Hark! (28 page)

“What's that?”

“A palindrome?”

“
All
of it.”

“
Inadvertent
means accidental. A
palindrome
is something that reads the same forwards or backwards. I doubt very much that the people who designed that program realized that ‘Three at Three' is a palindrome.”

“Oh. Yeah,” she said, her eyes widening. “Three at Three! It
is
the same forwards or backwards.”

“Actually, a palindrome should read forwards or backwards
letter
by
letter.
‘Three at Three' only partially qualifies. Then again, I'm sure its use was accidental.”

“So what's ‘Three at Three'?”

“Three concerts at three o'clock.”

“Oh. Is this our Saturday concert?”

“The very one,” he said.

“Well, well,” she said, and opened the program.

There was a performance schedule and program for the first of the “Three at Three” concerts, which had taken place last Saturday and Sunday. She turned several pages and found the schedule for this weekend's performances. First, there was a full-page picture of Konstantinos Sallas, the guest soloist. He appeared to be a man in his late thirties, clean-shaven, very solemn-looking as he peered at the camera past the curved neck of the violin he was holding in his left hand.

The following page offered a biography of the man. Melissa skimmed it. Born in 1969—she'd guessed his age about right—began studying violin when he was six, continued his studies at the Greek Conservatory, and then Juilliard in New York, won an Onassis Foundation scholarship, made his concert debut in Athens when he was sixteen years old, won the International Sibelius Competition in Helsinki when he was seventeen, and won both the Paganini International and the Munich International while he was still in his teens. Before his concert debut with the London Symphony, he had also taken top prizes in the Hannover, Kreisler, and Sarasate violin competitions.

On the next page, there was a program of what would be performed at this weekend's “Three at Three” concerts. The first half of the bill would be Beethoven's Violin Concerto in D Major, opus 61…

“That's the one Sallas will be playing,” the Deaf Man explained.

The second half would be Brahms' Symphony No 4 in E Minor…

“Is he playing this one, too?” Melissa asked.

“No. Poor man would need a rest after the D Major.”

“So he's just playing that one thing, is that it?”

“That's it. A lovely piece. Starts with four timpani beats…”

“What's a timpani?”

“A kettle drum.”

“Oh.”

“Four soft timpani beats,” he said. “Read the man's reviews, he's truly phenomenal.”

Melissa picked up the glossy sheet he'd handed her along with the program. She looked at her watch again. Sighing, she began reading.

“This wizard of the strings played Stravinsky's Violin Concerto and Ravel's Tzigane. His interpretations were humorous, fiery, and breathtaking…”

“Every sound that the extraordinary Sallas produced on his Stradivarius was like a shimmering crystal, which, against the heavy brass lines…”

“Konstantinos Sallas plays with consistent commitment, exquisite clarity and a thrilling…”

“It takes rare charm and brilliant execution for a solo violinist to hold the entranced attention of an entire…”

“Konstantinos Sallas brought singularly lustrous tonal effects and colors to the Sibelius…”

“I get the picture,” Melissa said, and handed the program and the publicity sheet back to him.

“Anything else you get?” he asked.

“What?” she said.

“Look again,” he said, waving the program back at her.

She turned to the schedule for this Saturday and Sunday.

Konstantinos Sallas, solo violinist with the…

“Oh,” she said.

“Yes?”

“His name.”

…Sallas, solo violinist…

“Yes?”

“It's what you said before. A whatchamacallit.”

“Yes?”

“The letters,” she said. “They spell the same thing forwards or backwards.”

…Sallas…

“Sallas,” she said. “His name.”

“Good girl,” he said, and wondered how many other people were beginning to catch on along about now.

 

“D
ON'T YOU SEE
?” Carella said. “It reads the same forwards or backwards.”

They were all clustered around his desk now, studying the Deaf Man's final note of the day.

1353+3531=4884

“That number looks familiar,” Willis said.

“It's the…”

“Right. The box number I tried to track down.”

“Doesn't exist,” Meyer said.

“But why's he taking us back there?” Eileen asked.

“Because he's leading us back to the beginning again,” Hawes said.

“Also, the
size
of the numbers is very definitely getting smaller,” Carella said. “Here, take another look.”

They took another look:

87
78
87+78=165
165+561=726
726+627=1353
1353+3531=4884

“Backwards, and smaller and smaller,” Carella said.

“So what the hell does that mean?” Parker asked, and looked at the clock, trying to figure how much longer this goddamn June the ninth was going to last.

