The Mozart Conspiracy

by Phil Swann

  He was thirteen when his father died. He didn't cry. He rejoiced. He hated him for his poverty and good-for-nothing decency. Had his old man been more like his brother, life most certainly would have been easier for him, and the mother he never knew would still be alive. She had died when he was a toddler. They told him it was cancer, but he knew the truth. She died from being poor.

  So off he went to live with Uncle Nick, and he knew it was time to make his move. No one in the neighborhood had much fear of the police, least of all a respected priest that shepherded many of New York's finest. But everyone feared Nicholas Depriestiano, the crime lord of Flatbush.

  It was so easy, Depriest recalled. A few simple insinuations, some strategically placed tantrums, a well-rehearsed seduction, and poof! Father Francis was his obedient servant, ready and more than willing to do his bidding. And his bidding was to be out of Flatbush, across the East River to Manhattan and the High School of the Performing Arts, the place where the city's best of the best attended. Though tuition was free, acceptance each year went only to a select few based on audition and academic excellence. The audition wasn't a problem—academic excellence was. A problem easily solved, however, by a motivated priest who was the headmaster of Tony's school. Tony's permanent record was adjusted accordingly, and after a flawless audition, he was accepted into the school without debate.

  Depriest smiled as he remembered. From there it was an easy jump to Juilliard. As the legal ward of Nicholas Depriestiano, doors seemed to fly open. The old man was an idiot, no doubt about that, little more than a street thug with a nice suit, but he had been useful in those early days, especially to someone as sharp as himself. He adopted the formal variation of Tony his second year at Juilliard, as well as dropping the “iano” at the end of his surname. Tony Roberto Depriestiano was dead for all time. Anthony Depriest was on the way up.

  Which brought him to the what is: Resident Conductor of the New York Philharmonic, one of the foremost symphony orchestras in the world, and frequent guest, and host, of royalty and politicos. Honored philanthropist, noted musical scholar, and voted one of the ten sexiest men in America, it was indeed a long way from Flatbush and Avenue J.

  The what shall soon be: children would be reading the name Anthony Depriest in history books. Courses on his life would be offered in universities. And, of course, he would be wealthier than he ever dared to imagine. "It will happen. I will make history. It is my destiny," Depriest said out loud.

  "Sir?" came the voice over the intercom. "Brooklyn on line one."

  "Thank you, Leon." Depriest waited before picking up, a technique he adopted after reading a biography of General Douglas MacArthur. Whenever an irate President Truman would call the renegade general, MacArthur would always wait ten seconds before picking up the phone, even though he knew it was the president of the United States on the line. More importantly to the general, however, was the fact he knew the president of the United States knew he knew it was the president of the United States on the line.

  Depriest cleared his throat and smiled—another technique of the general's. "Yes? Uncle, how are you? Good to hear your—”

  The voice on the other end interrupted. Depriest grit his teeth. That voice, God, that wretched atonal voice.

  "Sir, I would love to see you, but I am currently on my way to the Center. I have a concert tonight. We're performing Beethoven's Ninth—"

  "Yes, Uncle, certainly I'm on top of the situation in Los Angeles," Depriest said, continuing to force a smile as he squeezed the handset of the phone.

  Suddenly the blood raced from Depriest's head. What was he hearing?

  "No…sir…I didn't know. How did you find—”

  Depriest's face fell, the smile gone. A rush of heat overtook his body. This wasn't happening. Why didn't he know about this? Why wasn’t he informed?

  He had to regain his composure. He couldn't let the old man think he wasn't in control. Think Anthony, calm down and think. You're smarter than these people. You can handle this. Take back control. Take a breath and take control.

  "Sir, this is surprising news, but only in the sense that you heard about it first. I will chastise my L.A. contacts for not notifying me promptly. It is surprising but not unexpected. It changes the strategy somewhat, but perhaps for the better. Only minutes ago, I was reevaluating the situation, and—”

  Once again, Depriest was cut off. "Tomorrow afternoon? Well, certainly, sir, but I fear I might be late. You see, I'm having lunch with the mayor and his wife at…yes, I understand the importance of me being there. Absolutely, sir, I understand. I'll be there. Thank you, sir. Not to worry, everything's under—” The phone went dead.

  Depriest slammed the phone in its cradle and tapped his fingers on the console. Air, I need air! He rolled down the tinted window and breathed in the New York night. It was loud and electric, but the circus outside the confines of the limousine seemed to calm him. Action, Anthony, action.

  Depriest pressed a button on the console. "Leon, call the mayor's office. Tell him that the maestro must regrettably cancel lunch tomorrow. Tell him a family emergency has arisen. Afterward, call my wife and tell her I have some bad—” He caught himself, reevaluating his strategy. "No, strike that. Call and tell her we're eating with Uncle Nick and the family tomorrow." Depriest leaned his head back. "Also tell her I'll be late tonight—publicity pictures or something—you know how to handle it." Depriest rolled his head from one side to another. "I'm very tense, Leon, please call Mrs. Rochelle and inform her I'll have a seventy-two Rothschild chilling in my dressing room after the concert."

