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chance of finding Ryan’s killer.
    “Especially in the hours leading up to his death. Mom? Anything, even if it seems silly.”
    “Silly?” The word seemed to jar her memory and send a chill down her spine.

Chapter 14
    Georgetown, Washington, DC
     
    HE STOOD IN his contemporary studio apartment with a look of complete satisfaction on his face. Its dark walnut floors contrasted with the white walls, and floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the space in sunlight. Nevin Perlman knew Eugène Ysaÿe’s Sonata No. 3 in D Minor, Op. 27—“Ballade”—had never been performed with such perfection. Perlman adored the Belgian’s intricate and demanding composition. It was a work created for the solo violinist, and a piece that only the very best could aspire to master. There was only one other person he had heard perform this particular sonata with the combination of precision and emotion that now held him captive. That man was the late, great violin master Valentino D’Angelo, his former pupil and dear friend.
    With her long legs and toned figure, Victoria Eden D’Angelo wouldn’t be out of place sauntering down the catwalk in a high-fashion show in Milan. Her fingers floated up and down the instrument effortlessly as she played awe-inspiring double and triple stops. Her thoughtful green eyes echoed the emotion that sang from her instrument, punctuation marks for the strikingly beautiful features of her thin face, framed by long jet-black hair. She performed commandingly in the center of the room, her body moving in step with the grace of royalty and the confidence of a matador. Her elegance complemented the display of aural perfection.
    She was a child prodigy who was pushed too hard by a well-intending father. After all, he was one of the world’s most renowned violinists, and his only child clearly had the talent to do what was once unimaginable—take his own playing to the next level.
    “Well, what do you think?” she asked.
    Perlman broke out into applause and said, “Exquisite. Absolutely exquisite. Bra-vo.”
    If he hadn’t seen it himself, he wouldn’t have believed it. It was impossible. Her natural ability was far beyond that of her father’s. He had no idea his goddaughter had started playing again after she had graduated from university. He had been immensely proud of her valedictorian speech and, until now, hadn’t thought she could have made him any prouder than he was that day.
    “Your father was right, Victoria,” he said as he looked out the window at the hustle and bustle on M Street. “You have a gift that transcends the instrument.” He met her eyes. “You are the instrument. The violin is merely a vehicle for your passion to be heard.” He smiled at his words and kissed her on the cheek.
    “I know it must be hard for you with my father being gone, but you mustn’t overreact—”
    “Victoria. Never in my life have I heard anything as beautiful,” he demanded. “It’s not because I love you like a daughter.” He shook his head. “No, no, no. What I’m telling you is true. Can’t you see the tears in my eyes when I tell you this?”
    Tears of joy streaked down the wrinkles on his face, and her eyes began to well up.
    “Do you think they would be proud?” she asked softly, thinking of her parents.
    “Do not put those tragedies on your shoulders, my dear,” he said. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Your father was a very difficult man. I loved him like a son, but he…well, he had a certain way about him that could be very abrasive. You had every right to choose to do what made you happy. It hurt him, yes, but everything that happened was because of the choices he made. It was of his own doing.”
    She had rebelled rather than follow in her father’s footsteps, and turned herself into a tomboy. Anything to get away.
    “I always loved playing the violin, but he made it very difficult to enjoy,” she admitted.
    “I know. Pushing you too hard was your father’s biggest regret.