Dark Rhapsody Page 5

  She gazed at the wall of books, secure behind a locked metal grating. “You’d never know a staircase was concealed there. You promised you’d let me climb to the third balcony one day.”

  “Didn’t forget,” he whispered. “Come back early morning, just after we open, when it’s quiet.” He smiled and turned toward the long glass case behind her. “We’ve got Chopin this month. I remember he was a favorite of yours.”

  “Still is.” She smiled as she turned toward the display case, set in front of a huge marble fireplace. She especially loved the Morgan because it highlighted and preserved rare, handwritten music manuscripts by the great composers. She leaned toward the case, and there it was. She caught her breath.

  Chopin’s Etude for Piano in C major, 1832. Autographed. Two whole pages, the pale blue ink faint, the notes tumbling one over the other. Her fingers skimmed the glass gently, aching to reach inside and touch the very same pages that the great Polish composer had touched.

  A small dark portrait of Chopin, by Delacroix, was set beside the manuscript, and she leaned closer, drawn into the deep-set eyes. Eyes that had distance in them, eyes that reminded her of …

  A French cemetery, four months earlier, just after dawn on a soft summer morning. A low voice in her ear. “Mrs. O’Shea? Magdalena O’Shea?”

  She had been sitting on a bench in Père Lachaise Cimetière in Paris, before the tomb of Chopin. Staring at the high, carved granite headstone, where several cats slept in the sun. And then the shadow of a man had fallen across her, and she had looked up into the stone-silver eyes of Colonel Michael Beckett.

  Beckett. A crusty, take-no-prisoners soldier who quoted Winston Churchill and lived in the Blue Ridge Mountains with a three-legged rescue Golden named Shiloh. Their chemistry had been immediate, tumultuous. She still heard the whispering in her bones when she thought of him. God.

  The man was slowly bringing her back to life.

  Maggie let out her breath. Where was he tonight? In his cabin with Shiloh? DC with old friends? Or maybe overseas?

  God, don’t let him be overseas. She closed her eyes, picturing his face. And without warning felt an icy chill slide across her skin.

  Where are you, Colonel? And why do I suddenly feel as if something is wrong?

  * * *

  At that moment Colonel Michael Beckett was driving north, very fast, on the George Washington Parkway in northern Virginia. The blue BMW convertible he’d rented while his old jeep was in the shop responded immediately to his touch. Oh yeah, baby, you were worth the splurge.

  He looked over at the Golden, curled in the passenger seat beside him, his sleek head down. Just a few months back, this dog would snarl and snap if anyone dared to come near him. But now … He was too quiet. It was more than old age. Something was wrong.

  “It’s okay to enjoy the wind, Shiloh, let it blow those ears of yours straight back from your head. C’mon, big guy, we’re in a Beamer!”

  The dog did not lift his head. The trees flew by in a dark blur, with an occasional silvery glimpse of the Potomac River just beyond the woods.

  He’d be at the chief’s McLean home in ten minutes. An after-hours call from the Number 2 at the agency had to be important. And he’d been wanting to make another trip to the cemetery …

  “Killing two birds with one stone,” he said to the Golden.

  Shiloh gave a low growl in response, clearly not amused by the image.

  “Okay, okay, so you missed the class where they said Retrievers aren’t supposed to be bird lovers,” muttered Beckett, his eyes once again checking the rearview mirror. And then, “Something’s up.”

  The dark SUV was still there. Keeping up.

  He accelerated into the curve.

  The SUV pulled closer. Not good.

  Someone sending a message? Trying to scare the bejesus out of him? Not gonna happen.

  He glanced over at the dog. “Hold on, fella, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”

  Beckett pushed hard on the accelerator, felt the Beamer leap forward. Good thing there wasn’t too much traffic on this stretch tonight. He eyed the mirror.

  The SUV was closing in on him.

  Christ, it was too close. What the hell?

  The sharp scream of metal against metal. The BMW shuddered beneath his fists as he gripped the wheel.

  He reached out, pushed the Golden down onto the floor. “Down, Shiloh! Stay down, boy.”

  You’re not going to hurt my dog, damn you!