  "Understood, sir. Anything else?"

  "Yes," Depriest spit. "See if you can locate my stupid cousin. Tell him to get ahold of Sal and Leo. Then tell him I expect to speak to him alone tomorrow before I see his father. No excuses. Tell him I said his worthless life might depend on it."

  Chapter Eight

  A weeping-willow stood in the middle of a vast open meadow. David sat under the tree alone. It was morning, the ground was damp with dew—there was complete silence.

  David saw himself turn his head and look to the right. There, holding hands and smiling warmly, were Fred and Joanna Webber, his mother and father. "Mommy, Daddy."

  Behind them was Aunt Elva, her big bottom swinging behind her like a lead bucket. A few steps behind her was a crowd of people David recognized as the foster families he had been sent to live with after his parents were killed and Aunt Elva was no longer able to care for him. There were the Witherspoons, the family in South Bend where he eventually ended up. "Hey, Mr. Witherspoon."

  Then, to his left, a shape walked out of the sun. "Oh my, Kathryn. You're so beautiful.” A breeze that seemed to blow only on her caused her yellow cotton dress to ripple as she walked. "Oh, Kathryn."

  Behind her was Henry. He laughed while bobbing his head and flailing his arms in utter joy. David began to laugh. He doubled over, laughing harder and harder until the muscles in his stomach began to cramp. He looked around. Everyone was laughing.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was J.P. "Jeep, what are you…why are you crying?" She turned and walked away. Then David saw the tree from a distance. Everyone was leaving, except David. "Don't leave! Where is everyone going?" No one said anything. David was stricken with a rush of terror. "Come back! Please, don't leave me!” He tried to follow, but his legs were numb. He began sobbing.

  Then there was silence—not even the sound of his own breathing. David was alone under the tree. The tree was barren now. The meadow had become a harsh, cracked desert. The sky was dark gray. Silence.

  David looked around. He was alone, totally alone. "No!"

  David, dripping in sweat, lunged forward in the cot.

  "Shut the fuck up, you idiot,” yelled a voice from down the concrete corridor.

  "You wanna give me a heart attack?" a voice yelled from the cot above.

  "Hey, brother, what gives with that dude?" came another faceless voice from another direction.


  "I don't know, man, he's like freakin' out, man. Hey, guard, get me the fuck oughta here. Man, this dude's crazy. Put me in another cell. I don't be needin' to be locked up with no mental, man. Get me the fuck oughta here."

  »»•««

  David was practically comatose when he appeared before the judge at his bail hearing. Legal assistance from the public defender's office was offered to David and rejected. He was held without bail. It was a little after four p.m. when he was led from his cell to a twelve by twelve interrogation room located on the third floor of the Van Nuys division. For over two hours, the tag team of Gilbert and Sanchez questioned their suspect. The walls were solid white cinder block, the light was garish florescent, and the room was stiflingly hot.

  Gilbert: "So once again, Mr. Webber, you claim Ms. Peterson dropped you off at your apartment at a little past midnight."

  David responded with silence.

  Sanchez: "You drank until you passed out. You were awoken by a phone call from Shoewalter around four. Correct?"

  Once again, silence.

  Like tennis players exchanging volleys, Gilbert and Sanchez recounted the previous night's events, interjecting their own speculations as to what they believed had occurred.

  Gilbert: "So, you talked to him, got into an argument, went over the hill to his hotel, and killed him. Isn't that correct, Mr. Webber?"

  Silence.

  Again Gilbert: "Where's the gun, Mr. Webber?"

  Silence.

  By six twenty-two p.m., David, Gilbert, and Sanchez looked like boxers after fifteen rounds. Sanchez' methodical cool disappeared. He came within inches of David's face, the two men's noses almost touching. "So, man, how'd it feel to blow that old man's brains across the room, huh? Come on, tell me. I've always wanted to know what that feels like. Bet it was awesome, man. Made you feel real big, yeah? Yeah, I know your type, you little piece of crap. Bet you'd like to blow my brains out right now too, wouldn't you? You want me to get you a gun? Hey, yeah, little man, why don't I get you a gun, and you show me just how you'd do it? You want me to do that, little man? Hey, let me ask you somethin', little man. That Peterson chick, you offed her too, didn't you? Yeah, I know you did. But tell me something, little man, you got some before you splattered her brains? You hit that fine stuff before you made guacamole out of her skull?”

  And with that, for the first time since his arrest, David spoke. "You son of a bitch!" David lunged for Sanchez' throat, but Sanchez was not taken by surprise. He routinely stepped back. The small wooden table in front of David screeched as it slipped across the white tile floor. David lost his balance and fell to his knees, hitting his chin on the edge of the table and biting his tongue.

  The door opened, and Ryan casually walked in. "Help him up."

