“Zoning board raffle tickets?” said Milo.

Loh’s eyes rolled, and he smiled. “Don’t ask- the point is, I’d hate for it to end. It means a lot to Stef, and he means a lot to me.”

“How often do you throw concerts?”

“Throw concerts,” said Loh, amused by the image. “Stef schedules four a year. Last year, we added an extra one at Christmas, as a benefit for the John Robert Preston School.”

“Neighbor’s kid?”

Loh’s smile widened. “I can see why you’re a detective.”

Milo said, “I went over the till and counted thirteen checks from people not on the guest list. That leaves another fifteen who paid cash. The cash balance matches perfectly. Any idea who those fifteen are?”

Loh shook his head. “You’d have to ask Anita- the girl at the door.”

“I did. She doesn’t recall.”

“Sorry,” said Loh. “It’s not as if we were looking for- as if this could’ve been anticipated.”

“What can you tell me about Vassily Levitch?”

“Young, intense. Like all of them. Stefan would know more. Music is his passion.”

“And you?”

“I keep things organized.”

“Is there anything you can say about Levitch’s demeanor?”

“Very quiet, nervous about the performance. He barely slept or ate, and I heard him pacing in his room just before the recital. But really, Detective, that’s how it usually is. These people are gifted, and they work harder than can be imagined. Vassily arrived two days ago and practiced seven hours each day. When he wasn’t playing, he was holed up in his room.”

“No visitors?”

“No visitors and two phone calls. From his mother and his agent. He’d never been to L.A. before.”

“Gifted,” said Milo. “And on his way up.”

“That’s Stefan’s thing,” said Loh. “He seeks out rising stars and tries to help their ascent.”

“By offering them recital time, here?”

“And money. Our foundation issues grants. Nothing lavish, each artist receives a fifteen-thousand-dollar stipend.”

“Sounds generous to me.”

“Stef’s the soul of generosity.”

“How does Mr. Szabo locate the artists- how did he find Vassily Levitch, specifically?”

“From Vassily’s agent in New York. Now that the concerts have achieved a certain reputation, we get contacted frequently. The agent sent Stefan a tape, and Stefan listened to it and decided Vassily would be perfect. Stefan tends to favor soloists or small ensembles. We’re not exactly set up for an orchestra.”

“How long before the concert were the arrangements made?”

“A while back,” said Loh. “Months. We need ample time for preparation. The acoustics, the lighting, choosing the caterer. And, of course, the advance publicity. Such as it is.”

“Which is?”

“Occasional mention on selected radio stations. KBAK- the classic station mentions us twice a day for two weeks prior. That fits our budget as well as our aspiration. We can’t handle a large crowd, nor do we wish one.”

“Eighty-five on the guest list,” said Milo. “Why not prearrange all the seats?”

“Stefan left a few extras for outsiders in order to be public-spirited. Music students, teachers, that kind of thing.”

“Any publicity other than radio?”

“We don’t try for that,” said Loh. “Even the small bit of exposure we get means more seat requests than we can handle.”

“Was that true tonight?”

“I’d assume so.” Loh frowned. “You can’t seriously believe a member of the audience did this.”

“At this point, I’ll entertain any theories, sir.”

“Here’s mine: Someone intruded. The truth is, anyone could’ve gone back there behind the poolhouse and stabbed Vassily. Bristol’s an open street, we don’t like living behind walls and gates.”

“What would Levitch have been doing back there?”

Loh shrugged. “Possibly walking off his tension after the recital.”

“Any idea when he left the reception?”

“Not a clue. People were milling. Stefan suggests that the artists stick around. For their sake- making connections. Generally, the artists comply. Obviously, Vassily slipped away.”

“Shy type?” said Milo. “Holing up in his room.”

“Yes. But he did like to stroll the garden at night. After he finished practicing. By himself.”

“Were there guests milling outside, too?”

“We discourage that, try to keep them indoors. Trampling the plants and all that. But it’s not as if we post armed guards.”

“No armed guards,” said Milo. “Just one security man.”

“For the neighbors- they prefer that Bristol be free of a Gestapo ambience. And there’s never been any need for an army of guards. This is one of the safest neighborhoods in the city. Despite you-know-who.”

“The only fence is at the rear property line.”

“Correct, behind the tennis court,” said Loh.

“How big’s the property?”

“A little over two acres.”

“What was the security guard’s specific assignment?”

“To provide security, whatever that means. I’m sure he wasn’t prepared for any… serious eventuality. This wasn’t exactly a rap concert. The average age of the audience had to be sixty-five. We’re talking perfect behavior.”

“That include the outsiders?”

“When it comes to the concerts, Stefan can be a bit of a martinet. He insists on dead silence. And his tastes run to soothing music. Chopin, Debussy, all that good stuff.”

“Do you share Mr. Szabo’s tastes?”

Loh grinned again. “I’m more into technorock and David Bowie.”

“Any David Bowie concerts scheduled for the odeum?”

Loh chuckled. “Mr. Bowie isn’t exactly within our price range. Nor would Stefan’s sensibilities survive the experience.” He shot a sleek black cuff and consulted a sleek black watch.

Milo said, “Let’s have a look at Levitch’s room.”

As we climbed the stairs, Milo said, “Big house.”

Loh said, “Stefan’s family escaped from Hungary in 1956. He was a teenager, but they managed to cram him into a large steamer trunk. We’re talking days without food or toilet facilities, a few air holes for breathing. I’d say he’s entitled to his space, wouldn’t you?”

The right side of the landing was taken up by two enormous bedrooms- Szabo’s and Loh’s. Open doors to both revealed flashes of brocade and damask, polished wood, soft lighting. To the left, were three guest suites, smaller, less opulent, but still stylishly turned out.

The room where Vassily Levitch had spent the past two nights was taped off. Milo broke the tape, and I followed him inside. Tom Loh stood in the doorway, and said, “What should I do?”

“Thanks for your time, sir,” said Milo. “Feel free to go about your business.”

Loh went back down the stairs.

Milo said, “Stay there while I toss, if you don’t mind. The evidentiary chain and all that.”

“Got to be careful,” I said. “Especially in light of you-know-who.”

The guest suite was papered in red silk, furnished with a canopied queen bed, two Regency nightstands, and an ornate, inlaid Italian chest of drawers. Empty drawers, as was the closet. Vassily Levitch had lived out of his black nylon suitcase. Even his toiletries had remained in the valise.

Milo examined the contents of the pianist’s wallet, went through the pockets of every garment. A kit bag produced aftershave, a safety razor, Advil, Valium, and Pepto-Bismol. A manila envelope in a zippered compartment of the suitcase contained photocopied reviews of other recitals Levitch had given. The critics lauded the young man’s touch and phrasing. He’d won the Steinmetz Competition, the Hurlbank Competition, the Great Barrington Piano Gala.

No driver’s license. A check-cashing ID card put him at twenty-seven years old.