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  Buddy said nothing. He didn’t trust himself to speak in a professional manner. Carl’s glib attitude toward the Holocaust repulsed him. His face must have betrayed his emotions, because Carl offered a further comment that he likely hoped would make his grandfather’s behavior less odious but only made it more disgusting.

  “I mean, even if Jews had smuggled these paintings, rolled up or not, into the camps,” Carl said, “the guards or commandants would have confiscated every last one. At least my grandfather paid. What else could he do?”

  “And,” Rebecca interjected, “paid a market price. Nobody back then could have guessed what a Rembrandt would be worth today.”

  Buddy didn’t know about art, but he knew bullshit when he heard it.

  He also knew that if somebody had bought paintings by Rembrandt and Michelangelo from his family—while they were under duress and about to be murdered—he’d be furious with that buyer and his descendants. He didn’t think he’d kill those descendants, but someone more desperate or more convinced of the righteousness of revenge might. Perhaps someone had killed, and Carl and his family were next on the murderer’s list.

  He looked Carl in the eye and said, “I think I understand. Would you send me copies of the bills of sale for the paintings your grandfather bought? I need to confirm that someone isn’t taking revenge on your family.”

  Robert Kahler said, “We can’t share that information.”

  But Carl nodded. “Robert has copies. He’ll send them over tomorrow. They must remain confidential, okay?”

  “Agreed,” Buddy said.

  As they walked out to the foyer and the elevator, Buddy asked, as casually as he could, “Do you own any firearms?”

  Carl showed no expression, and gave no answer.

  Kahler said, “What are you driving at, Detective?”

  Carl held up a hand toward his lawyer. He kept his eyes on Buddy. “Yes, I have two. An old French .22-caliber called a Gaston, and a newer Walther PPK.”

  At the description of the Gaston, Buddy stopped and said, “May I take both guns into custody for testing?”

  Carl stared at him a long moment, then shrugged. “Certainly, Detective. Whatever I can do to help. Did you want me to send them over to your office?”

  Buddy said, “I’ll take them now, thanks.”

  Carl inhaled loudly and his face flushed. He hesitated a few moments, then disappeared into the condo.

  Buddy waited with Kahler, but neither spoke. Buddy pulled out his phone to be sure it had recorded the picture gallery, but he wouldn’t watch the video in front of Kahler.

  Carl brought out two small cases holding the handguns and handed them to Buddy.

  Buddy said, “Two branches of the Brook family, with the exception of Ben Brook, have been lost. Two branches remain. We’re recommending that we provide your family with security twenty-four seven. Is that acceptable to you?”

  Carl shook his head, his eyes impassive behind the black-framed spectacles. His face showed sadness but no fear. He said, “We appreciate the offer, but we have one hundred percent trust in our building’s security.”

  And none in the NYPD, Buddy thought. Maybe Carl was right: the force had failed to protect Mei and Ben. “You’re sure?” he asked.

  “We’re concerned,” Carl said, lines forming on his forehead. “But the security here is top-notch.”

  Buddy asked, “Where were you last night?”

  “Here,” Carl told him. “I was at home.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Buddy didn’t like glass houses. He didn’t like how other people could see into them—how they could see the house’s inhabitants walking around, making coffee, watching the Knicks. He admitted that the converse was also true. Houses like Ward’s, with enormous windows, provided expansive views of snow-covered lawns and woods. He liked the scenery and the light but wished for more privacy, especially now, when Mei and Ben were staying with Ward and he was so far away, in the city.

  Rose Gallatin had opened the tall mahogany door to Ward’s house. A moment later he was standing in the sunlight-filled living room with its large marble fireplace and its nine-foot Steinway concert grand with the lid fully open, as if it were on stage. Not a great memory for him. He listened for Ben’s voice but heard nothing.

  The late afternoon sunlight fell upon him and the piano. He realized that he was visible to anyone watching him from the woods. Not that anyone was watching him, other than the two security guards, each with a Rottweiler. He told himself that he was—and more importantly, Mei and Ben were—safe here. His imagination was creating phantoms where there weren’t any.

