Greylock

BOOK I

Massachusetts

Let me have music dying,

and I seek no more delight.

Endymion John Keats, 1884

Chapter One

1987

Orange Street, Plymouth, Massachusetts

In the rising grey light, Marta lit another candle inside the bedroom of the Cape Cod house. Sunrise blinked at the windowed cliff beyond where the ocean rumbled. I see the phantom of death near, she said and placed the candle on the nightstand next to her brother. She turned. Alexei, be brave, child, go make music for your father. This will soothe him. Hurry.

Alexei backed away from the bedside. His father’s hard-veined hands no longer twitched on the covers. His mouth hung open in a sad curve releasing gasps against the pillow. Alexei wanted to close the cracked lips. He wanted to crawl into that bed once more and know his father’s kind voice.

Hurry, she said.

He obeyed his aunt. Nine years old, he knew to trust Aunt Marta for everything. He dashed to the studio and sat at the Steinway. Was Dad still asleep? Would he hear him playing?

Play, Ah-lehk-SAY. Auntie shouted from the bedroom. She sang his name as if to pitch him the first note.

Auntie? Will he‌—‌?

He will hear your music. Begin.

With trembling fingers, Alexei began Tchaikovsky’s Concerto Number One. He stumbled on the opening, failing to create the thundering chords, then stopped and began again. He hadn’t perfected the power of this concerto yet, but he knew his father loved it best. This will soothe him.

Soaring though the allegro movement, Alexei enjoyed the familiar thrill of the music. The splendid harmonies urged him on as his fingers jumped across the keyboard. His father’s voice repeated in his mind.

All the world is music, my Lexie. Go inside the notes.

The allegro movement would thrill his father too and make him open his eyes. What phantom? Auntie was just being Auntie. Tchaikovsky’s concerto would soothe his sick heart. The clear notes would send the phantom away. Dad would wake up smiling and say, Bravo, my boy, bravo.

Music filled the house up to its gables. Resplendent notes played like spheres before Alexei’s eyes. Chasing one after the other. Flashings. Blurs of light. A kaleidoscope.

Can you hear? Dad? I’m playing for you. Just like you play Tchaikovsky.

Vibrations spun over Alexei’s body. Lively sound waves pulsed through his hands, throbbed into his left rib, a pleasant tingling. He inhaled the concerto’s warm tones. He swallowed the bright rhythms, his belly filling. Every chord tasted smoky. Octaves evaporated into aromas of melting candy‌—‌razzes and dives and creamy crescendos.

A beat later the music jammed. Choked to a dead stop. What did he do?

Become the music, Lexie. Believe.

He hit the white keys. Nothing. He slammed the black keys. Nothing. What happened? A hammer stick? Again he pressed. Every key resisted. Demanding the piano to obey, Alexei struck the stubborn keys once more. Come on. I believe!

The keys held like bricks in mortar.

Why won’t it play? His fingers slid recklessly above the locked keys. Please. He fisted up his hands with a hard shake. Play.

Air flashed behind him. The concerto rolled forth. Sweeps and crescendos blasted. Glistening sounds broke over his head. He stared at his fists rigid above the piano keys. How was the concerto playing without him?

Rhythms hammered down. Vibrations shook the wood floor and wall paintings, nearly cracking the old plaster. The very air soared with music.

Unable to stand the thundering a second longer, he fled the piano. The concerto followed him to the bricked chimney corner where he crouched. Booming, the double octave passages surrounded him. Eyes squeezed shut, hugging himself, ribs knocking, toes curling, he covered his ears. What did I do? What’s happening? Dad! Make it stop!

The concerto halted.

Did something sigh just then? A voice? Sounded just like the bed creaked. He’s awake. He’s up!

Dawn flooded the studio, dusty rays humming with yellow light. Dad? A kiss misted against his forehead.

He listened. Silence.

Alexei burst into deep, quiet, sorrowful weeping. He let his hands drop, kitten-limp to his sides and lifted his head.

