out his violin, and playing helped his mind find its way through a thicket of possibilities. He pulled the instrument out, musing as Tony dialed a number and slid into practiced disarming patter. One of those names, listed innocuously under the heading of Dutchess County antiques dealers or Becket, Massachusetts, china sellers, might be a former war criminal, Ian thought. A camp guard fleeing a legacy of violence in Belsen, a paper pusher who had documented the roundup of Berlin’s socialists . . . or die Jägerin. It was tedious and it might not turn up anything, but the chase had stalled while they waited for Kolb to lead them to something new, and the rule when a chase stalled was to sift through the ordinary and find something that didn’t fit, then follow that.
Tony went from one call to the next as Ian began to play, trying to remember the song Nina had been singing on the rooftop two nights ago. He’d sat up there with her listening, leaned back on his elbows, wondering why she refused to think of staying with the center when she clearly liked the teamwork, knowing better than to ask. She couldn’t storm off a four-story building like she’d stormed out of the diner, but she might just try.
Abandoning that question for now, he switched to Saint-Saëns. The music and Tony’s telephone patter must have drowned out the sound of the door opening. When Ian drew out the final note and turned around, he saw a little girl in the doorway, bird boned and huge eyed.
Even as he lowered the bow in puzzlement and Tony turned around midcall, the blond child took a step into the room, gaze fixed on the violin as though hunting for where the music had gone. “Ruth!” A woman’s voice called from outside, floating up the stairs, but the girl ignored it, looking at Ian. He looked back. The name he was hearing was Ruth, but the name imprinted in his mind was Seb.
“What was that?” the little girl said. Seven or eight years old, blond hair falling over a crisp blouse—Ian’s dark-eyed dark-haired younger brother had looked nothing like her, so why the painful stab of familiarity?
Then Ian remembered Sebastian standing before their father one Christmas, looking stricken as he heard he was being sent away to school a year early, aren’t you a lucky chap! That was the similarity: both his brother and this little girl were two bandbox-neat children with well-shined shoes, yet the forlorn puzzlement in their eyes was like that of the war orphans Ian later saw in Naples, in London—children gripped in the throes of shock, huddled on hospital cots or in bombed-out buildings, eyes searching for their homes. Sebastian had looked up at their father, blurting out, Can’t I go live with Ian instead? Seb got a clip on the ear for that, and a lecture about not letting down the side like a pansy.
I wish you could live with me, Seb, Ian had said. But he’s our father. Until you’re of age, it’s his roof.
But it’s not home, Seb had muttered.
The little girl in front of Ian now was staring at the violin as though she thought it was home. “What was the music?” she breathed.
“Saint-Saëns,” Ian heard himself reply. “The Swan movement, from Carnival of the Animals. G major, six-four time. Who might you be?”
Someone who has already been failed in her rather short life, Ian couldn’t help thinking, even though he knew nothing about this girl. He thought later that he was already predisposed in that moment, whatever Ruth McBride asked, to say yes.
Chapter 36
Jordan
July 1950
Boston
Ruth beat Jordan to the door of Tony Rodomovsky’s apartment, racing up the stairs as soon as she heard the faint strains of music. By the time Jordan made it to the top, Tony was standing in the doorway looking down at the little girl bemusedly. Behind him was a man Jordan didn’t know, standing with a violin tucked under his chin. Jordan gave an apologetic smile for interrupting, turning to Tony. “I’m sorry to intrude—”
“Not at all. The lock on that door’s so flimsy, it opens with a jiggle.” He smiled, still puzzled.
“I was so busy bringing the shop manager up to date on my routine, I didn’t see you’d left without your paycheck,” Jordan said. “You’re lucky I had your address on file, and didn’t mind a detour on the way home.” Handing the check over, she turned to call Ruth, mind