  “Ms. Gallatin,” he said, “is there a way to . . . block the sunlight?”

  She began walking toward the hearth. “Yes, there are blinds.”

  “I don’t see any.”

  “They’re recessed, until they come down.”

  She pressed a button on the wall, and a set of white blinds began extending down over the great glass windows. The hum of a hidden electric motor sounded. As the blinds reached to an inch above the maple floor, he noticed they didn’t obscure all visibility from outside. He could see faint outlines of leafless trees in the wood bordering the yard. Which meant that someone in the trees might be able to see his shape—his height and weight and location in the room—if not particular details. This observation worried him but he concluded there was nothing he could do.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  In the trees at the edge of the lawn, a solitary figure stood downwind of the security patrols and the Rottweilers. He watched through high-resolution surveillance binoculars made by Brook Instruments as the police detective followed the older woman out of the mansion’s living room.

  The detective had stared directly into the thicket of wild raspberry stalks where the lone figure was hiding, but the detective’s vision hadn’t been sharp enough to see who was hidden in the wood.

  The figure waited for nightfall.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  When Ms. Gallatin led Buddy into the pool room, Ben stopped playing. Ben pushed his wet hair out of his eyes and watched Buddy carefully.

  Buddy took in the large lap pool—not the full-sized Olympic version he’d expected. He walked over to the side of the pool, rested one knee on the beige travertine, and smiled. “How are you, Ben?”

  “I’m okay.” He paused a moment, before saying, “The water moves. It pushes you to one end.”

  “You like that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sure you’re a better swimmer than I was at your age.”

  Buddy looked over at Ward, who was standing in the deep end, submerged in water up to his navel. Buddy saw the puffed-up deltoids and pectorals and knew that Ward had begun to work out and lift weights once again, as obsessively as he had before he’d been voluntarily committed for psychiatric care a couple of years earlier. He was handsome, in great shape, and a billionaire. Instinctively Buddy turned to Mei.

  She’d been sitting on a teak chaise lounge. She wore a pair of Ward’s blue jeans and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. He thought she looked beautiful and that she fit seamlessly into this kind of life. He didn’t want to lose her, yet how could he compete with Ward, who had so much?

  He stifled his jealousy and realized he shouldn’t insult his brother. Mei and Ben’s security depended on their remaining in this fortress.

  But those insecurities remained as he stood in the large cedar-paneled room. When he saw Ward, he saw his father who’d abandoned him and his mother. Like the architect Louis Kahn, his father had two families. One day when Buddy was a boy, his father had divorced his mother and married Barbara Mills, heir to a manufacturing fortune. A year younger than Buddy, Ward was their secret son and, so, Buddy’s half brother. Who soon received all his father’s attention. His father became rich while Buddy and his mother were poor. Buddy’s anger hadn’t cooled when his father died.

  Mei stood, smiled, and
walked over to him as Ben returned to the pool. Buddy bent down and embraced her. Her arms went around his back and she squeezed much harder than usual. And she didn’t let go. Not right away. Her obvious affection reassured him.

  She said, “It’s good to see you.”

  “Are things all right up here?”

  “Yes. Last night just frightened me. And I’m tired. I sleep better when you’re next to me.”

  “I do, too.”

  “Can you stay here tonight?” she asked as they parted.

  “For dinner, but then I need to get back.”

  “You can’t take a day off?”

  His face showed disappointment. “I wish I could, but I’m running this case.”

  She said, “Vidas couldn’t do it? Not even for a day?”

  He shook his head. “He wasn’t at my interview today with Carl Brook’s family, and he hasn’t seen Camp Kateri in the Adirondacks. I still have to give him direction, but in time he’ll do more.”

  “I trust you,” she said. “You’ll solve the case.”

  He was relieved she didn’t push him to stay, for he couldn’t leave a serial killer to wander freely around New York. He was a hunter, and that’s what he’d always be. He said, “I’ll come up tomorrow or the day after, and I’ll stay overnight. I promise.”