  His foot punched down, accelerating to eighty. Ninety.

  Bright headlamps filled his mirror.

  Eyes locked on the mirror, he reached for his cell.

  The lights in the mirror came closer, filling the car, blinding him.

  Sons of bitches.

  The impact was sudden, hard.

  He fought for control, cursing as the car headed toward the trees.

  Shiloh’s howl and the screech of tires filled his ears.

  The sports car careened off the road.

  Black tree trunks rushed at him.

  Spinning down.

  The silver flash of river …

  Christ. Not the river!

  He closed his eyes and hung on.

  For a split second, he saw Maggie’s face.

  A splintering crash.

  A blistering tower of fire, shooting high into the night.

  Scorching heat.

  Pain.

  No way, dammit. Get out! Get the fuck out!

  A high, agonized bark.

  Where was his dog? “Shiloh!” he shouted.

  Reaching. Lunging.

  “Shiloh!”

  The world exploded into a thousand stars of flame.

  Blackness.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE MORGAN LIBRARY, NYC

  SUNDAY

  LOUD LAUGHTER IN the crowded Morgan rotunda broke into Maggie’s head, scattering her thoughts. Just as well.

  She turned.

  Several guests in cocktail dresses and tuxedoes stood in a circle behind her, deep in conversation.

  “How do you get two lawyers to agree on a juror?” asked a voice that was deep and sonorous in timbre. “Shoot one.”

  She knew that baritone. Alexander Karas.

  She stepped closer. “The delivery is good but perhaps not the most politically correct choice for a judge.”

  “Maggie!”

  She smiled at the handsome judge. “Hello, Zander, I’ve been searching for you. It’s so good to see you.”

  Karas walked toward her. Over six feet, eagle-faced, as charismatic as ever. He was built like a basketball player, but the Armani tuxedo and silk blue-gray tie fitted him perfectly. His silver hair, swept back from a high forehead as if by a strong wind, had grown longer since she’d seen him last, and now a salt and pepper shadow covered a strong jaw. A good look for him.

  Karas clasped her hand, leaned down to kiss her cheek. Then he raised glowing hazel eyes to gaze at her. “I’ve been looking for you, also. It’s been too long. I’ve missed you.”

  “You’ve just missed someone to laugh at your quirky legal jokes.”

  “Ah, go easy on your old godfather, will you, Maggie?” His eyes glittered at her as he held out a sparkling flute of champagne.

  It had been almost a year since she’d seen her parents’ closest friend, she realized, as she accepted the flute. After Johnny had died, she had shut herself away from everyone.

  She raised her glass. “You look well,” she told him truthfully. “To you. Congratulations, Zander. Or should I say Mr. Justice? It isn’t every day someone I love is on the short list for nomination to the Supreme Court by the President of the United States.”

  “What was the President thinking?” Karas’ smile flashed. “And ‘Mr. Justice’ is far too premature, Maggie. The operative words are short list. I’m afraid I could be the third choice, behind two very diverse and talented women. I expect the press coverage and hearings will be brutal.”

  “Well, clearly t
he President thinks highly of you. It takes courage to stand up to what should be supreme in a democracy—the popular will.”

  “Ah, but what side would I be on if I were king?”

  “Just don’t tell any jokes and they all will fall under your spell, Zander. As long as it’s what you want.”

  “Heavy is the head that wears the crown,” he said softly. “But yes, it’s what I want.” He raised his flute to her with a look of admiration. “And now to you. May we suffer as much sorrow as the drops of champagne we will leave in our glasses.”

  He kept his eyes on her as they clinked and drank. “I was so happy when you called. I know it’s been a very rough year for you, but I have an idea I think you will like. Will you have a nightcap with me later tonight? Right now, I want to introduce you to my friends. New York’s newest Cardinal. And Madame Giulietta Donati, the international pianist.” He smiled. “I know you recognize her name.”

  Karas reached out to cup her elbow, guiding her toward a regal, stunning elderly woman in a long-sleeved velvet claret gown, seated in a wheelchair. Behind her, wearing the floor-length black cassock of the Catholic priesthood, stood a tall, slender man with soft gray eyes and light, wispy hair.

