Excerpt
THE PIGEON AND THE SILENCE THEY FOUND HIM alone in Room 3327 of the New Yorker Hotel. A “Do Not Disturb” sign still hung on the handle. The maid had hesitated, as she always did. She knew he didn’t like being interrupted. But it had been two days, and the silence was too loud now. Inside, Nikola Tesla lay still in his bed, the windows cracked open to let in the winter air. He hadn’t died with machines buzzing or papers sprawled or that eerie flash in his eye. He had died the way he lived: unnoticed, unyielding, and utterly in orbit around something no one else could see. There was no chaos. Just a body, long and lean, curled slightly, hands folded as if he’d been waiting. On the windowsill,...