Natadze went home. He had a nice condo in New York, but he preferred to live in the District when possible, and he considered that his primary residence. The house he used was legally owned by a series of concentric paper-corporations, with no trail to him, set up by the courtesy of Mr. Cox so there was no way anybody could know it was his.
Natadze stayed off the books as much as he could. Those few elements of his persona that had to be public were mostly false — licenses, credit cards, even magazine subscriptions. It was hard to track prey if you couldn’t even identify it, and Eduard worked hard to be as untrackable as possible.
He arrived home at the same time as the FastAir Express carrier’s truck. He had made an arrangement with the delivery man, claiming that evening rounds were more convenient for him, and had made it worth the man’s time to provide the extra service. It was amazing how many problems would just disappear if you threw enough money at them. Another lesson that Mr. Cox had taught him.
Despite the situation with Jay Gridley, he felt his spirits lift immediately when he saw the truck: The new Bogdanovich had come!
The delivery man exited the blocky truck, carrying a large box that Natadze immediately knew to be the guitar for which he had been waiting. He met the man at the front gate, signed the acceptance form, gave him a sizeable tip, and hurried inside.
It was but the work of a moment to open the box, dump the biodegradable packing peanuts onto the floor, and get to the cased instrument. The case itself was one of Cedar Creek’s custom models, a kind of hound’s-tooth pattern against a dull yellow background. They made good ones, Cedar Creek, and were priced remarkably cheap. Not something you would trust to the airlines to manhandle, but then you wouldn’t trust a steel
He hurriedly opened the six latches and looked at the guitar.
Bogdanovich was, as were some of the other underrated American luthiers, such as Schramm and Spross, doing outstanding work at very reasonable prices. He was, Natadze believed, a New Yorker who now lived in northern California. Natadze already owned one of his guitars, a spruce-front, maple-back model he had found in a San Francisco shop some years ago. That one had a tone as good as instruments costing five times as much, and he had been impressed enough that he ordered a new one custom-made for him. Fortunately for him, Bogdanovich hadn’t been discovered yet, and the waiting time was still relatively short. If you wanted a Smallman, for instance, the Australian maker’s list was several years deep, and Natadze was still waiting on one of those. Bogdanovich’s list, fortunately, was only a few months, and to judge from the tone of the one Natadze already had, he was able to run with the best.
He picked up the guitar, turned it slowly. Built on the standard Torres/Hauser pattern, this one was western red cedar-topped, with Indian rosewood back and sides. It had a Spanish cedar neck, ebony fretboard, and Sloane tuners. It was French polished only on the front, with a harder lacquer on the sides and back. Beautiful just to look at, but the test, of course, was the sound.
He pulled up a chair, closed the case for a foot prop, tuned the guitar, and ran through several scales, going up the neck.
Ah. No dead notes, no buzzes.
He plucked an E-chord in first position. The notes were sharp, clear, warm — cedar was more mellow than spruce — and they rang with a long sustain. He plucked the E again, high up the board. Perfect. He belled the harmonics at the twelfth. Excellent!
He retuned the trebles, and played “Blackbird,” one of his warm-up pieces. The guitar filled the kitchen with beautiful music.
Yes! It sounded almost as good as his Friedrich!
Well, all right, not quite
He would have to send a note to Bogdanovich, but not for a while. First, he needed to play this beauty for a couple of hours.
Perhaps he could play the sonata by Nikolai Narimanidze, a countryman. People did not realize how many excellent composers and musicians came from Georgia. If they knew much about the country at all, it was usually that it was Stalin’s birthplace, and that the semisweet wines were decent.
Well. That was not important now. Now, he could forget his worries for a few hours and do what he liked to do best.
John Howard stood in his kitchen, watching the coffee drip through the gold mesh filter. Nadine was working on breakfast, still in her bathrobe. Toni Michaels came into the kitchen, also in a robe. Howard nodded at her. “Alex still asleep?”
“In the shower,” Toni said.
“I hope there’s some hot water left,” Nadine said. “I think my son is part fish, as long as he stays in there.”
“Alex won’t die if the water gets cold. How is Tyrone?”
“Doing better,” Nadine said.
Toni nodded and didn’t push it.
Howard looked at the coffee pot. They had a bond, the Michaels family and his. Tyrone had saved their son’s life — and his own — and that would never go away. He’d had to kill a very bad man to do it, and there had been some trauma connected to that, even though the boy had dealt with it better than a lot of men did.
The coffee was done and poured when Alex Michaels came into the room. He nodded at the others, and accepted a cup of the fragrant brew from Toni. He sipped at it. “Morning.”
“Nearly afternoon,” Toni said. “Slug.”
“Eight-fifteen is not anywhere close to noon,” Michaels said. “Just because you like to do crosswords at five A.M.—”
“First batch of pancakes is about ready. How is little Alex?” Nadine asked.
“Great,” Michaels and Toni said as one.
Howard smiled.
“Guru is teaching him Javanese,” Toni said. “And already showing him how to stand for
Howard shook his head. He had met the old woman they called “Guru” several times. She was in her eighties, squat, and a master of the martial art that Toni and Michaels studied,
Toni, who could toss black-belt fighters around like toys, said the old lady was a lot better than she was, and Howard believed her. He had seen her move, and had seen Michaels move, and he wouldn’t have wanted to face either of them without a weapon in hand. Preferably a gun.
“Anything new?” Michaels asked.
“No.”
A silence settled upon the kitchen, broken by Nadine. “Who wants the first stack? Toni?”
“Sure,” Toni said. “I haven’t had homemade pancakes in ages.”
“You ever think about learning how to cook? You could have them more often,” Michaels said. But he was smiling.
“This from a man who burns water?”
He smiled.
Howard turned the conversation to what they were all thinking about: Jay Gridley. “The FBI is trying to run down the shooter,” he said. “They are interviewing people who were still at the scene when the state troopers got there. Some who came forward, some who didn’t but whose license plates were caught on the troopers’ car cams. It doesn’t look real promising so far. The AIC, Peterson, says if it was a pro hitter, he won’t have left any big clues. So far he’s been right. The only thing people noticed — those who noticed anything at all about the guy — was that he had a Band-Aid on his face.”
Toni and Michaels nodded, but didn’t speak.
“What about you two?” Howard asked.
“We flipped a coin,” Michaels said. “If Jay doesn’t come around in the next day or two, I’m going to Colorado, Toni will stay here for a while.”
