A caseagainst a man trafficking in child pornography had recently been tossed becausethe detective, knowing there were thousands of images on the man's hard drive,had opened a graphics program. It turned out that every time a program waslaunched, there was a log of the event and a record of the precise time ithappened. If the suspect was in custody at that moment, the detective could notclaim that the program was already open.

    Jessicaclicked over to the side bar. There was no harm in looking, as long as shedidn't open any files or programs. She glanced at the contents of the drive.There was one file, saraband.doc. That was it. Other than that, there wasnothing on the drive. No documents, no spreadsheets, no databases, no photos,music or audio files. It had all the earmarks of a drive that had been recentlyerased.

    Anygood computer-forensic lab would be able to tell when a drive had beenformatted, and could usually find evidence of the files that were originally onthe drive. Jessica was already formulating the case she would make to the DA'soffice to allow them to do just that.

    Inthe meantime she would get a couple of warm bodies down here to canvass thebuilding, just to see if Joseph Novak had had any visitors earlier in the day.If he had, maybe it could lead to a full-scale investigation of his death assomething other than a suicide.

    Shetook out her phone, checked her voicemail. Two messages.

    Whendid she get two messages? Why hadn't it rung? She checked the side of thephone. With an iPhone, the switch to toggle from silent to ring tonewas on the upper left, and was easily activated when you put the phone in yourpocket. Too easily. The ringer had been off.

    Jessicaswitched it back on, tapped the first voicemail message. It was from the manwho was hoping to install the awnings on the new house. He wanted two grand.Dream on.

    Thesecond call was from an unknown caller. She played it.

    'DetectiveBalzano, this is Joseph Novak.'

    Jessicajumped to her feet. Her skin broke out in gooseflesh. She glanced behind her,at the dark sienna stains on the carpet and walls. She could still smell thecordite in the air, could taste the coppery airborne blood at the back of herthroat. Joseph Novak's blood. She was listening to a message from the grave.

    'Iwant to apologize for my behavior. I can't go on like this. There is more tothis than you know. Much more. You don't know him. I cannot live with myselfanymore.'

    Jessicapaused the message for a moment, paced the living room. Everything she lookedat - the books, the CDs, the furniture itself - took on a new meaning.

    Shestopped pacing, tapped the button, continued the message.

    'Ihear him coming down the hall. Look in the cabinet above the range in thekitchen.'

    Themessage ended.

    Jessicaput her phone in her pocket, crossed the living room into the compact Pullmankitchen. She opened the cabinets above the range hood. There she found a dozenor so cookbooks - Mexican, Italian, Cajun. She pulled a few of them out,riffled the pages. Nothing. The second-to-last cookbook was labeled HomeRecipes. She pulled it out. When she did, something fell on the floor. Itwas a slim leather-bound journal. The cover was worn and creased. She picked itup. Stuck in the front was an old photograph. It was Joseph Novak at fifteen orso, standing next to a beautiful cello. Jessica slipped the picture back in thebook, opened it.

    Itwas a diary.

    June22. The competition is this Saturday. But it is more than just a competitionfor first chair. We both know that. It is a competition for her. It will alwaysbe thus.

    Jessicaflipped ahead to the back of the journal. She read the final entry.

    November1. All Saints Day. It is done. I know now that I will be forever beholden tohim. I will never be out of his shadow. For the rest of my life I will do hisbidding. My heart is forever broken, forever in his hands.

    Zig,zig, zig.

    Heis death in cadence.

    Jessicaclosed the journal. She needed a warrant to search every square inch of thisapartment, and she needed one fast. She put in a call to the DA's office, toldthem what she had, what she needed. She took the journal, intending to say ithad been in plain sight, therefore not covered by the warrant. She steppedoutside, locked the door. She told the two CSU officers they could return tothe lab. She would call them when and if she needed them.

    Shewalked across the street, grabbed a coffee-to-go at the diner, stepped into theparking lot behind. She called Byrne, got his voice- mail. She called DanaWestbrook, gave her a status report. Westbrook said she would send two otherdetectives from the Special Investigations Unit to aid in the search.

    Jessicaopened the journal. There was something under the back cover. She peeled itback gently. There was a second photograph there, an old Polaroid, a long shotof a window in a huge stone building. In the window was a figure. It was impossibleto see who it was, but it looked like a slender woman. On the back of thephotograph was one word scrawled in red pencil.

    Hell.

    BeforeJessica could get the photograph back into the journal she heard someone approaching,footfalls on hard gravel. She turned.

    Thefist came from nowhere, connecting with the right side of her face in a dullthud. She staggered back, saw stars. The journal flew out of her hands. Thesecond blow was more glancing, but it carried enough force to knock her to theground. She had enough presence to roll onto the side where she had her weaponholstered.

    Throughthe haze she saw her assailant. White-blond hair, filthy jeans, lacelesssneakers. She didn't recognize him. Not by sight, not at first. When he spokeagain, she knew. And there was no mistaking those eyes.

    'Ithink we have some unfinished business, Detective Balzano,' Lucas AnthonyThompson said. 'Or should I say Detective Cunt Balzano.'

    Jessicarolled to her right, worked the Glock from her holster, but she was too slow.Thompson stepped forward, kicked the weapon from her hand.

    'Youshoulda shot me when you had the fucking chance, bitch. Ain't gonna happentoday.'

    WhenThompson took another step toward her, Jessica saw movement at the back of theparking lot. A shadow slithered along the pavement.

    Someonewas standing behind Thompson.

    Andthen everything went gray.

Chapter 49

    The PhiladelphiaOrchestra began life in 1900. Over the next century it held many distinctions,not the least of which was the 'Philadelphia Sound', a legacy that, underconductor Eugene Ormandy, became known for its clarity and skilled execution,its warm tonality and precise timing.

    Theorchestra also had a unity of artistic leadership virtually unknown in theworld of great orchestras, with only seven musical directors in its entirehistory. Two men, Leopold Stokowski and Eugene Ormandy, held the reins from1912 to 1980.

    Itwas on the occasion of Ormandy's leaving that the Philadelphia Orchestra founditself at a crossroads and, perhaps in an attempt to modernize its somewhatstaid image, turned to a young firebrand, Neapolitan Riccardo Muti, as its newmusical director. Darkly handsome, intensely serious to the point of almostnever smiling on stage, Muti ushered in a new era, an era dominated by a manwhose insistence on the letter of the musical law earned him the nickname - atleast around the opera houses of Italy - of lo scerif, the sheriff.

    In1981, in a move still discussed in some circles, the orchestra rattled theclassical musical world by hiring as its principal cellist a nineteen-year-oldnamed Christa-Marie Schönburg - a tempestuous wunderkind who was taking theworld of strings by storm. Within a year her name became as synonymous with thePhiladelphia Orchestra's