“She is a talented violinist so I suspect all of this might be connected to something all three have in common—music. For Middleton and Jedynak, the link runs through rare music manuscripts, which may connect them to Rugova as well.”

“Rare music manuscripts . . . ”

“As you know, Rugova spent part of the war in Bosnia securing looted treasures from World War II. At St. Sophia, he stole forty-something crates the Nazis had hidden in a sealed chamber: paintings, drawings, golden figures, a few small but valuable bronzes, jewelry—and musical scores. The deaths of almost two hundred civilians got the attention at the time, rightfully so, but Rugova moved those crates. In time, he was eager to trade information on who received the looted art—in exchange for leniency.”

“Middleton knew this,” Connolly said.

“Middleton had a Chopin manuscript he said might be a fraud, but maybe it is part of this missing collection and he doesn’t know it. Or maybe he does. I believed him when I interviewed him and I can tell you that he was suddenly very afraid for his family’s welfare. This, I believe, is a valid fear.”

Connolly said, “I hope the cop-killer hasn’t found him.”

“You can be sure that if it’s Stefanovic, he isn’t working alone,” Padlo said. “I can send you photos of the men who served with Rugova. If one of them has killed Middleton, it is to keep the location of the hidden treasure a secret. We’re talking millions, maybe even billions of euros here.”

“Send the pictures to my email address at the Bureau and I’ll send the cop-killer’s to you.”

“Of course, Buttercup.”

She smiled. “You know, Jozef, maybe I can get clearances and have a ticket for you at the airport. I mean, you know these people better than we do, and your assistance could be invaluable.”

“Amazingly, I’ve already told my commissioner that by helping you we can quite possibly help solve Jedynak’s murder and bring the killer back here to justice. Maybe you can arrange to have someone meet me at Dulles?”

“I think I can arrange that, Inspector Padlo.”

The Slav’s name was Vukasin, which meant Wolf, and he was not pleased with how badly things were going. Waiting in a car outside the St. Regis for two of his men, he stiffened at the sight of the elegant woman who had climbed from a cab across the street. She approached his vehicle, opened the door and slid inside.

“Eleana,” he said in their native tongue, “your timing is perfect.”

“How could I pass up an opportunity to work with dear old friends? And it’s Jessica, please.”

“Jessica. Very American. Good.”