him off. “We’ve got to get to our seats. Maybe we’ll see you at the reception?”

“Unlikely.”

“Oh well, then another time,” Maggie said as she turned, pulling me with her. “That man is impossible,” she whispered, sipping her champagne. “He’s on the board too. Filthy rich. Old money. Always disagrees with every new initiative. Always calling for outside audits that never turn up anything but end up costing a fortune. Anyway, drink up and we’ll go in and you can tell me why you’re here in Seattle.”

We had ascended some stairs and made our way to the entrance to the founders tier box seats. Setting our empty glasses on a tray outside the door, we entered and seated ourselves in plush comfort just above and to the right of the stage.

“Now,” Maggie said, turning to me. “What’s your secret mission?”

I hesitated, unsure how to start. “In addition to my artwork, I sometimes do what you might call investigative work.”

“Like a private investigator?” Maggie held a hand to her throat, seeming simultaneously shocked and titillated. The soft light reflecting off the deep red and gold furnishings gave her patrician features the look of a concert goer in one of Édouard Manet’s paintings.

“Sort of,” I answered. “Mostly focused on recovering stolen property of high value.”

“Oh dear. You must be a CIA agent or something. I won’t ask any more questions about that. But why this concert? And why do you need to attend the reception? Is there a suspect here?” She gave me a conspiratorial wink.

“Possibly a suspect,” I answered, smiling. “Someone who might be able to give me some information at least.”

“How thrilling!” The lights were dimming and the orchestra was tuning their instruments. “I can’t wait for the reception. There won’t be any fights or chases or shooting will there? No, good. Now, I’ve got to pay attention. We have a new cellist.”

****

After the last standing ovation, we rose and let the crowd pull us along. The music still filled my head and I felt like I was swimming through warm honey. The concert had opened with pieces by Brahms and Bartók, then finished with the Enigma Variations. There was something tantalizing about the music—a feeling of hidden knowledge hinted at but never revealed. I could sense the enigma but, of course, simply listening to the music—even a beautiful live performance—would never allow me to solve the mystery. People like Julian Wolhardt—with far greater understanding and depth of knowledge—had spent lifetimes studying the score. Still, I was left with a feeling of something lingering, almost seen, like an animal heard in the woods, a flash of white through the branches but never glimpsed whole.

Rather than follow the crowd down to the lobby and out the doors, Maggie took my arm and steered me down a hallway, then across the upper lobby where the moon shone through a wall of glass. We ended up at a restaurant that was part of the concert hall and was apparently the location of the reception. A Seattle Philharmonic staffer posted at the door greeted Maggie.

“Mrs. Shaughnessy, please come in.”

“Thank you, Caroline. This is my date, Mr. Vincent, man of mystery.”

“Justin. Nice to meet you,” I said and shook hands with her quickly before Maggie dragged me inside. “What’s the occasion for this reception? Or is it just standard?” I asked as we entered the room.

“We do these a few times every season. The development people like to give the big donors a little frisson by putting them in the same room with a few members of the alien species known as real artists. So, a few musicians are volun-told to be here and the conductor of course. Tonight it’s Johann.”

“Got it.” I glimpsed a bar across the room with glassware sparkling in the dim light and a guy with an impressive moustache mixing drinks. “There’s a bartender over there with a waxed moustache. Always a sign of well-made cocktails. Would you like a drink?”

“Something citrusy with gin please. I need to mingle for a bit if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. I’ll go get the drinks.”

It took fifteen minutes to get the drinks. I waited in the line, chatting with the second violinist who was a fan of Miyazaki movies, then waited again while the bartender crafted the cocktails with infinite attention to the smallest detail. When I finally got back to Maggie and handed off her drink she was deep in conversation with another board member, talking about the Bartók piece and comparing it to other performances. The conversation was a bit too inside-baseball for me so I wandered off and spent the next half-hour working my way through the crowd, trying to get close to Johann Benderick.

Benderick was not a tall or imposing man—about my height, maybe sixty years old, with thinning blond hair going to gray and an ascetic face that he held high with an almost military bearing. He had a steady stream of admirers who seemed to want to stand very close while speaking to him and to make physical contact by touching his arm or shoulder. It was obvious to me that he was uncomfortable in the crowd and would like to be elsewhere. I positioned myself to his left, waiting for an opening. I was about to approach when a woman in a floral print dress and very flashy rings on almost every finger pushed past me. She hugged him crying out, “Johann, such an elegant performance tonight!”

I stood back again, waiting my turn. Finally, after a couple of minutes of monosyllabic answers from Benderick, she seemed to take the hint, gave him another hug which he partially fended off, then strode away calling out to someone else over the heads of the crowd. I grabbed my opportunity.

“Bender39,” I said, looking straight at him with a calm expression.

He started, and turned his gaze on me. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Bender39,” I repeated. “Your screen name I believe.”

He looked bewildered for a moment, then calmed himself, looking almost

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