2A body sprawled face-down across the keyboard of my landlord’s Steinway grand. The man’s denim-covered backside balanced on the edge of the ebony stool, his spine curved forward. Blood welled from the back of his skull.
I turned to Blixenstjerne and tried to speak. I sucked in air, tried again. “Who is he?”
“We have the same question,” Blixenstjerne said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “He wasn’t here . . .” I inhaled. “Nobody was here when I left.”
“Tell me if anything else has been altered,” Blixenstjerne said.
I turned again. My gaze skittered along the wall and across the glassed-in end of the living room, landing on the leather and chrome recliner I’d used for two weeks. The back hunched forward over the seat. The base of the telephone extended precariously past the edge of the teak en
