Chapter 1 - THE PIANO ON THE THIRD FLOOR
Sloan learned three things about No. 41 Chestnut Street during her first hour inside.
The first was that the house had eleven clocks and only two showed the same time.
The second was that Otis Ward could appear at a person’s elbow without producing any sound Sloan could detect.
The third was that the piano Cormack Sheridan wanted tuned was not the piano she expected.
She had assumed he had brought her to Beacon Hill because of the grand at the Kingsbury.
Instead, Otis led her upstairs.
Third floor.
Front room.
The same floor where, fourteen months later, Cormack would stand behind dark glass watching Sloan in the rain.
That afternoon, however, the curtains were open.
March sunlight crossed a room nobody seemed to use.
At the far wall stood a black Steinway upright beneath a framed photograph of a boy in a sailor coat.
Sloan set down her wooden case.
“How old?”
Otis knew what she meant.
“Eighteen eighty-nine.”
“Original action?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly is a dangerous word.”
A voice behind her said:
“So is ruined.”
Sloan turned.
Cormack stood in the doorway.
He wore no coat.
White shirt.
Dark trousers.
No tie.
The watch with the scratched case remained on his left wrist.
The first time Sloan had seen him, in the Kingsbury lobby, she had mistaken him for a hotel executive.
She had learned who he was approximately forty minutes later when a dishwasher dropped a tray after someone whispered his name.
That had been useful information.
It had not changed the piano.
Sloan looked back at the upright.
“This one isn’t ruined either.”
Cormack entered.
“How do you know?”
“I haven’t touched it.”
“That seems like a problem.”
“No. The problem is that you keep asking the wrong question.”
Otis looked toward the ceiling.
Possibly praying.
Cormack stopped beside the bench.
“What is the right one?”
“Why hasn’t anyone played it?”
Silence.
There.
Sloan did not know enough about Cormack to recognize the silence yet.
Otis did.
His expression changed.
Cormack looked at the photograph above the piano.
The boy in the sailor coat.
“That was my brother.”
Sloan followed his eyes.
“How old?”
“When he died?”
“Yes.”
“Nine.”
Cormack had been eleven.
Sloan did not ask how.
People told you deaths when they wanted to.
“What was his name?”
“Patrick.”
“Did he play?”
“Yes.”
There.
The instrument had not been neglected accidentally.
It had been preserved in the shape of grief.
Sloan opened the fallboard.
Keys yellowed.
Some chipped.
She pressed middle C.
Flat.
Then E.
Worse.
The action felt heavy.
She listened.
“Has anyone tuned it since he died?”
Otis answered.
“Every year.”
Sloan frowned.
“Who?”
“Mr. Baines.”
She knew the name.
Excellent technician.
Retired last summer.
“Then why is it like this?”
Cormack looked at her.
“Because no one plays it.”
Exactly.
A piano can be tuned and still become unusable if treated like furniture.
Sloan opened her case.
Cormack stayed.
That surprised her.
Most wealthy clients disappeared once work began.
They wanted the result without exposure to process.
Cormack stood near the window while Sloan removed the front panel.
Dust.
Old felt.
A cracked bridle strap.
Two hammers badly grooved.
One key bushing swollen.
She worked.
Twenty minutes.
Then:
“Why did you ask about me?”
His gaze moved from window.
“What?”
“You sent someone to the parish where I tune.”
Otis went still.
Cormack did not.
Good.
“Yes.”
“How much did you ask?”
“All of it.”
Sloan sat back on her heels.
“That is not an answer.”
“Everything publicly available.”
“Publicly.”
“And some professional references.”
“Did you ask permission?”
“No.”
There.
Not embarrassed.
Yet.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t bring people into this house without knowing who they are.”
She looked toward the door.
Otis had told her the rule.
No one came through without permission.
The house itself was built around controlled entry.
Sloan put down the tuning hammer.
“Then I’m leaving.”
Cormack’s expression changed.
Not much.
Enough.
“Because I checked your references.”
“Because you investigated me after watching me work and before asking me whether I wanted to enter your house.”
“That is security.”
“To you.”
“Yes.”
“And to me, it’s somebody deciding access to my life was included in the service call.”
Silence.
Otis stared at the floor.
Sloan began closing her case.
Cormack said:
“Wait.”
She did.
Not because he ordered.
Because his voice changed.
“What would you have wanted me to do?”
“Ask.”
His mouth tightened.
“If I asked whether I could perform a background check, would you have agreed?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“What you were checking.”
He seemed genuinely confused.
Good.
“Criminal record because you’re letting me inside a private house? Fine.”
“Financial?”
“No.”
“Family?”
“No.”
“Professional?”
“Ask what you want to know.”
Cormack looked at her hands.
Cracked skin.
Cold-season damage.
She saw his eyes shift toward the wooden case.
Her father’s.
Then back.
“Your mother.”
Sloan went still.
He had found Birdie.
Of course.
“How much?”
“She lives in Quincy.”
“How much?”
“Assisted memory care.”
Her chest tightened.
“How much?”
He understood.
“Diagnosis not included.”
Good.
“Bills?”
“No.”
Maybe.
She watched.
Cormack said:
“I know you are listed as primary contact.”
That was already too much.
“You don’t get to know that because you own a hotel with a piano.”
“No.”
“Do you understand?”
He took longer than she wanted.
Then:
“Yes.”
Maybe.
Sloan closed the case fully.
Cormack looked at the upright.
“You’re still leaving.”
“Yes.”
“Will you come back?”