  She gave a wan smile. “I miss you when you’re away,” she told him. “That’s all.”

  They sat side by side on the chaise lounge. From this perch they watched how Ben swam against the current and how, when he veered off to one side or the other, Ward held him at the waist and gently guided him back to the center of the pool.

  Buddy said, “He needs practice.”

  “Yes,” Mei agreed, “but give him time.”

  They were quiet. Buddy heard the Rottweilers outside bark loudly, but only for a moment. And then everything was still except for the sound of Ben’s splashing and the hum of the lap pool’s motor.

  Chapter Forty

  Buddy asked, “When you were staying with Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer, did they talk to you about where you might live?”

  They were finishing the baked salmon that Ms. Gallatin had made for them, together with green beans and baked potatoes. Ward circled the table with the remnants of a second bottle of Cakebread Chardonnay—he’d drunk most of the first bottle by himself.

  Ben glanced at Buddy, then lowered his eyes to his plate.

  A shadow crossed Mei’s face. She said to Ben, “We don’t need to decide tonight, and your aunts and uncles will talk with you about it.”

  “No!” Ben said loudly, dropping his knife and fork on his plate, raising his face and looking at each of them in turn. “Not with anyone in my family.”

  “Would you tell us why not?” Buddy asked. “I thought you liked your aunts and uncles and your cousins.”

  His light-brown eyes opened wide. “I don’t want to live with them, and I don’t want them to adopt me.”

  “Would you tell us why?”

  “Because I don’t want to. And because when they’re killed, I’ll be killed, too.”

  Buddy realized that nobody had told Ben—or Mei—about the fate of his uncle Bruno and family. Ben lived in a ten-year-old’s world of movies and video games, not the world of crime. He hadn’t seen the Gazette’s three-inch headlines, hadn’t read Sophie Bardon’s innuendo-laced articles. He’d been out of school and remained innocent. This wasn’t the right time or place, yet Buddy thought this news should come from him rather than someone else.

  He got up, went around the table, and knelt beside Ben’s chair.

  The boy looked down at Buddy, whose dark eyes were alert and friendly.

  Buddy put a hand on Ben’s shoulder and said, “I understand your fear. Because last night your uncle Bruno, your aunt Natalie, and their family . . . they, uh . . . they didn’t make it.”

  Ben stared at him, his eyes wide.

  Buddy said, “I’m sorry, Ben.” He pulled Ben toward him and kissed the top of his head.

  Ben pushed him away, and as he did, Buddy could see the boy’s eyes filling with tears, his face distorted with confusion and grief. Ben began to cry loudly and said, nearly screamed, “What happened to them? Was it like my mom and dad and Ellen-Marie?”

  “No,” Buddy said quickly. “No. They were”—he didn’t want to use the word gassed—“they were poisoned. They didn’t suffer.”

  “But they’re dead?”

  “I’m sorry.” Buddy didn’t take his eyes off Ben, but he knew Mei was as shocked as the boy. He added, “I’m going to catch the person who hurt your family, so you’re safe for the rest of your life.”

  “No,” Ben said. “No! I’ll never be safe. Don’t you see? Don’t you see they’ll get everyone in my family? No. No!” Ben shook his head frantically, and then he stopped. He held himself very still and said, “Don’t you see? If I live with anyone but you, I’ll die. You even have a bedroom for me. I want to stay with you and Mei. I want to live with you. If you won’t let me, I’ll die!”

  Buddy didn’t know how to respond. He’d known Ben for fewer than two days. This was too much, too fast. Despite what Ray Sawyer had said about the trust set up by Ben’s parents, didn’t his aunts and uncles have legal claims on him? Weren’t they his godparents or something? And wasn’t it Ray Sawyer’s decision?

