When Lucy was teaching a new piece, she’d usually play it first so that her student could listen and watch. Cain sat up when she started, looking across the bed to the window. There were raindrops on the glass, backlit by a gray sky. Beneath him, Lucy hit the first eight or nine notes. He tried to think of the name of the piece. She’d been teaching it to several of her students lately, but before that, she’d played it for him. Just the two of them in the music room. Her wineglass was perched on the piano’s lid, the water in it trembling with each note. They’d left the bay windows open a crack, and the wind had pushed in, carrying a fine mist of fog and the scent of lavender from the garden.
He got out of her bed, wrapping her towel around himself again and listening as she played. It was a calm thing, this song. The first time he’d heard it, he’d imagined Lucy on a tiny island, playing the song as the moon came in and out from behind the cover of slow-drifting clouds. The water around her was dappled with shadow, and then, suddenly, lit silver-white. The image fit her well. She needed an island like that, a place of refuge where she was cut off from everything but the weather and the heavens. Maybe she’d already built it in her mind, and when she looked out her living room windows, she didn’t see the street or the cars parked on it. She saw the dark water. The moon lighting a path across its rippling surface, inviting her to walk to the opposite shore.
When he turned off the shower and went to the empty guest room to dress, he could hear the piano again. Now the student was playing. The notes were correct, but the timing was off. She wasn’t used to the piece yet, this little girl. The song stopped and he heard Lucy’s voice. They talked back and forth, and there was a bit of laughter. The student began to play again, and Cain stood in front of the closet and picked a tie. There were only two to choose from, so it was easy. He strapped on his shoulder holster and then knelt at the little safe. He punched in the code and took out his gun, then closed the door. Lucy hadn’t asked him to buy the safe, but when he’d brought it one day, she looked at it and understood. If he wasn’t wearing his gun, he’d have to lock it up. There were children in and out of this house, something they needed to get used to.
He holstered the gun, then stood and put on his suit jacket. He headed down the stairs, and when she heard him, she broke away from the lesson. They met in the entry hall. She reached up to his shoulder, then kissed the corner of his mouth.
“The thing last night, with the helicopter?” she whispered.
“It’s still going on,” he said. “It’s why I’m going to Menlo Park—Matt Redding can help me find somebody, maybe.”
“Is everything okay?”
“For me it is,” he said. From the music room, Lucy’s student stopped after the first five or six bars and then started from the beginning. “It’s not going so well for the mayor.”
“Is this even a murder case?”
“I don’t know. Someone’s trying to blackmail him, and we want to know who.”
“Will it be in the paper?”
“They’re trying to keep it out,” Cain said. “We’ll see how that goes. Either way I’ll tell you.”
“I’d like that.”
He looked again toward the music room. The little girl was getting it this time. It wasn’t the calm moonlight that Lucy could find in the piece, but Cain could tell that the girl sensed it there, that she was trying to catch it. And now he remembered the song’s name.
“It’s that Debussy piece, the one you played for me,” Cain said. “Clair de lune, right?”
She took both his lapels and pulled him to her.
“You’re good.”
“You should get back to her. Tell her she’s getting it.”
“I should,” she whispered. “I’ll play something else for you, tonight.”
“I might be late coming back.”
“You’re always late,” Lucy said. “But I’m always here.”
He put his hands on her waist and held her close before he went out. She followed him to the door but no further. She hadn’t left this house in more than four years.
Matt Redding’s office was a garage off Johnston Lane in Menlo Park. He had three desks and a dozen computers. Having perfected what he’d sought to build, he spent most of his time waiting to be bought out. The last time he’d spoken with Cain, five companies were courting him. He was giving demonstrations, taking limo rides down to Mountain View. He spent his free time on websites specializing in Caribbean real estate. Once, while they were sitting outside a courtroom before Redding testified, he’d asked Cain what he’d do if he owned an island. What if there was a settlement on it? Would he relocate the villagers, or let them stay?
That was the thing about Redding: In a year, he might be worth a hundred million dollars. Or nothing. The last time they’d met, he needed Cain to pay for lunch.
Cain pushed open the door and stepped inside. Redding was at his desk, but came around from behind it to shake his hand.
“I got your text,” he said. “Did I answer it? I forget.”
“I figured I’d just come anyway.”
“Sit down,” Redding said. “Show me what you have.”
They sat at a beige couch that Redding had probably found on a curb somewhere. Cain slid the coffee table closer and set the folder on it. He took out the pictures and handed them to Redding.
“I’m trying to find this woman,” Cain said.
Redding went through the photographs. He spent a minute or more with each one.
“What do you know about her?”
“Nothing,” Cain said. “She’s in these pictures. That’s it.”
“Is she dead?”