Anthony Carrick Hardboiled Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3)

by Jason Blacker

  "I'll wait right here for you, if you don't mind not being too long," he said.

  "I was thinking of a lap around the pool and a massage first," I said.

  His face drooped like a wilting flower.

  "I'm kidding," I said. "I'll be just a few minutes. Am I supposed to tip you?"

  "No, sir, that would be inappropriate."

  "Very well. I'll see you in a short while."

  I put on my fedora, picked up my bag and walked into the main reception area. I signed in and received the card for my room. I felt like a fish out of water. Like a bum being offered a cigarette holder for his rolled up stub of a cigarette. My room was on the thirteenth floor and I declined any help with my single bag. I needed all the money I could save from this gig for myself.

  The room was opulent. Almost bigger than my apartment in Santa Monica. I didn't know if Sonia Varnier was trying to impress me or ridicule me. The room had an attached suite and it looked right over Central Park. I was looking north over The Pond. I didn't understand how people afforded hotels like this. But then I'd never been around much money.

  I unpacked quickly and closed the door after I left. I made it back down within five minutes. I was pretty sure of that. As much as the room was nice, it was a lonely place. The only thing I could figure it was good for was making me maudlin about the one percent and the rest of us.

  Eagle eyes Terry saw me coming and hopped out of the driver's seat and had my door open by the time I reached the car.

  "Just under five minutes, I reckon," I said to him.

  "Very good, sir," he said. "I'll now take you to the Philharmonic which shouldn't take us long."

  Because I'm a keen student, I knew that the Philharmonic was at Lincoln Center Plaza, less than a mile away. I could have walked it, but the soft leather of the Maybach was more comfortable than the hard leather on the soles of my shoes. I also figured that folks this foolish with the amount of money they were spending on a missing man who would likely be arriving as soon as I was wouldn't mind if I made use of their extravagance.

  So I enjoyed the ride to the Philharmonic in comfort and ease and almost half a million dollar luxury. In a world that had gone down the economic toilet, this was pure lunacy. Such are those with extraneous cash and dimmed empathy.

  Terry dropped me off by the main entrance. The Lincoln Center reminded me of Stalinist era communist building creativity. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't inspiring either. From some angles it looked like the architect had tried for some Greco-Roman inspiration but then got tired and gave up. In other words, I wasn't a fan. And I appreciate the arts, but too much of it has become pretentious.

  Nevertheless, I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. I walked into the main administration area. A woman in a dark blue suit was seated behind the main reception desk and looked up at me with her blue eyes. Her black hair was tied behind her in a pony tale. She was attractive in an odd sort of way.

  "May I help you?" she asked.

  "I'm here to see Frank Moody," I said.

  "Can I tell him who's here?"

  "Anthony Carrick."

  "Oh good. We've been expecting you, Mr. Carrick."

  She had a slight accent that I couldn't put my finger on. It was sexy and it sounded a little French, a little Italian and maybe a little Greek. It also gave me a warm feeling to be expected. The last time I'd been expected somewhere I got my clock cleaned. She stood up and walked around the front of her desk.

  "I'm Christina Tedder," she said. "Assistant to Mr. Moody."

  I shook her hand which was the color of light caramel cream and just as soft. I told her how much of a pleasure it was to meet her, and I wasn't lying. She lowered her gaze from me and withdrew her hand.

  "Where you from?" I asked.

  "Why do you ask?"

  It was a non-threatening curious question.

  "I can't quite pinpoint your accent. If I was to guess, I might say Greek, maybe even Italian?"

  She smiled and shook her head.

  "Close, but no. I'm from Israel."

  I nodded.

  "It's unusual, and sexy," I said, feeling a little bit like a chump. She blushed again.

  "Mr. Moody is right this way, if you'll follow me."

  And follow her I did. She had an hourglass figure that I would have followed to the ends of time. But our journey was quicker than that. Through frosted glass doors and left down a hallway we made our way to a corner office that looked out over an outdoor water feature with a sculpture in it that looked to me like a broken leg.

  Christina knocked on the wooden door and walked in. I was right behind her enjoying the view, and not the one of the outdoor water feature. We were on the third floor. A man in a big leather chair finished his conversation on the phone and looked up at us. He stood up and came around the front of his desk. He was tall and thin and gray. His skin, eyes and hair almost the same color gray. His thin hair was brushed fore to aft but it fell in little wisps at the sides of his temple. The first image that came to mind was of Dr. Schweitzer, but Moody wasn't as handsome or as healthy. He looked the worse for wear and he was clean shaven.

  "Frank Moody," the tall man said, offering me a thin bony hand.

  I took it and shook it gently, afraid I might snap his fingers like dry kindling.

  "Anthony Carrick," I said.

  "You're younger than I imagined," he said.

  "So are you."

  That was a bald faced lie, but the only thing that came to mind.

  "Please sit down, Mr. Carrick."

  "Anthony," I said.

  Frank nodded and smiled at himself.

  "Yes, you said so last night. It might take me a while, Anthony." He looked over at Christina. "That'll be all for now."

  She bowed and walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind her, like a lover might. I watched after her.