  Chapter Forty-One

  Buddy’s mobile phone rang, ending his time at the dinner table. He was grateful for the distraction. He could see Mei struggling with Ben, trying to deflect Ben’s wish to live with them. He didn’t know what he’d have said. He supposed his phone had saved him from having to find a way to say no. He stepped away from the table and walked into the living room. He was glad the blinds were drawn, but guessed that the security guards outside could see his shape. Taking a few paces back from the windows, he placed a hand on the lid of the Steinway.

  “It’s Vidas,” came his partner’s voice.

  Buddy turned back and saw Mei and Ben getting up from the table. They then followed Ward, carrying their dishes into the kitchen. Ms. Gallatin came for the serving dishes on the table, and for the water and wine glasses. He spoke into the phone. “What do you have?”

  “No prints for Carl. But the SEC has prints for Dietrich Brook. At age twenty-two he worked for a few months at J. P. Morgan.”

  Buddy felt a rush of anticipation, mixed with the satisfaction that he’d been right about Dietrich. In the modern world you left prints and other trails he could track.

  Vidas added, “They’re sending over a copy of the prints tomorrow morning. We can compare them to what we found from the Carlyle evacuation.”

  “Found?” Buddy said. “What did you find?”

  “SWAT was about to call you, but I wanted to give you the 411 and see what you’re thinking.”

  Buddy felt his spirits sink. He guessed that taking identification from each person visiting, residing, or working in that building would yield nothing. And now, after a difficult day with new leads but few of them immediately promising, Vidas was calling to give him bad news to ponder on his drive back to the city.

  “Buddy?” Vidas said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thought you’d hung up.”

  “I’m just thinking.”

  “There’s more to think about,” Vidas told him, having already heard Buddy’s theory of the descendants of Holocaust victims killing the Brooks. “There were fifteen people with German passports and three with Polish.”

  Buddy knew that if these people were visiting rather than residing in the country, they’d have come in through a border and would show up in the Automated Targeting System run by the Department of Homeland Security. He said, “Did you run them through the ATS?”

  “Working on it.”

  “Any other foreigners?”

  “We’ve got four Brits, one Saudi, a Russian, an Egyptian, two Indians, one from Sri Lanka, two Canadians.”

  “Any unknowns?”

  “Three without ID.”


  “American?”

  “Spoke English, but not necessarily American. But here’s the thing,” Vidas said. “These three—two men and one woman—gave names and addresses, but I followed up, and all their info was bogus.”

  Buddy tensed. “Made-up names?”

  “Or made-up addresses, or both. The addresses they gave didn’t exist. Except for the woman’s. Turned out to be Pike Place Market in Seattle.”

  “So we have to print a suspect and then compare those prints to what we took last night inside the Carlyle. Without the prints, we have nothing.”

  “That’s right. We need a suspect—and maybe Dietrich Brook is our man. I’m still checking the alibis you gave me for Carl and his son, John. But I’ve confirmed that Dietrich was in town.”

  Buddy thought that if the killer weren’t Carl or Dietrich Brook, finding a matching print would be a needle in a haystack. He glanced toward the empty dining room. He needed to find Mei and Ben, before getting on the road back to Manhattan. It had already been a long day. But there was one thing he needed to confirm. Into the phone he said, “Would you call the medical examiner? See if Lucy Brook had a bruise on her chest, or a broken rib.”

  Vidas said, “Will do. Anything else?”

  “See you at the shop,” Buddy said. “Eight a.m.”

  He ended the call and saw Ms. Gallatin wiping off the dining room table. He asked, “Where are Mei and Ben?”

  “She’s reading to him in his bedroom.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Follow the hallway behind the kitchen,” she said, pointing.

  Buddy thanked her. He went through the kitchen and along a wide hallway with its maple floor covered here and there with rectangular Oriental rugs in black and emerald. He looked ahead and saw that the hallway ended at a large glass window that looked out at the woods. There was one door on the right, which he saw was a bathroom, and two doors on the left. He came to the first door and looked into the room. He saw the glow of a reading lamp on the bedside table and closed blinds, but it was empty. He went farther, to the second door on the left, and looked into that room.