Footsteps padded the hallway‌—‌gentle and slow‌—‌like treading upon a path of wool. Auntie Marta appeared at the doorway, half a lit candle in her hand. She blew it out, sat at the piano, covered her face and sobbed.

Alexei watched her a moment, biting his lip, failing to hold his tongue. Auntie, did he hear my music? Did he hear the concerto?

She lifted her face. Oh yes, of course he heard your music. Alexei, don’t you know, child? The ear is the way.

Chapter Two

2014

Twenty-seven years later. Boston, Massachusetts

Alexei Georg threaded an old Russian coin through his fingers‌—‌push, pull down, push over‌—‌left hand, then right. This habit of knuckle-rolling kept his fingers flexed and piano-ready. At the moment it soothed his nerves while he waited for Carole Anne at the Carriage Tea House. Billy Joel’s Movin’ Out played from the sound system.

He smiled, taking it as a sign from the Muses that he was headed in the right direction. Aunt Marta had never approved of his playing Billy Joel’s music. Poor old sweet Aunt Marta. She’d be happy to hear the news of his movin’ out plans. She never liked Carole Anne anyway.

Sir? the waitress said, her grin practically sutured on her face. Would you like to order?

I’m expecting my wife. We’ll have the Russian Caravan tea. Thank you. Carole Anne loved Russian Caravan. Maybe he should have ordered fruit for her. He called the waitress back and ordered the French baked apple. That should brighten her mood.

Carole Anne strolled into the tearoom, her wire-straight hair parted and molded slick to her scalp into a tar-black tight chignon. She sat on the edge of the seat. Gracefully she shifted the beige shawl that hung on her shoulders over her leotard. What is this about, Alexei? You know how I hate to disrupt my rehearsals. Did you order? She glanced at her wristwatch.

The diamond butterfly he’d given her glittered snugly at the hollow of her neck. She’d named it Russie because it came from the Mir mine in Russia, and she wore it nearly every day. I ordered you the French apple. And Russian Caravan for two.

Her great black eyes rolled and she snagged the waitress. Lavender tea for me, with honey. Be quick. I only have ten minutes. The waitress scooted away. Did you see Gerald Eisenmen’s review of your performance in yesterday’s paper? She lifted the Boston Globe out of her handbag.

Here she goes.

‘Mr. Georg’s performance at the keyboard was soggy at best, displaying a dull and brutal fashion… a roughness of polish, faulty technique… crescendos that peaked too soon… beating the piano like a shoemaker.’

Of course he’d seen the reviews. He hitched a new breath, glanced around to see if others were listening. Some of what Eisenmen wrote was true. His performances were second rate. But a shoemaker?

‘Flurried and eccentric.’ Carole Ann continued. ‘Alexei Georg is a master of musical distortion.’

Half tempted to shoot a defense and give her the fight she loved to have, he didn’t. The reason Alexei chose Carole Anne’s favorite tea room was to keep their meeting calm and civilized, and so, calm and civilized he would remain. Alexei leaned back in his chair, his hand thrust in his jacket pocket, threading the coin round and round. Billy Joel’s voice faded while the late day sunlight lowered into the café windows. Thankfully, the waitress brought the tea.

Eisenmen is not afraid to write the truth, she went on. "I’ll bet he regrets his kudos for your October sonata now." She delicately sipped the lavender tea from the cup.

Carole Anne, please stop.

For Heaven’s sake, Alexei, isn’t it time you recognized that you are no virtuoso? Nothing like your father Aleksandr. Or the talents of Josef Evenko, despite the Georg family blood you share. Her stern red lips compressed.

How good would it feel to slap her right now? Wham, knock her right off that silly pink chair. He lifted the cup and took a swallow. The calming smoky flavor washed his throat. I’m not a violent man.

So? What is so urgent? I should have ordered the grapefruit compote. It’s the best here. She paused. Well?

He shifted in the wooden seat. I’ve moved out of the apartment today. He kept his eyes firmly on her starched face. She didn’t blink.

Don’t be ridiculous, Alexei. You’re not going anywhere.

I’m out, Carole Anne. He summoned his most gentle tone. It’s over.

