On the small cherry-wood side table beside his elbow sat an antique porcelain teacup and saucer—the wedding china that Clara’s grandmother had brought from Bavaria in nineteen-forty-six.
In his lap rested an un-holstered, blued-steel Walther PPK/S .380 pistol, held loose along his thigh, its safety catch clicked off into the red fire position.
Sitting on the piano bench three feet to his right was nine-year-old Maya.
She was holding her sketchbook on her knees, drawing with colored pencils, her face completely calm, her eyes flicking occasionally toward the Admiral’s wrist watch.
Beside her, seven-year-old Chloe finished her scale, lifted her hands from the ivory keys, turned around on the swivel stool, and beamed at me:
“Daddy!” Chloe cheered, bouncing on her heels:
“The Admiral says that if I practice my scales every day, I can play with the Boston Symphony Orchestra when I’m twelve!”
Arthur Sterling did not look at Chloe.
