“That’s why we’ve got to protect him, Eve,” Harry said.

“No one will hurt Judge Ramsey Hunt on my watch,” Eve said. “No one.”

Sherlock said, “I’ll be checking on the Zodiac, and Cheney has feelers out for any word about a shooter for hire.”

“We need to talk to the Cahills,” Eve said. “Regardless, they’re certainly people of interest. It’s a place to start.”

Judge Sherlock’s home

Pacific Heights, San Francisco

Friday evening

Sherlock’s eyes were closed as she listened to Emma play George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue on her parents’ magnificent Bösendorfer grand piano, which had been purchased for Sherlock when she was about Emma’s age. When Emma hit the final notes, there was a long moment of silence, then applause, Sherlock’s parents the loudest.

“It’s been too long since I’ve listened to you play,” Judge Corman Sherlock said. “Thank you, Emma.”

Harry couldn’t believe what he had just heard. An eleven-year-old kid, her thick dark brown hair veiling her face, had knocked his socks off. How could those small hands play with such passion and purity, even reach all those racing chords, those endless runs and trills?

Evelyn Sherlock was still smiling. “That was grand, Emma. Thank you for the preview. We’ll be there to hear you at the symphony, of course.”

Emma gave them a small smile, but it soon fell away. “I don’t know how well I’ll play with Daddy in the hospital.” She looked down at her clasped hands. “He smiled at me this afternoon, but it was so hard for him, and I knew it hurt him.”

Eve said, “Say your dad can’t be with you at Davies Hall. We’ll fix it so he can be listening to you on a live feed.”

“But what if something happens? What if he’s still in the hospital? How could I play then?”

Eve said, “If he isn’t home—and believe me, that’s unlikely, since your daddy’s such a tough dude—we’ll take the live feed to the hospital and hook it up there. Can’t you see all the nurses and doctors, all the other patients cramming into his room to see you play? Believe me on this. Wherever your daddy happens to be in a week and a half, you know he’ll be right onstage with you.”

What a perfect thing to say, Savich thought. Eve didn’t even hint that Ramsey could possibly be well enough to actually attend her performance, and that was smart. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand.

Emma tried to smile at Eve. “That means I can’t make a single mistake.”

“You never do,” Eve said.

Sherlock said, “Do you like the Bösendorfer, Emma? My parents got it for me a very long time ago.”

“It’s too bad you aren’t here very often to play it,” Emma said. “Mrs. Mayhew—she’s my teacher—she says a piano has to be played or it goes stale.”

“Do you think the Gershwin sounded stale?”

Emma shook her head. “No, it sounded perfect. I’m used to my Steinway, but I like this piano, too. I wish Mama were here.”

Eve said, “Look at the big picture, Emma. Your daddy needs her attention right now more than we do.”

Emma thought about that and nodded. She touched middle C. “The action’s perfect.”

Evelyn Sherlock said, “Emma, would you like to have Lacey play for you?”

Emma’s eyes shone. “Oh, yes. Do you know Bach’s Italian Concerto?”

Sherlock rolled her eyes. “I haven’t played that killer in a long time. I can feel my fingers yelling at me not to try it.”

Harry said, “Tell your fingers to man up. I’d sure like to hear you play, Sherlock.”

Sherlock took Emma’s place at the black piano bench. She played some scales, ran some chords, and realized the feel of the keys on this magnificent instrument was a deeply embedded memory that came back quickly. Still, she wasn’t about to try the first movement, far too wild and hairy without practice. She played the second movement, slow, evocative, and sorrowful. As she played, she felt the power of the music burrow into her. When she finished, Sherlock slowly lifted her hands from the keyboard, letting herself settle for a moment, another embedded memory she would thankfully never lose.

Emma jumped to her feet. “Oh, goodness, that was beautiful. I can play that movement, but not like that, not like it makes everyone want to cry.”

“The last time you played that second movement for me, I cried,” Eve said.