You’ve said this before.

I mean it this time.

A leopard cannot change its spots, Alexei.

What I cannot do is stay in this marriage. And don’t pretend you haven’t seen this coming.

Where do you think you’re going? You need me, my dearest. And anyway, aren’t you forgetting something?

I don’t think so.

Your big black secret. Isn’t it a comfort that it’s safe with me?

He pulled at his collar and cleared his throat. She was always threatening something or other these days. She could prove nothing.

You need to remember that, she cooed.

Yeah, baby, I’ll tie a string around my finger, he added the hard-boiled swag that she hated.

Hmm! So, here is what you are going to do, Alexei. Get a real job, teach piano, or play shopping malls. No more playing your Gershwin at piano bars while women slink off their bar stools to flirt with you.

I have something else in mind. A few heads turned at the volume of his voice.

Yes, yes, of course you do. Another one of Leed Mensah’s schemes? What’s he going to sponsor you for now? Composer of the year? That would be amusing.

Damn. If he sat there much longer with her, he’d become a scrap of bread turned to mold. There wasn’t enough tea or fruit in the entire world that could soften this woman, not even for a few moments.

I’m leaving the country next month. I’m going to Russia.

Carole Anne lifted her chin. Acute pause. Mouth turned down. Was she thinking of throwing a weeping fit again?

Oh. She snuffed out. That old story? To compose your symphony? From those silly whales. Nobody cares about whale songs or whale symphonies anymore. It’s such a ’90s thing. Give it up, will you?

I don’t expect you to understand. He stood, leaning his six feet of muscle and broad shoulders over her perfect little serpent face. Amazing how she could sit perfectly straight as if on pointe holding her position above all. I have the money. I have the opportunity. I’m going.

You’re not going to Russia. Sit down.

That’s the last time you’ll ever say that to me. He tossed a twenty dollar bill on the table and turned to exit.

Don’t challenge me, Alexei. I promise, you will lose.

He walked out the door under a lowering sky that looked like it was made of heavy white stucco. Every muscle in his shoulders twisted.

Today, this leopard changes its spots.

An hour later, Alexei sat on the terrace of Dr. Leed Mensah’s penthouse, iced scotch in hand, admiring Boston’s skyline in the August light. Dusk to dusk. I moved my father’s Steinway into storage today. I won’t be playing that for a while.

Leed lit up a cigarette, the tobacco glowing sharply against his black complexion. Something about him looked like a wise old skull, the African features pronounced and bold. So, the deed is done, Leed clipped. Where is Carole Anne now?

At the studio. Ballet East is in rehearsals. He watched Leed inhale. You know those things will kill you.

Leed raised his ghost-blue eyes. Looking into Leed’s eyes could sometimes be startling, like an icy blue sea with shafts of sunlight piercing the water.

You are correct, Alexei. However, I expect I have a good fifteen years. Eighty is a fair age to kick. I’m going for death at eighty.

I don’t think much about death.

Who does at your age? I didn’t at thirty-six.

Alexei gave Leed a moment, expecting him to update him on the business at hand, but the pause grew maddening as he puffed on that cigarette. So? Any news?

News?

Surely the Essex Institute has confirmed my grant by now. If I don’t leave for Russia soon, the whales will migrate to their wintering grounds. I want to be in the White Sea to record their songs by September ninth. Please don’t tell me the grant isn’t approved yet.

Leed leaned forward. Not to panic here, but two weeks ago Essex decided to open the grant to other candidates.

Alexei let a breath out to remain calm. "Leed, this was my proposal to Essex from the start. I’m confirmed by the Russian Federation. Booked the sail on the Belyy Ved’ma, hired a captain. This is my whale song project."

Unfortunate, I know. Very upsetting. The award committee has had other thoughts on the matter.

What other thoughts? What other candidates?

Two composers have applied for the same grant. Although one is not keen on recording the whale songs live on location, as you are. This candidate prefers the archived recordings from the orcas off Vancouver Island.

