Sarah Armstrong - 02 - Blood Lines by Kathryn Casey Page A

green flecked the pale winter grass. I followed Herald through the Shepherd School of Music’s vast foyer, past an overflowing flower arrangement on a pedestal, and down an all-white hallway lined by lockers, toward a windowless, first-floor practice area students call “the dungeon.” There, in a square rehearsal room with sound buffers on the walls, we found a young man seated all alone at a black lacquer piano.
    Solidly built, Peterson didn’t fit my image of a classical pianist. Looking older than his twenty-one years, he had a coarse, not a delicate look. His hands and fingers, although long, were strong and solid. Stubble covered his chin, and he had a scar on his right cheek, about two inches long, vertical, just above his upper lip. His disheveled almond brown hair gave him an untamed look. Head bent over the piano keys, his eyes remained closed, as if he were intent on finding inspiration. We stood next to the piano, two feet from him, but Peterson didn’t react.
    “Mr. Peterson,” I said. “Forgive us for interrupting, but I’d like to introduce myself. I’m Lieutenant Sarah Armstrong, with the Texas Rangers.”
    Justin Peterson took little or no notice, failing to respond to my words. Instead, he lightly touched the piano and hit a series of three keys, holding the last note until it gently faded. As the sound dissipated around us, Peterson’s eyes blinked open and he reached for an eraser he used to wipe away the last line of handwritten music on the paper before him. He then penciled in three new notes, perhaps those he’d just played. Apparently finished, Peterson looked straight at Sergeant Herald and me, smiling broadly.
    “Lieutenant Armstrong,” he said. “This is an honor. And Sergeant Herald, how good of you to drop in again. As you can see, I’m hard at work. It’s wonderful to be able to concentrate on my work.”
    “Have we met before, Mr. Peterson?” I asked, shaking his strong hand.
    “No, I didn’t mean to suggest that,” he said, rising. “I recognize you from last year’s headlines. I followed the Lucas investigation in the newspapers.”
    “I thought you composed your music on a computer,” I said, motioning at the piano.
    “At times,” he said. “But for the most part I prefer the feel of the keys.”
    As he talked, I sized up the young man. Herald’s file explained that Peterson grew up in Chicago, in a small house in the suburbs, the only child of a factory worker and a nurse. He began playing the piano at six, and quickly displayed a remarkable ability. By thirteen, the word “genius” was bandied about, and he gained the attention of a renowned teacher, who took him on as his protégé and transported him to national and later international competitions, where Peterson amassed a collection of first-place trophies. As Herald had said, college music programs across the country put on dog-and-pony shows to attract Peterson. To win, Rice offered him a full scholarship.
    “I see,” I said. “Do you know why I’m here today, to see you?”
    “I’d like to think it’s to hear my music, but since Sergeant Herald is with you, my guess is that this has something to do with that ridiculous fascination I once had with Cassidy Collins,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I’d hoped that I’d eased everyone’s concerns in that regard last time we talked, Sergeant Herald.”
    “You convinced me, Mr. Peterson,” Herald said, obviously uncomfortable at being questioned. “But the ranger wants to ask a few questions. I hope you won’t mind?”
    “No problem,” Peterson said. Rather than bothered with our inquiry, he appeared pleased, which I found rather confusing. Folks aren’t usually all that delighted when I knock on their doors in an official capacity. “Ask whatever you’d like, Lieutenant. If I can help, I’m happy to.”
    “Where were you last night, Mr. Peterson, around ten o’clock?”
    “That’s easy,” he said. “I worked here, had an early