to the home. They'd taught him how to finger and score a sonata, create subtlety and precision with his bow hand, and had helped him hone a razor-sharp intonation. But none had ever stayed long enough to become his friend, and during all of the lessons, Father had been close, listening ... watching.

The last photograph was of the two sisters together with their arms around each other, and Justine's head on Barrett's shoulder. The camera lingered, affording him the chance to study their differences; where Justine's face was a cheeky reflection of her mother's; Barrett's had a finer structure, with almost Asian cheekbones, full lips, and those glorious almond eyes.

As Ellen continued her camera tour, Jimmy stayed glued to the screen, taking notes on the yellow pad, scribbling details. He pictured Ellen moving through Barrett's condo. He was certain that she'd have been disguised, dressed as a man, her hair hidden under a dark wig, identical to one he kept stuffed in the pocket of the leather coat in the carriage house.

His attention was pulled away by the ringing of a telephone. He glanced anxiously at the security monitors and then realized it came from the speakers. The scene canted violently, as Ellen put the camera down, and answered her cell. He strained to hear.

"Yes?" Ellen answered.

"And?"

"Good, so he is the taking the medication."

"I see ... what does it mean if it's low?"

"Yes ... will that have to be reported to the board?"

"That is good news, Dr. Conyors. Thank you for calling."

A palpable relief washed over him. The pills had had enough time. He hated having to take them, the way they made his hands shake and filled him with surging anxiety. But she needed him to prove his love and so he'd take them.

Ellen again picked up the camera, "Happy?" she said, looking into the lens. "You need to be more careful, little brother. That was too close."

She was right. He needed to listen to her, to not make mistakes. Ellen had always been the strong one, the smart one. She'd been born an hour before him, and at over seven pounds, while Jimmy spent three weeks in neonatal intensive care. Years later Mother would casually inform them that there'd been a third baby, smaller even than Jimmy and born dead.

The camera drifted back toward the telephone on the coffee table. The images blurred as Ellen's latex-gloved hands peeled off the backing on a bug and stuck it to the bottom of the phone. Jimmy's heart quickened, "Thank you."

From there, he viewed the galley kitchen with its painted white cabinets and deep red Fiestaware dishes. He jotted down the brands of cereal, made note of the spices in her rack, and on her collection of ruby gla.s.s stemware. And then he was in her bedroom, the walls hung with more photographs of jazz musicians. Her bed unmade, the comforter thrown back as though she'd had an uneasy night. Ellen's hand turned back the edge of the duvet, revealing its tag. Jimmy wrote down the designer's name and then the scene blurred as Ellen affixed a second listening device to the bedside phone.

He could hardly contain his excitement. Each added detail brought her closer. He leaned forward as Ellen entered the first of two closets, and went slowly through the suits-some still in plastic dry cleaning bags. Above her work clothes were shelves of neatly stacked sweats and T-shirts. On the floor were three pairs of low-healed pumps-black, navy, and off-white-four pairs of running shoes in varying degrees of deterioration, and a pile of a dozen or more identical black Chinese slippers-the kind that sell for a few bucks on Mott Street.

The second closet was nearly empty, and contained only a bit of men's clothing.

"Interesting," Ellen whispered.

"Yes," Jimmy said, wondering why Ralph Best had so few clothes. At the very least he expected to see a couple of tuxedos-the mainstay of any symphony member. There weren't any, almost as though ... as though he'd moved out.

Hope surged.

The camera shifted to a pair of bureaus-his and hers.

"Open them," he mouthed, as Ellen systematically went through Barrett's clothes, and then Ralph Best's half-empty drawers. "Oh, yes," he moaned as he looked over the a.s.sortment of silk, lace and cotton underwear. All the colors, the lush browns, corals, purples, and blacks.

"She's not yours," a voice spat back at him.

Jimmy's head swiveled. He peered into the darkness and for a moment saw a shadowy form that might have been Father lurking in the doorway.

"I'm not listening to you," he answered, hating the medication-induced sluggishness that made it so hard to shut out Father.

"She's too good for a stupid boy like you. Too pretty. Too smart. She'll send you back, Jimbo."

"Shut up."

Jimmy tried to watch the video, but Father-as he always did-had pushed his b.u.t.ton. Jimmy switched on a table lamp as the screen cut to black. He looked at the bandage in the crook of his elbow and yanked it off. Still visible was the angry red puncture mark where that silly girl had drawn his blood.

"She'll trick you, Jimbo, and then it's back to all of your little friends, and who's going to save you then? They'll come in the middle of the night, that's what you like best. Think of all the fun and games."

"No," Jimmy fought against the voice's powerful pull. He knew that she loved him. Father wanted him to fail. The blood draw had been a test, nothing more. And he'd pa.s.sed, but a woman like Barrett Conyors had to be fought for-like a princess. She wanted him to win her over, to fight for her, to be worthy of her.