Everybody and their brother has used those stale recordings. I’m talking about recording live beluga white whales, today, inside the White Sea of the Arctic. Not a single musician has recorded those sea canaries.

Alexei, I want this for you. I’m doing everything within my power, but my position as Associate Director has limitations. And I’m still new at Essex. I swear they only hired me because they needed a black Ph.D. in musical arts on their roster. The reality is, you are a risk. Your failed compositions these past months are a serious concern now. What’s happened with you? Have you banished your Muse or something?

All artists have setbacks. What do they call it, hunchbacked years?

"I don’t know what to call what’s going on with you. Thankfully, your Cambridge Gold Medal for the October sonata convinced Essex you have the talent. I was so proud when you won that award. But you have not duplicated that quality since."

Alexei smiled stiffly, dragging his lips across his teeth. He sipped the scotch.

The fact is, some committee members have doubts. Leed paused to draw in on the cigarette, then released the fumes gracefully, the drifts of grey smoke rising as they left his mouth.

Who has doubts?

The luminous black skin over Leed’s cheekbones tightened. He wasn’t quite the Moorish nobleman image from Shakespeare, despite Alexei’s teasing about his likeness to Othello‌—‌at least in his speech and skills as a leader, if not a soldier, in Boston’s music society.

Leed gave a slow head shake. Alexei, you know perfectly well I cannot identify the names of the voting committee.

I know you love your secrets. But I can probably figure out the names. The Essex board of directors isn’t that big.

Do not think yourself so smart. I will say there are three possible votes against you. Two are on the fence. One is a decided no.

What, they think I can’t compose this symphony? That I’m not committed to it?

Leed crushed out the last of the cigarette. Essex is a family foundation. Carole Anne never showed up for the spousal interview. Never had the courtesy to complete the questionnaire. Fact: you are in an unstable marriage with an antagonistic spouse.

I never told Carole Anne about Essex. Believe me, I’m better off with her as a no-show. Alexei stood up, backed himself against the terrace rail. Anyway, we’re separated now. I’ve moved out. And I took the Steinway with me.

You’ve moved out twice before and that woman manipulated you back.

"No, I’ve left her twice before. I didn’t actually pack up all my things and relocate. This is different. Carole Anne is completely out of my life now."

Alexei, for Carole Anne to be completely out of your life, she’d have to be dead!

Alexei shrugged. Okay. I can do that.

Pardon me?

What, women don’t get stabbed in back alleys in Boston?

Leed’s ghost-blue eyes grew darker. Is that a joke? You didn’t mean that, did you?

Of course not. Just rhetoric. I was recalling those slasher stories in the news some months ago. Remember? A woman had her throat slit in that alleyway.

You mean that murder near Baker Street? Leed said.

End of February I think it was. And another murder in April, by the wharf. Same thing, her throat slashed. It was all over the news.

I remember the reports.

They didn’t find the bodies for nearly twelve hours after the killings. Did you know that?

Vaguely.

The women bled to death.

Leed nodded.

Cops didn’t find any evidence. No weapon, no DNA, no witnesses. Not so much as a footprint.

Is that right?

The slasher hid in the alley and when the woman came by, he came up from behind and slit her throat. Carotid arteries. Slash. Slash. Two passes, one short on the right, one long slash on the left. Like a check mark‌—‌the killer’s signature trophy mark. The detectives on the case think the weapon was a serrated knife. Wicked, huh?

Leed sipped his scotch. His face sagged as he ran his hand over his balding head. How do you know about the check mark? I don’t recall that being in the papers.

That part is confidential. Lia told me.

Lia Marrs? Your friend, the meteorologist at the radio station?

"WBNN. She gets amazing off-the-record details from their news reporters. But actually, I think she got this info from a cop she used to date. He asked her to marry him, she said no, broke it off, blah, blah, blah. Anyway, Lia is quite talented at being in the loop. Christ, I’m never in the loop about anything."

And you learned this how, pillow talk?

No.

Jesus H! You’re sleeping with Lia. If Carole Anne finds out you’ve been cheating she’ll have you crucified at Faneuil Hall.