  "You must excuse me," said Frank. "I've forgotten my manners. Can I offer you anything to drink?"

  I shook my head.

  "I had a soda in the car from the airport."

  "Ah yes," said Frank. "Mrs. Varnier was adamant that she pick you up personally. Just as well, as we don't have a chauffeur service as you might imagine."

  "I had wondered about that," I said. "I wasn't sure how well funded the performing arts were here in the Big Apple."

  "The best thing we have going for us, Anthony, is our benefactors and the large population. That's what keeps us going. But with that comes more competition as you can imagine."

  I nodded.

  "How was your flight?"

  "It was fine, thanks. Business class allows a certain more discretionary room which is most welcome."

  I wasn't sure if he was being polite or if he was stalling. Perhaps he had heard from Paul and was now feeling a little embarrassed and not sure how to tell me.

  "Have you heard from your concertmaster yet?" I asked, deciding to get down to business.

  Frank looked down at his lap and then slowly shook his head.

  "No, I'm afraid not. I've rung him up several times at home and on his cellphone. No answer from either."

  "I see."

  This was not what I had expected. And the longer it went without hearing from Paul the less likely it would be that he'd just gone for a short personal break.

  "I think now is the time to get the police involved," I said.

  Frank looked up at me, his face a squiggled map of worry.

  "I was hoping you wouldn't say that."

  "People sometimes go missing for a day or two just for personal reasons. However, beyond that, we usually get a little more concerned."

  Frank nodded, and picked up the phone.

  "Can you make a missing person's report with the police, Christina," he said. "Thank you."

  "Christina will get on that right away. You know, this is very unlike Paul. He loved the orchestra. He loved music and he loved being concertmaster."

  "How long has he been in that position?"
/>   "Only three years. He was the youngest concertmaster in the history of this orchestra. But such a rare talent."

  "Do you have a picture of him?" I asked.

  Frank looked around his desk and then looked in a drawer. He pulled out a program for the upcoming concert of Vivaldi's Four Seasons.

  "I have this," he said, turning through the program pages until he got to the photograph of Paul Klee. He handed the program to me. "Christina can print you out a larger one if you need."

  I looked at the thumbnail color image of Paul. He didn't look like a concertmaster. I imagined an older man, perhaps with a double chin, graying, balding hair with wire rimmed glasses. Paul was a handsome man. Probably in his early to mid forties, with jet black hair and a clear complexion. He wore no glasses but had an English mustache and soul patch, the same deep black as his hair. It gave him a roguish look. He had an intensity about him as he looked at the camera. His mouth formed a knowing smile. As if he were looking at an attractive woman.

  I had no idea as to why a young, handsome man like Paul would go missing. Unless you wanted to.

  "Tell me about him," I said.

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Anything you feel is important."

  Frank looked down at his hands. He rubbed one over the other and picked at the corner of a nail. Then he looked up at me.

  "Paul was well liked and charismatic. He had been playing violin since he was three years old. He turned forty three just a few months ago, and we made him concertmaster just after his fortieth. He's been with the New York Philharmonic since he was twenty two when he finished his music degree at Juilliard, and we snapped him up right away."

  "He didn't want to take an advanced degree or go into teaching?" I asked.

  "I don't think he knew what he wanted to do. However, we made him an offer that he found hard to refuse."

  "Tell me about that."

  "Mrs. Varnier and her late husband, may he rest in peace, have been strong patrons of the arts and especially the Philharmonic for over thirty years. Mrs. Varnier promised to provide for Paul in quite an extravagant manner if he took our offer as second violinist straight after graduation."

  "I would have thought an opportunity like that would be snapped up by any number of students."

  Frank looked at me and smiled wistfully, as if I'd just come in on the turnip truck.

  "And you'd be right. We had, how should I put it, any number of eager students practically prostrating themselves for the opportunity to perform. We only had three positions. A second violinist, an oboe and a trumpet."

  "I might not know much about classical music but why would he choose a second violin position?"

  "There's usually a hierarchy, Anthony, in the orchestra. As much as everyone pretends to get along and play together, it is much more competitive than most laymen suppose. One usually starts as a second violinist and moves up from there."

  "I don't understand. Earlier you said he was a rare talent. Are you saying that no one else offered him something better?"

  Frank smiled at me again like a doddering uncle.

  "You're quite right. Chicago as well as the Boston orchestras were both offering first violin positions."

  "And he didn't take it?"

  "No. We had a secret weapon."

  "Which was?"

  "Mrs. Varnier. She promised him the world and luxuries beyond measure. If there was a fault in Paul it was that he had been pampered and spoiled his whole life. An only child who, in the eyes of his parents, could do no wrong. And we didn't help it either. If I must be candid with you, Anthony…"

  "That would help," I said, feeling the rim of my fedora for any rough edges while looking at the old and wrinkled Moody with a sharp eye.

  "Well, we promised him a first violin position within a year."

  "And did you fulfill your promise?"

  "We did."

  Frank leaned forward and interlocked his hands together and lay them upon his empty desk. He looked at me from kind eyes. The kind of eyes a fox bats at you before it goes for your neck.

