She looked at him. “Did you file a VICAP report?”
“Yeah. Took me a whole friggin‘ hour to finish it. A hundred eighty-nine questions. Weird shit like, ’Was any body part bitten off? What objects got shoved into which orifices?‘ Now I gotta file a supplementary report on Mrs. Yeager.”
“Did you request a profile evaluation when you transmitted the form?”
“No. I didn’t see the point of having some FBI profiler tell me what I already know. I just did my civic duty and sent in the VICAP form.”
VICAP, or the Violent Criminals Apprehension Program, was the FBI’s database of violent crimes. Compiling that database required the cooperation of often-harried law enforcement officers who, when confronted with the long VICAP questionnaire, many times did not even bother.
“When did you file the report?” she asked.
“Right after the postmortem on Dr. Yeager.”
“And that’s when Dean showed up. A day later.”
“You think that’s it?” asked Korsak. “That’s what pulled him in?”
“Maybe your report tripped an alarm.”
“What would get their attention?”
“I don’t know.” She looked at the front door, through which Dean had vanished. “And it’s pretty clear he’s not going to tell us.”
ELEVEN
Jane Rizzoli was not a symphony kind of gal. The extent of her exposure to music was her collection of easy-listening CDs and the two years she’d played trumpet in the middle school band, one of only two girls who’d chosen that instrument. She’d been drawn to it because it produced the loudest, brassiest sound of all, not like those tooty clarinets or the chirpy flutes the other girls played. No, Rizzoli wanted to be heard, and so she sat shoulder to shoulder with the boys in the trumpet section. She loved it when the notes came blasting out.
Unfortunately, they were too often the wrong notes.
After her father banished her to the backyard for her practice sessions and then the neighborhood dogs began to howl in protest, she finally put the trumpet away for good. Even she could recognize that raw enthusiasm and strong lungs were not enough to make up for a discouraging lack of talent.
Since then, music had meant little more to her than white noise aboard elevators and thudding bass notes in passing cars. She had been inside the Symphony Hall on the corner of Huntington and Mass Ave only twice in her life, both times as a high school student attending field rrips to hear BSO rehearsals. In 1990, the Cohen Wing had been added, a part of Symphony Hall that Rizzoli had never before visited. When she and Frost entered the new wing, she was surprised by how modern it looked- not the dark and creaky building that she remembered.
They showed their badges to the elderly security guard, who snapped his kyphotic spine a little straighter lien he saw the two visitors were from Homicide.
“Is this about the Ghents?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” said Rizzoli.
“Terrible. Just terrible. I saw them last week, right after they got into town. They dropped by to check out the hall.” He shook his head. “Seemed like such a nice young couple.”
“Were you on duty the night they performed?”
“No, ma’am. I just work here during the day. Have to leave at five to pick up my wife from day care. She needs twenty-four-hour supervision, you know. Forgets to turn off the stove…” He stopped, suddenly reddening. “But I guess you folks aren’t here to pass the time. You come to see Evelyn?”
“Yes. Which way to her office?”
“She’s not there. I saw her go into the concert hall a few minutes ago.”
“Is there a rehearsal going on or something?”
“No, ma’am. It’s our quiet season. Orchestra stays out in Tanglewood during the summer. This time of year, we just get a few visiting performers.”
“So we can walk right into the hall?”
“Ma’am, you got the badge. Far as I’m concerned, you can go anywhere.”
They did not immediately spot Evelyn Petrakas. As Rizzoli stepped into the dim auditorium, all she saw at first was a vast sea of empty seats, sweeping down toward a spotlighted stage. Drawn toward the light, they started down the aisle, wood floor creaking like the timbers of an old ship. They had already reached the stage when a voice called out, faintly:
“Can I help you?”
Squinting against the glare, Rizzoli turned to face the darkened rear of the auditorium. “Ms. Petrakas?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Detective Rizzoli. This is Detective Frost. Can we speak to you?”
“I’m here. In the back row.”
They walked up the aisle to join her. Evelyn did not rise from her seat but remained huddled where she was, as though hiding from the light. She gave the detectives a dull nod as they took the two seats beside her.
“I’ve already spoken to a policeman. Last night,” Evelyn said.
“Detective Sleeper?”
“Yes. I think that was his name. An older man, quite nice. I know I was supposed to wait and talk to some other detectives, but I had to leave. I just couldn’t stay at that house any longer…” She looked toward the stage, as though mesmerized by a performance only she could see. Even in the gloom, Rizzoli could see it was a handsome face, perhaps forty, with premature streaks of silver in her dark hair. “I had responsibilities here,” Evelyn said. “All the ticket refunds. And then the press started showing up. I had to come back and deal with it.” She gave a tired laugh. “Always putting out fires. That’s my job.”
“What is your job here exactly, Ms. Petrakas?” asked Frost.
“My official title?” She gave a shrug. “ ‘Program co-ordinator for visiting artists.’ What it means is, I try to keep them happy and healthy while they’re in Boston. It’s amazing how helpless some of them can be. They spend their lives in rehearsal halls and studios. The real world’s a puzzle to them. So I recommend places for them to stay. Arrange for their pickup at the airport. Fruit basket in the room. Whatever extra comforts they need. I hold their hands.”
“When did you first meet the Ghents?” asked Rizzoli.
“The day after they arrived in town. I went to pick them up at the house. They couldn’t take a taxi because Alex’s cello case made it a tight squeeze. But I have an SUV with a backseat that folds down.”
“You drove them around town while they were here?”
“Only back and forth between the house and Symphony Hall.”
Rizzoli glanced in her notebook. “I understand the house on Beacon Hill belongs to a symphony board member. A Christopher Harm. Does he often invite musicians to stay there?”
“During the summer, when he’s in Europe. It’s so much nicer than a hotel room. Mr. Harm trusts classical musicians. He knows they’ll take good care of his home.”
“Have any guests at Mr. Harm’s house ever complained of problems there?”
“Problems?”
“Trespassers. Burglaries. Anything that’s made them uneasy.”
Evelyn shook her head. “It’s Beacon Hill, Detective. You couldn’t ask for a nicer neighborhood. I know Alex and Karenna loved it there.”
“When did you last see them?”
Evelyn swallowed. Said, softly: “Last night. When I found Alex…”
“I meant while he was still alive, Ms. Petrakas.”
“Oh.” Evelyn gave an embarrassed laugh. “Of course, that’s what you meant. I’m sorry; I’m not thinking. It’s just so hard to concentrate.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why I even bothered to come in to work today. It just seemed like something I needed to do.”
“The last time you saw them?” Rizzoli prompted her.
This time Evelyn answered in a steadier voice. “It was the night before last. After their performance, I drove them back to Beacon Hill. It was around eleven or so.”