  The woman lifted her face toward Maggie with a questioning smile. In her late seventies, perhaps, the woman looked much younger, with high, papery cheekbones and pure white hair braided in a coronet around her head. Huge ruby earrings sparkled and dangled from her ears.

  “Madame Giulietta Donati,” said Alexander Karas. “I want you to meet Magdalena O’Shea. Magdalena is—”

  “Of course, I know who she is, Zander. Quite the pianist in her own right.” Madame Donati leaned closer to Maggie, held out her hand. Jeweled bracelets shimmered on her wrist. “Please, call me Gigi. You are even more beautiful than your photographs, Mrs. O’Shea. I own most of your CDs, and heard you play Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto in Boston several years ago. Gorgeous. It is a true pleasure to see you.”

  “For me as well.” Maggie smiled into eyes of bright, glowing amethyst. “Call me Maggie, please.”

  “Come closer, my dear. I want us to—”

  “God may be more willing to listen to you, Gigi, if you don’t insist on monopolizing this beautiful woman.” The Archbishop stepped forward, smiling, his ornate pectoral cross glittering against the black fabric of his gown.

  Alexander Karas held out his hands. “And this, of course, is His Eminence, Robert Cardinal Brennan.”

  “How have you been, Maggs?” said the Archbishop in a low, warm voice as he bent to kiss her cheek.

  “Hey, Robbie, it’s so good to see you, too.”

  Karas and Giulietta Donati exchanged amused glances. “Maggs? Robbie? It seems you two already know each other quite well,” said Gigi Donati.

  The Cardinal chuckled. “I introduced myself to Maggie in Boston after a concert years ago. She has worked with me ever since, bringing music programs to many of our juvie kids in Brooklyn and the Bronx.” He turned back to Maggie, smiling as he slipped the round red biretta on his head. “I must get back to the rectory. But I want to spend time with you. It’s been too long. Will you stop by the church?”

  “And you will just happen to have some kids there in need of piano lessons …”

  “Same old Maggs.” A smile lit the light eyes as the Cardinal turned to the older pianist. “I would be honored if you would come visit our church as well, Madame Donati,” he said, taking her hand.

  Gigi Donati shook her head with regret. “I’m afraid I don’t go out much in the evenings anymore, Robert. But”—she raised her eyes to Maggie’s—“perhaps Maggie would be willing to stop by my apartment for a cup of tea one day this week? We have so much personal history to catch up on, you and I.”

  Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Personal history? I’m sorry, Gigi. I’m not sure what you mean.”

  The lovely pianist reached out and took Maggie’s hand. Her touch was light as a bird’s wing. “Forgive me, my dear. The memory plays tricks. It seems like yesterday, but—of course you were too young to remember.”

  Maggie bent down to the older woman, intrigued, and found herself suddenly surrounded by the faint scent of Chanel. “Remember? We’ve met before, then?”

  “Oh, yes, a very long time ago. You were just a young child—four, maybe five years old. And quite shy, always hiding beneath the Steinway. Your parents and I were very good friends. I was your mother Lily’s piano teacher for many years, my dear. She was one of the very few people who knew that Giulietta was my middle name. She always insisted on calling me by my first name. Gisela.”

  * * *

  “Hey, buddy!”

  Pain.

  “Buddy, can you hear me?”

  Beckett tried to move. The ground was hard, cold beneath him.

  “I hear you. Am I in heaven?”

  A low chuckle. “I don’t think they say ‘buddy’ in heaven.”

  Beckett felt the heat searing his eyelids. He forced his eyes open and struggled to turn his head. He saw a pulsing orange glow on the edge of the trees.

  “Hell, then,” he muttered. “Should have known …”

  “You’ve been in a car accident. Thrown clear, you lucky bastard.”

  Thrown clear? He tried to focus. Some fifty feet away, the Beamer—his gorgeous baby—was engulfed in flames.

  Christ! Shiloh!

  Beckett tried to sit up. “My dog,” he gasped.

  “What dog?”

  “A Golden …” He heard the string of curses spill from his dry, cracked lips—in English, in Pashto, in Arabic. He tried to sit up. Dizzy.