Oh give me a little credit, will you? And I’m not sleeping with Lia… yet. I’m meeting her later tonight though. We’re bar buddies at the Old Bailey. Had a few chats. Listen. He sat down, a surge coming over him. Maybe it was the scotch, maybe the bold act of packing up and moving out on Carole Anne, maybe the thrill of just speaking about murder. So what if this was just rhetoric? He sat on the edge of his chair and clucked his tongue.

Listen, this is how the killer could do it. The dancers quit at 10:30 p.m. Front door alarm is always on so all the dancers leave first, except for Carole Anne, by the side exit out to the alley. Carole Anne waits for everyone to clear the building, closes up, and at eleven o’clock she sets the side door alarm and exits through the same alley to the north side of the street. The T is around the corner.

Alexei paused, getting his details in order. On one side of the alley is a solid brick wall. Not a single window‌—‌it’s the backside of a garage. You know Centre Street? You know where I’m talking about?

Yes, bad area, isn’t it?

Some parts. The neighborhood is under redevelopment now. Ballet East is in a renovated warehouse. Dancers need all that wide space and high ceilings for leaping. Mirrors everywhere. Vanity is Carole Anne’s favorite sin.

I do not doubt it. Leed poured two more scotches.

The alley is about seventy feet long. Opposite the brick wall, there’s a high bank of more brick and a row of chimneys, but again, no windows. Must have been a factory at one time. You couldn’t find a more perfect dead-end alley. Less than halfway down the alley is a dark recess between the chimneys.

Alexei gulped the scotch. When Carole Anne passes the recess, the killer could grab her from behind, hand over mouth, and hit her with a fast short stab on the right front of the neck. Here. He drew an imaginary line down on his neck. She’ll drop. Then a long sweep up the left of the throat. Here. He slashed a line with his thumb. The two cuts have to meet above the hollow of the neck, see? Check mark.

Leed nodded, clear reservation on his face.

The killer pushes the body into the recess, removes his bloody clothes, changes shoes, flees, dumps the bloody clothes and the weapon in the scummy pond behind Lamartine Street. Small park there and a bridge. Fifteen minutes, literally, and the deed is done.

Leed’s chin jutted out as he took it all in. Alexei could see him calculating the action and the time. Fifteen minutes? I don’t think so.

Fifteen minutes. Short slash, long slash, and outta there. It would be a least ten or twelve hours before anybody even passed by the alley to find the body.

For Christ’s sake, Alexei. How do you even know about such throat slashing techniques?

The Navy. We had Special Forces guys on the sub. They illustrated‌—‌the initial grab, position of the feet, sweep of the knife, timing, exit from the scene.

What if they found the bloody clothes in the pond? DNA and all that?

No worries. That pond is a mess, algae and scum everywhere. Not even a duck could survive there. DNA would be seriously contaminated if not completely degenerated.

What if someone sees the killer? A witness.

In that alley so late at night? Unlikely. But wearing a disguise would be smart. Sounds cliché but it could work. Dress in hospital scrubs or a chauffer’s uniform. People don’t remember faces. They remember uniforms.

And you don’t think the police would see it as a copy-cat crime of the real slasher?

They might. They might not. Little bit of a risk there.

Leed raised a brow. Be realistic, Alexei. Who really gets away with murder?

"Some people do. What’s critical is to use an undetectable weapon and have a secure location. There is a simple art to murder."

Who is that talking, Philip Marlowe? I thought you quit reading those Raymond Chandler mysteries when you left the Navy.

I reread my favorites. Marlowe knows a lot about murderers and con men. The key to getting away with murder is to remain cool-headed and detached. Remove or damage the evidence. Lock in a good alibi. Confuse the motive with doubt. I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m saying it’s possible, maybe even probable.

Inventing a murder plan inspired by the likes of a fictional detective? Ha.

Chandler may have convoluted his plots, but his character Marlowe knew both sides of a crime. He knew the difference between plausible and probable.

Leed lit up another cigarette. "I admit, I like it. I suppose we all have moments when we like to dream up