The sweeping strains of Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto filled the room, a faint breeze stirred in the darkness beyond the open window, and Ney lay at his feet, warm and relaxed, whiffling softly in his sleep. Usually Peter re­quired nothing more than these—good books, good music, a day of hard work followed by an evening of solitude—to feel complete con­tentment. But tonight he was restless and uneasy, his concentration broken by the slightest sound. He pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes. There would be no peace until Rusty’s killer was flushed out of hiding and the past could return to dust. The night had been broken more than once by the insistent buzz of his cell phone, bringing Ney to his feet with his tags clinking. The first caller was Merry Folger, telling him the state crime lab was done with Rusty’s body, and what did he intend to do with it? He’d thought for a moment and told her he’d call her back. The second call, from Georgiana, came through with exquisite timing a mere ten minutes later.
