The Symphony Hall in downtown Seattle was packed to its absolute capacity. Over two thousand people sat in the velvet-cushioned seats, their eyes glued to the grand stage.

The fog at Cape Disappointment was so thick it swallowed the headlights of the SUVs as they ground to a halt a quarter-mile from the estate gates. The sound of crashing waves against jagged ocean rocks boomed through the damp night air.

Standing high on the cliffside stood the Kane compound—a dark, imposing stone structure made of weather-beaten granite, crowned by an abandoned nineteenth-century lighthouse tower.

No lights showed through the heavy curtained windows.

Detective Miller stepped out of the SUV, pulling his tactical jacket tight against the cold ocean wind. Four armed officers stepped out behind him, pulling suppressed sidearms and heavy flashlights from their trunks.

"Moretti, stay in the vehicle," Miller commanded Arthur.

"Not a chance," Arthur replied, pulling a heavy flashlight from his door pocket and stepping into the rain. "I brought you here, Miller. And if Julian Vance is inside that building, he’s a musician. He knows my face."

Miller grunted in irritation but knew he didn't have time to argue. "Keep low. Behind my squad."

They moved silently through the wet grass, bypassing the rusted perimeter gate through a break in the wooden fence. The ocean wind howled through the cliffs, drowning out the sound of their boots squelching in the mud.

As they reached the rear entrance of the stone estate, Arthur noticed fresh tire tracks in the mud near the garage doors—heavy SUV tires, still dripping wet.

"They're inside," Miller whispered into his collar microphone. "Breaching rear entry."

An officer used a hydraulic bolt cutter to snap the heavy padlock on the rear cellar door. The iron door groaned open with a soft screech, revealing a dark, descending stone staircase that smelled heavily of salt water, damp earth, and ozone.

Arthur followed the officers down into the subterranean levels of the compound. The flashlight beams swept over ancient stone walls, vaulted archways, and reinforced iron doors.

Suddenly, a muffled sound echoed through the deep corridors.

It wasn't a scream. It wasn't an argument.

It was a piano.

Deep within the bowels of the stone cellar, someone was playing a instrument. The notes were faint, slow, and played on a horribly out-of-tune upright piano.