  "What do you think, Anthony?" he asked.

  I thought he was getting very comfortable with my first name.

  "I think you've exhaled a lot of air mixed with some noise. Most of it not interesting to me."

  He frowned at me. I figured he wasn't used to hearing these sorts of things from people. But then he wasn't used to speaking with private dicks either.

  "What do you mean?" he asked, genuinely insulted.

  "You've told me a lot of things, none of which are any good for a man in my position. You've told me he's a rare talent. That you bribed him to come over to the New York Phil. You've told me he's spoiled and that he's been with you since he got out of diapers. I knew all of that just looking at his smarmy mug."

  "You asked me to tell you what I thought was important."

  "Yes I did, and you've told me nothing at all. A man doesn't go missing, and I don't get called by his handlers for nothing. You're not being completely honest with me, Frank, are you?"

  "I don't know what you could mean?"

  "Let me give you a little help. I look at Paul, and I see a young man with a roving eye. A man who's had everything handed to him on a silver platter. He gets whatever he wants and he's never refused. But he's soft. There's no hard corners to him. What I mean is that he could get into trouble with the wrong sort and not be able to extricate himself. I imagine you and Sonia have spent a few bucks getting him out of a few jams. Am I getting warm?"

  Frank leaned back again and folded his hands in his lap. He smiled at me again. I was getting tired of his smiles. Any minute I was going to knock it off his face.

  "They said you're the best, and I might have doubted them before now, but not anymore."

  "If you brought me here and paid me good money just for a dance, you've wasted my time and yours. I'll gladly take my leave."

  I stood up and started to put on my hat. No wonder artists get such a bad reputation. Frank stood up like someone had stuck a hot golden rod up his ass.

  "Please, Mr. Carrick, this is a difficult situation and we could really use your help."

  He'd found my last name again. It sounded better on him than my first name did. I sat back down but kept my hat on.

  "Then we need to get down to brass tacks, Frank, if you're really after my help."

  Frank nodded his head vigorously. It went on for a long time like he'd got a spring in his neck stuck.

  "Yes, we really need your help. What do you want to know?"

  "I want to know what he was really like. Let's imagine that he's been kidnapped or worse…"

  "What do you mean worse?"

  "We'll leave that up to the imaginations of horror writers. But imagine he's been kidnapped or hurt. Who and why would somebody want to do that to him?"

  Frank pushed his hands to his face and wiped them with his palms. When he looked back at me he looked older and tireder.

  "This is all rather unpleasant to think about, Mr. Carrick."

  I'd let him hang his hat on my last name. Respect might get me closer to the truth.

  "My business specializes in the unpleasant, Frank. If you really do want to help your concertmaster you'll start living up to your name."

  He was so morbid that it didn't even get a smirk out of him. Frank sighed and slouched back into his couch.

  "Well, you're right about one thing, Paul did have a roving eye. He's had affairs with two women in the orchestra that we know of and we had to let one of our assistants go because of him."

  "What happened?"

  "He got her pregnant. We paid for the abortion and we paid her a sum of money to go quietly. Quite a nasty ordeal."

  "You didn't pay her the money, did you?"

  "No."

  Frank shook his head and his chin sagged against his upper chest.

  "Who did?"

  "You know who did."

  He looked at me and I nodded.

  "How muc
h did she pay?"

  "Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

  "Right, and what else?"

  "Well, there were quite a few upset violinists when Paul came on board."

  "Why is that?"

  "Because we gave him a first violin position after just a year. There have been second violinists waiting patiently for over a decade for their chance. Being of artistic inclinations, many of our musicians are somewhat moody."

  I smiled at that. Here I was speaking to a man who until recently had not been frank and still hadn't seemed moody. He looked at me with a frown.

  "Carry on," I said.

  "Anyway, three years ago, when we made Paul the concertmaster, that pretty much divided our house. Half of the musicians were quite upset with our choice of him and the other half were quite pleased."

  "And I don't have to ask which half had more women on the team."

  "No you don't, Mr. Carrick, no you don't."

  "And are most of these musicians still around?"

  "I should think so, yes. It's difficult to become mobile in our business. Musicians will wait years and decades to go from second violin to first violin for instance. Only the exceptionally rare talents are able to jump the ranks rather quickly. There aren't a lot of open positions at the top orchestras in the major centers. And where there are, you'll also find intense competition."

  "Now we're getting somewhere," I said. "These are some of the reasons why people get hurt."

  "I hope not," said Frank, his smile thinning much quicker than his hair.

  "I hope for peace amongst men. Hasn't happened yet."

  Frank looked at me with his smile hanging precariously from one corner of his mouth like a defunct sign on a bankrupt business.

  "You don't believe in the best in people do you, Mr. Carrick?"

  "I believe that after twenty odd years in this line of work, a man who goes missing for more than a day or two is usually in trouble."

  Frank inhaled deeply and let out a slow, sad sigh.

  "I'll need to speak to other members of the orchestra," I said. "I'd like to start with the two women he had affairs with, and I'd also like to speak with the assistant you let go."