A podium stood nearby. I imagined Dominic in the room, alone with his music. He would have a score open in front of him, and somewhere out there in the dark, someone was doing the math.
The bullet was the most visible component, designed to be found and traced back to an outside position. It pulled my attention outward, toward the perimeter of the property and traditional external threat management.
The sheet music was the more insidious move. Placed inside and waiting.
My phone vibrated. It was a text from Michael McCabe at The Guardians office in Seattle.
Michael:Police scanner says patrol units responded to a tip about gunfire heard in the neighborhood. They didn’t file a report.
That meant one of two things. Either someone had convinced them not to, or someone made sure they didn’t arrive.
Luca was at the stove when I returned to the kitchen, stirring a pot simmering on low. “Red beans,” he said. “It’s Monday.”
I leaned against the doorframe as I looked around the room. The marble countertops were worn at the edges. Copper pots hanging above the island swayed slightly in a gentle breeze, occasionally clanking together.
Luca poured coffee and slid a mug toward me. It was darker than anything I’d grown up with, nothing like the sweet, quick bodega coffee of Washington Heights.
“Tell me about access to the house,” I said.
Luca laid the spoon across the pot rim and turned around. He crossed his arms over his chest.
“That depends on what access means.”
“Who could move through the salon at night, place something on the bench, and leave with no one knowing?”
He was quiet for a moment.
“Many people come and go here. It’s Dominic’s circle. On any given day, colleagues, musicians, and patrons all stop by. Some of them will remember which windows he leaves open because he mentioned it once in passing seven years ago and they filed it.” He held my gaze. “The guest list is not a short one.”
“The note,” I said. “Envelope?”
“Folded. No envelope.”
“Where exactly on the bench?”
“Squared. Aligned perfectly in the center. Dominic is never that precise.”
Luca turned to look at me. That was the moment I understood what I was working with.
He didn’t read threats the way I did: sightlines and the geometry of approach. He read it the way you read a room where someone moved the furniture two inches; how it disruptsnormal behavior. Seven years of managing Dominic’s world had given him a granular map of it. He would find things I would miss.
Luca was likely to resist every clean line I tried to draw. He didn’t live in a world of angles and lines. He inhabited an interconnected web of histories and the weight of years.
He turned back to the stove to check the beans, and for approximately two seconds I stared at the back of his neck and the way his shirt had come untucked on one side. I was not thinking about access points. I filed the thought in a different category under things to manage.
“I need the full list,” I said. “Who has keys? “ Which of them has standing invitations. Anyone Dominic lets in without notice.” I considered the next piece. It was vital. “And anyone who’s felt slightly different recently. Let me know about any conversations where the texture was off. You don’t need a reason, only that you noticed.”
“I can have it this afternoon.”
“This morning.”
Our gazes locked on each other for a few seconds.
“This morning,” he said. “One more thing.”
I listened.
“The sheet music wasn’t on the piano when Dominic started working.”