“I don’t know.”
He seemed irritated by the answer.
Good.
Otis spoke for the first time in several minutes.
“Mr. Sheridan.”
Cormack looked.
Otis said:
“Perhaps the file.”
Sloan’s attention sharpened.
“What file?”
Cormack looked at Otis.
Then at her.
“My security office prepared a background summary.”
“Of me.”
“Yes.”
“I want it.”
“That is internal.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
Sloan stood.
“You collected information about me without permission. I want to see what.”
Silence.
Then Cormack walked to the telephone on a side table.
He called someone.
“Dermit.”
Pause.
“Bring the Ashby file.”
Sloan looked at Otis.
Otis almost smiled.
Five minutes later, Dermit Quinnland entered.
Same man who would stand beside Cormack’s car after Corv.
Older than Cormack.
Careful face.
He carried a thin black folder.
Not thick.
Good.
He gave it to Cormack.
Cormack handed it to Sloan.
She opened.
Name.
Address.
Licenses.
Professional references.
Bankruptcy search.
Criminal record.
Public civil records.
Mother’s address.
Care facility.
Father deceased.
No diagnosis.
No debt detail.
No phone logs.
Still too much.
Sloan removed the page containing Birdie’s facility.
Tore it in half.
Then again.
Dermit looked alarmed.
Cormack did not move.
“I want every copy of this page destroyed.”
Cormack looked at Dermit.
“Do it.”
Sloan held up hand.
“No.”
Cormack stopped.
She pointed.
“Not because I said. Because you agree it should never have been collected.”
That annoyed him.
Good.
He looked at the torn paper.
Then at Dermit.
“Remove family medical-location data from non-threat background checks going forward.”
Dermit blinked.
“That is not what I asked.”
“No.”
Cormack looked at Sloan.
“It is what I should have done before you asked.”
There.
Better.
Dermit nodded.
Cormack continued.
“Destroy copies of this page. Document destruction.”
Sloan looked at him.
“Good.”
Then she handed the folder back.
Cormack said:
“Will you finish the piano?”
She considered.
“Yes.”
Otis exhaled.
“Today?”
“No.”
Cormack’s eyebrows rose.
“I have another job.”
“At St. Brendan’s.”
Sloan glared.
He almost smiled.
“Public reference.”
“Still annoying.”
“Understood.”
She lifted the wooden case.
Cormack looked at it.
“Your father’s?”
“Yes.”
“He tuned?”
“Rebuilt.”
“Pianos?”
“Anything with strings and patience.”
There was pride in her voice.
Cormack heard.
“When did he die?”
She looked at him.
He caught himself.
“Sorry.”
Good.
“Seven years.”
He nodded.
No more.
At the door, Sloan stopped.
“If I come back tomorrow, you do not ask anyone anything about me.”
Cormack’s face changed.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing you could ask me.”
“What if I think you’ll lie?”
“Then don’t hire me.”
Silence.
That was a rule he had never lived under.
People lied.
He investigated.
People hid assets.
He found them.
People made promises.
He verified.
Trust, in Cormack’s world, was simply the period before confirmation.
Sloan waited.
Finally:
“Agreed.”
She looked at him.
“Say it better.”
Otis turned away, shoulders moving suspiciously.
Cormack’s eyes narrowed.
“I will not investigate your private life without your knowledge unless there is a specific security threat involving this house or someone inside it.”
Better.
“And if there is?”
“I tell you what I’m doing unless that creates immediate danger.”
“Who decides immediate?”
“I do.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
Of course.
“Then?”
“Someone outside you.”
He almost laughed.
“This is my house.”
“Then hire a lawyer.”
Otis coughed.
Cormack stared at Sloan for long enough that most people would have looked away.
She did not.
Finally:
“Fine.”
Good.
She left.
The next afternoon, Sloan returned.
Same canvas bag.
Same wooden case.
Otis took her coat.
Cormack was not waiting.
Good.
She worked on the upright for three hours.
Near the end, a woman entered.
Early sixties.
Dark auburn hair threaded with silver.
Camel-colored trousers.
Cream blouse.
A face composed so carefully that emotion seemed like something she scheduled.
“Ms. Ashby.”
Sloan stood.
“Yes?”
“I’m Eleanor Sheridan.”
Cormack’s mother.
Sloan wiped dust from her fingers before offering her hand.
Eleanor did not take it.
Not rudely.
She simply looked at the piano.
“You opened it.”
“That’s generally necessary.”
Eleanor smiled.
Not warmly.
“My son says you are direct.”
“He investigated that?”
The smile changed.
Good.
Eleanor walked closer.
“This piano belonged to Patrick.”
“So I heard.”
“No one touches it except tuners.”
“Then it’s lucky I’m one.”
That almost made Eleanor laugh.
Almost.
She looked at Sloan’s case.
“Your father’s?”
“Yes.”
“How interesting.”
Something in the way she said it made Sloan pause.
“You knew him?”
Eleanor looked at her.
“No.”
Too clean.
Sloan heard the false note.
Not proof.
Just sound.
Then Eleanor touched the piano lid.
“Cormack has always mistaken repair for rescue.”
Sloan looked.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
Eleanor smiled.
“Welcome to No. 41.”
Then she left.
Sloan stood alone beside the old upright.
A minute later, she opened the case and removed her hammer.
She struck A above middle C.
Listened.
Again.
The note wavered.
Not because the piano was impossible.
Because something inside the house had shifted.
May you like
Sloan did what she always did when an instrument lied.
She listened longer.