F
OR A MAN
, Emilio Herrera was a damn good-looking woman.

In fact, the detectives up at the Eight-Eight whistled when Ollie marched him into the squadroom.

“Sit down, Emilio,” he said, and indicated the chair alongside his desk.

“It's Emma,” Emilio said, and sat, crossing his long splendid legs. Five feet seven inches tall in his high heels, weighing a hundred and ten in his padded bra, fingernails painted a glittery gold to match his frizzed blond wig, he tugged at his short blue skirt and then pouted a moist red look at Ollie, who indifferently pulled a pad toward him, and began writing.

Emilio watched.

If he wasn't higher than a hot-air balloon, he'd have at least recognized Ollie's name. But he happened to be floating on some very good Red Chicken and so he didn't know this phat phuck from any other detective up here.

“My book,” Ollie said.

“Pretty,” Emilio said, thinking he was referring to the pad he'd been writing in, which he now saw carried his hand-lettered name across the top of one page.

“The book you
stole
,” Ollie said.

Emilio looked at him blankly.

“
Report to the Commissioner
,” Ollie said. “Which I myself wrote.”

“You did
not
!” Emilio said indignantly.

Ollie looked at him blankly.

“Olivia
Watts
wrote that report,” Emilio said.

“I
am
…”

“Olivia
Wesley
Watts!” Emilio shouted.

“I am she,” Ollie said. Or even her, he thought. “Where's my fucking
book
?”

“It is
not
your book! It is
Livvie's
book!”

“I
am
Livvie!” Ollie shouted.

“Sure! Same as I'm Emma!”

“Look, you little prick…”

“Oh, darling,” Emilio said.

“If you don't tell me what you did with that book…”

“I got nothing to say to you about Livvie's book.”

“There
is
no Livvie!”

“Ho ho.”

“I made her up. Livvie is me, I'm Livvie, but she doesn't exist! Olivia Watts is a synonym I…”

“Olivia
Wesley
Watts. And it's
pseudo
nym, not…”

“Don't get smart with me, you little…”

“And anyway, it
isn't.
A pseudonym. Because I saw her after the drug bust, and I told her…”

“You saw
who
after
what
drug bust?”

“Livvie. Detective Watts. The drug bust in the basement at 3211 Culver Ave, whenever it was. I saw her outside the building. I told her I'd burned the report so…”

“It wasn't a
report
, it was a
novel
!”

“It said
Report to
…”

“You
what
?”

“What?”

“You burned it? You telling me you
burned
it? You burned my
novel
?”

“To protect Livvie…”

“I'll give you protect Livvie.”

“So the bad guys wouldn't get it.”

“I'll kill you. I swear to God, I'll
kill
you!”

Ollie was out of his chair now, coming around his desk, his hands actually reaching for Emilio's throat.

“Do you know how long it took me to
write
that book? Do you
realize
…?”

“Relax,” Emilio said, “I memorized it.”

Ollie looked at him.

“Was it really all fake?” Emilio asked.

“You
memorized
it?”

“Word for word,” Emilio said. “Gee, it seemed so real. You're a very good writer, did anyone ever tell you that?”

“You think so?” Ollie said.

“You captured the thoughts and emotions of a woman magnificently.”

Ollie almost asked, “How would you know?” But he recognized unadulterated praise when he heard it.

“Did the female viewpoint seem convincing?” he asked.

“Oh, man,
did
it!” Emilio said, and rolled his eyes and began quoting. “ ‘
I am locked in a basement with $2,700,000 in so-called conflict diamonds and I just got a run in my pantyhose.
' ”

“What comes next?” Ollie asked.

“ ‘
I am writing this in the hope that it will somehow reach you before they kill me. You will recall…
' ”

“Emilio,” Ollie said, grinning, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

 

S
TANDING ACROSS THE STREET
from Sharyn's apartment building, Kling saw the taxi when it pulled up, and recognized the girl the moment she stepped out of it. Same white girl Sharyn and Hudson had met with yesterday. Early thirties, he guessed. Black hair and brown eyes. Slim and svelte, five feet six or seven inches tall. She looked up and down the street before she went into the building, as if she suspected someone was following her…well, she was half-right on that score.

Sharyn had told him she couldn't see him until later tonight because she had a meeting at the hospital. He'd known even on the phone that she was lying. Didn't have to look into her eyes to detect the lie. So he'd followed her from her office, and sure as he was white and Sharyn was black, she didn't go to any damn hospital, she went straight home to her apartment here in Calm's Point.