And then it hit. The answer came to him with brilliant clarity. The thing that bound them together, the one thing that would prove without doubt his love, his sincerity, was music. He should have seen this sooner; it was the final piece.

Unable to contain his excitement he was off the couch and dialing information. He wondered if Arthur-his old agent/manager-was even still in the business. Within minutes, he was connected.

"Jimmy? Boychick?" Arthur's Caldwell's Brooklyn tw.a.n.g sounded strong and vital. "It's good to hear your voice. How the h.e.l.l are you?"

"Good. Real good, Arthur. You're still in the business, yes?"

"Never better, got some real good talent," and he proceeded to rattle off the names of top-cla.s.sical performers in his stable. "So are you playing?"

"Yes, and that's why I'm calling. Any chance you'd still represent me?"

There was a heavy pause, "What are you thinking?"

"I think it's time to get back on stage, start small, maybe something at the Weill auditorium," he said, mentioning the elegant and intimate Carnegie Hall s.p.a.ce where he and Ellen had performed multiple times in the past.

"What kind of program?" Arthur asked.

"All romantic, Chopin, Debussy, Brahms."

"Nice, a night of love. It's what you did best."

"I still do. You interested? I'll cover all the costs, but I need you to do the booking and the arrangements."

"Do you want it recorded?"

"Yes."

"And your sister will be your accompanist?"

"No."

"Who then?"

Jimmy hesitated, "Let's just say, to be announced."

Arthur chuckled, "You got someone special in mind?"

"Yes, very special."

ELEVEN.

Barrett tried not to think about her last visit to this particular Croton interview room. The blood had been scrubbed from the floor, the young deputy had survived, but Charlie Rohr was dead. And now she faced a manacled Walker Green. "So the voices told you to abduct these women?" Barrett asked, her tone deadpan.

"It was awful doc, you gotta believe me, hearing voices is a terrible thing."

Barrett stared across the interview table at the handcuffed man. Green-her perp of the day-had been brought to the Croton facility to determine "A," whether or not he was competent to stand trial and "B," if he would make the cut for a not guilty by reason of insanity plea.

"Tell me about the voices," she instructed, skeptical that he was in fact hearing any.

"What do you want to know?"

"Man or woman's?"

Walker's muddy brown eyes narrowed. He shifted in his chair, "Do I have to wear these?" he raised his shackles. "The other doctor didn't make me."

"Not my decision," she told him. "My understanding is you had an altercation with one of the guards last night."

"I didn't do nothing," he whined.

"About the voices. Do you recognize them? Are they people you know?"

"Hey, I've gone through this before. Why do I have to keep talking about this over and over?"

"Because," she said leaning forward in her chair and not backing down from his stare, "your lawyer is trying to convince the judge that you're not fit to go on trial for kidnapping, raping, and murdering three women-at least three we know of. In order for the court to do that they've asked for two separate forensic evaluations and a six-month period of observation. You don't have to answer any of my questions, that's your right."

"You married?" he asked.

"None of your business."

His thin lips split open to reveal a tobacco-yellow leer, "That means no. No ring, no husband. You a d.y.k.e? I ain't got nothing against d.y.k.es. h.e.l.l, bring in a friend and we can make a sandwich."

Repulsed, Barrett stood, "If you don't want to talk to me you don't have to." She pushed her chair back, retrieved her digital recorder and signaled to the guard.

"Don't go," Walker pleaded. "I was only playing. Geez, some people can't take a joke. What do you want to know?"

She waved the guard away. "Start with the voices?"

"Okay, it's only one voice and it's a man's."

"Do you recognize it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is it someone you know?"

"It's the devil."

"Really? What makes you think that?"

"Stuff it says, and how he says it. Like real grumbly and low."

"Does it come from inside your head or outside?"

"Outside, like someone talking to me."

Barrett began to reevaluate her first impressions of Walker, maybe he really was psychotic. She watched his facial expressions as he talked. There was none of the emotional blunting common in schizophrenia and he didn't appear manic. His speech had rhythm and a normal-enough variation for her to put another tick in the I-think-he's-lying column. "So they come from outside your head. Is that all the time?"

He paused, about to say one thing, and then changed his mind, "No, sometimes they're in my head."

And right there, she had him. He'd done a halfway decent job up until then, at least Walker had done some basic research. She asked some more questions about the voices, but by the time she'd exhausted the topic she'd convinced herself that his psychotic symptoms were feigned.

"I want to talk about the women now," she said. "Let's start with the first one," she glanced at the yellow legal pad where she'd scribbled a few notes from his chart. "Valerie Blake, how did you meet her?"