  “Easy, bud, we’ve got to get you to the hospital,” said the medic.

  “Where’s my dog, damn you? Shiloh! Shiloh!”

  Silence.

  Then a high, agonized bark, somewhere in the woods to his right.

  Somehow, he was on his feet and staggering toward the trees.

  CHAPTER NINE

  NEW YORK CITY

  SUNDAY, OCTOBER 19

  THE ELEVATOR DOORS to The Top of the Strand Rooftop Bar opened, and Maggie stepped into the crowded, open space. White winking lights, candles, soft sofas, the deep blue dome of sky and, straight ahead, the iconic Empire State Building, lit tonight in bright orange lights in honor of the season. While Zander Karas stopped to speak with another guest, Maggie walked ahead toward the glassed railing.

  The air was clear and cold, sharp with the scent of wood smoke and dry chrysanthemums. She gazed over the railing toward the street below, where streetlamps were blinking on and lines of cars and taxis crawled toward the East River. All around her, the East Side skyscrapers were tall graceful spires against the purpling sky.

  It had been good to see Robbie again, and she’d enjoyed meeting Gigi Donati. She was looking forward to seeing Gigi again tomorrow, and asking for memories of her mother. She felt she didn’t have nearly enough of her own—just photographs, the touch of a gentle hand on her forehead, a low musical voice, a trace of perfume in the air. A flash of bright green eyes.

  So many of her memories were still shrouded in a dark blue fog.

  A sudden coldness washed over her. Skin thrumming, she gathered her shawl around her shoulders and glanced behind her, half expecting—what?

  Zander was walking toward her. “What is it, Maggie?”

  “Just a feeling. Nothing. Imagination.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She turned away with a shake of her head. “I can’t believe I’ve never come up here before. It’s a beautiful bar. And an even more beautiful view.”

  “I come here whenever I’m in town. I’m glad you like it.” Karas moved to stand beside her, handing her a snifter of brandy and then leaning his arms on the railing. “Would you like my jacket?”

  “I’m fine.” She gazed at Karas with speculation. “You know the new Cardinal of New York City … and the world-renowned classical pianist Giulietta Donati?”

  Karas grinned down at her. “Sounds like a bad j
oke, doesn’t it? A musical legend, a Cardinal, and a Supreme Court wannabe walk into a museum …”

  “You are full of surprises tonight.”

  “And more to come, Goddaughter.” He raised his glass, touched hers with a soft clink. “I’m glad that you agreed to join me for a nightcap. I have a proposal for you. And”—he smiled down at her—“speaking as your godfather, it’s an offer you can’t refuse.”

  * * *

  Alexander Karas looked down at the cap of upswept raven hair, shining in the light of the rooftop lamps. Maggie was a stunning woman. Smart as a whip and a brilliant musician. You are your mother’s daughter, he thought. She could be very useful to him.

  Tell as much of the truth as you can, he warned himself.

  He smiled down at her. “I’ve been thinking about you since you called, Maggie. You went through such a terrible ordeal this last year. You said you’ve been having nightmares these last months?” He watched her skin turn translucent in the waning light.

  She looked out over the city lights. “My doctor says it’s post-traumatic stress. I keep seeing the face of the man who tried to kill me. Narrow and cruel, like a wolf.” She shuddered. “And recently, for the first time in so long, I think dreams of my childhood have come back.”

  “Triggered by your father’s death, I imagine. It shocked all of us.”

  At the mention of her father, her smile dimmed. “I thought I had put all that pain behind me, but—”

  He bent toward her. “But the heart has a long memory. What do you dream about?”

  “Just flashes, really. A haunting chord of music. A bare foot. Broken glass.” She closed her eyes. “When I try to remember more, everything turns blue—a thick blue fog, and I can’t see through it. It’s called retrograde amnesia.”

  “Your mind is protecting you.” He touched her shoulder. “Do you think the flashes are real memories?”

  “I have no idea. They make no sense to me. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not.”

  He nodded. “All these years … I still think of your parents every day. I miss them.”

  She turned to him. “Maybe the dreams are just because I’m … lonely.” Confusion flickered deep in her eyes, and he realized that her words had taken her by surprise.