At First Light(Dr. Evan Wilding #1)(48)

Death comes for us all, he thought. But it should not come for the young.

Jo spoke around the last bite of her omelet. “Why are you playing the nocturnes tonight?”

“Nocturnes are obviously perfect for nighttime listening. And I thought it might inspire you. How are you doing on the waltz?”

Jo ignored the question. “Ginny likes the nocturnes, too.”

“A Chopin-loving goshawk,” Evan said. “Who would have figured?”

“Why not?” Jo asked. “Animals like music just as much as we do.”

“I believe you’re right. Shall we have tea now?”

“The English breakfast kind. With milk and sugar.”

“The only proper way to drink tea, milady.”

Jo giggled. He went to fill the kettle with water while she cleared the table.

These kinds of quiet moments were among Evan’s favorites. In a different life, he would have married and raised an entire passel of children. But the universe had had other plans for him. Having Jo here was as close as he was likely to get to that form of domesticity, and he was grateful that her parents had decided he was trustworthy. He’d hoped for nieces and nephews, but River seemed disinclined.

Speaking of River . . . Evan excused himself and went back into the bedroom for his phone. He was terrible about carrying the wretched albatross around, even when he’d been hired to consult on a case. But earlier, he’d managed to leave a voice message for River, asking him to call so they could discuss bog bodies. River was on a dig in Mesopotamia, where cell phone service was spotty.

Now Evan scrolled through a handful of texts and messages.

Nothing from his brother. It was three in the morning in the city of Urfa. He’d try again tomorrow.

Evan found Jo at the baby grand piano in the front room. She’d turned off the stereo and was warming up with the harmonic minor scales. He eased in beside her on the bench and watched her rapid fingers fly up and down the keyboard.

Evan’s small hands would never allow him to play as he wished. He managed passably well. The only reason Jo was his student was because she’d begged him for lessons when she and her parents came by to welcome Evan to the neighborhood and Jo had spotted the piano. Now he taught her through a combination of demonstration and music videos. Thank God for YouTube.

Half an hour later, the intercom buzzed from the gate. Evan told Jo to restart the B section of the waltz, then went to the speaker.

“It’s Officer Blakesley,” a male voice boomed through the speaker. “Sorry to bother you, but I found a couple things I think you might have left in the woods.”

The camera mounted above the gate showed a blue pickup truck. A man in street clothes and a down jacket stood in front of the intercom, apparently unbothered by the rain.

As if sensing Evan’s gaze, the man looked up. Evan recognized one of the two mounted patrol officers who’d found him in the woods that morning. Officer Blakesley raised his hand to show the camera a delicate silver bell.

“Is this yours?” he asked.

Ginny’s bell. It was one of the best he owned—an elegant piece designed by a master of the craft. It must have fallen out of his bag when he was reaching for Ginny’s hood. “It is mine, Officer. Or rather, my hawk’s. Thank you.”

He buzzed the gate. It swung open as Blakesley returned to his truck. A few minutes later, the front bell rang. In the sitting room, the piano fell silent.

“Keep going, Jo!” Evan called as he went to open the door.

She dutifully started the waltz again.

Blakesley stood on the porch. In his T-shirt and jeans, he looked like a cheerful hockey player. The kind who would check you into the boards during the game, then rush to buy you the first postgame beer. Now he smiled genially at Evan and held out the bell.

“I know it’s late, Professor. My partner found this and was going to bring it by. But I was in the neighborhood. Friend of mine lives a few blocks over. I wanted to get it to you.”

Evan waved the officer in and took a moment to peer out into the gloom. Mist had swallowed the distant topiaries and now twined like pythons among the boles of the trees. Damp dripped off everything.

“Something got you concerned?” Blakesley asked.

Evan startled at Blakesley’s voice, unable to explain his unease with the night. “Not in the least.” He closed the door and turned to face the officer’s crotch.

Actually, more like the man’s stomach. But it was always an awkward moment when a dwarf meets a giant. Today seemed to be the day for rubbing elbows, in a manner of speaking, with big men. First Patrick and now Officer Blakesley.

Blakesley seemed unaware of Evan’s discomfort. He was studying the David Roberts Egyptian lithographs that marched down the hall. “Nice place you got. My pal Taylor loves the neighborhood.”

“What’s not to love?” Evan stepped back a few paces and looked up into Blakesley’s face. “Taylor who?”

“Ketzsky. Taylor Ketzsky. There’s a group of us gets together every month to play poker and talk issues. Ergo the T-shirt.”

He held open his parka, and Evan looked at Blakesley’s printed tee—LGPA–GOAL—then riffled through his mental library of acronyms. The letters stood for Lesbian and Gay Police Association–Gay Officers Action League.

Blakesley let his hands drop. “I have to admit, I’m more of a South Side guy. My Brooklyn upbringing, I guess. Plus years in military housing. Don’t feel comfortable when folks are spread too far apart.”