  Blood was trickling from the corner of David's mouth. Ryan took a handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to David as Gilbert assisted him back into the chair. "Here, put this on your mouth. Sanchez, call the nurse, tell her we're bringing someone down who had an accident. Afterward, help Mr. Webber retrieve his personals from the desk. He's free to go."

  "What?" Gilbert yelled.

  "You heard me. Mr. Webber's free to go. We're cutting him loose."

  Sanchez fell into the chair across from David. "Lieutenant, you can't be serious?"

  "Yep, I am, now call the nurse, pronto."

  Sanchez slammed his fist on the table, got up, and stormed from the room. Gilbert stood still and stared coldly at David.

  "You got a problem, Gilbert?" Ryan sniped.

  "No, sir," Gilbert replied, reluctantly walking out the door.

  "Okay, Webber, they'll take care of you downstairs, then you're free to go."

  David held the handkerchief inside his bleeding mouth. He painfully got up from the chair and moved toward the door with a slight limp. He stopped in the doorway, put his hand on the frame, and looked back at Ryan.

  "Why?"

  "You tell me?"

  David paused before he answered. "You must've realized I didn't do it—that I couldn't do anything like what you guys thought I did."

  Ryan smiled. "Oh, come on, Mr. Webber, you can do better than that."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Uh-huh," Ryan muttered.

  David looked at Ryan confused.

  "All right, listen, Webber. I don't know who you know, but whoever it is, you owe them big."

  David ran his hand through his hair and looked helplessly at the lieutenant. He noticed that Ryan seemed much older than the man who was in his apartment that morning.

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Yeah, right. D.A. calls less than ten hours after arresting a man for murder and tells me to cut him loose because we don't have enough evidence. Funny, isn't it? The judge that arraigned you this morning thought we did. Who the hell do you know?"

  David closed his eyes and turned to leave.

  "Let me tell you something, Mr. Webber. I don't care what the D.A. thinks. I think I do have enough evidence, at least enough to hold you ’til I get the rest of what I need. You see, I think you did it. I think you killed Shoewalter and maybe the Peterson woman too. Why, I'm not sure. But I'm gonna find out. I just wanted to let you know that. Don't think you're off the hook, ’cause I'm gonna getcha." Ryan made a clicking sound and winked at David.

  David threw Ryan's handkerchief toward the table. It missed and fell on the floor. "I don't need the nurse. I just want to go home."

  As David left the interrogation room, Sanchez and Gilbert were leaning against the wall in the hallway. Both eyed David accusingly as he walked past, but neither spoke. Lieutenant Ryan appeared in the doorway behind David, and both officers looked at their superior, questioning if they should follow. Ryan shook his head in the negative.

  Once again inside a twenty-four hour period, David found himself standing in front of a police officer signing forms and identifying his belongings.

  "Mr. Webber?"

  "Yeah?" David answered, turning around.

  "Hi, my name's Bowen."

  "Yeah?"

  "I think we have a mutual friend. Ms. Peterson."

  David's body chilled. "What do you know about J.P.? Where is she?"

  "Not here. Come on, I'll drive you home."

  "Who are you? Where the hell is J.P.?"

  "Please lower your voice, Mr. Webber," the young man said with a frightened look in his eyes. "Yelling is not going to do either of us any good. Who I am is not important right now. And I know Ms. Peterson—Jean Ann, because—” He looked from side to side. "I spent the night with her last night."

  Chapter Nine

  "My name is Joshua Bowen."

  The evening sun reflected off the sidewalk and blinded David as he and Bowen exited the tinted glass doors of the Van Nuys Division. It was oppressively hot, and the infamous L.A. smog was lying low in the Valley.

  "Jean Ann and I met last night. We really dug each other."

  At first glance, the faded Levi's, T-shirt, and manner of speech gave the illusion that Bowen was nothing more than some California surfer dude. The thick blond hair and sunburned nose only added to the perception. But as David studied the young man, there were contradictions. His hands were callused and scarred. His nose was uneven, obviously from many fractures, and his eyes were wise—far too wise, David thought.

  "I’ve just never met anyone like her before and…”

  Bowen talked nervously and continuously, and David had to rush to keep up as they crossed Van Nuys Boulevard. Try as he did to listen to Bowen, David kept getting interrupted by his own private conversation. I've seen him before. Where? David's mind suddenly focused. The garage area of the police station last night—a young man laughing as he got out of J.P.'s car—Josh.

  "…we just connected, you know? Like we'd known each other for—”

  "You're a cop."

  Joshua Bowen stopped speaking and looked straight ahead. The two entered a parking lot adjacent to an outdoor
burrito stand. Bowen raised his arm, pointed at an endless row of cars, and pressed a button on his key chain. Two high pitched chirps belched from a charcoal gray Ford Focus.

  "Answer me, damn it. You're a cop, aren’t you?"

  Bowen opened his door, got in, and turned the ignition. David opened the passenger side door but remained outside the car, staring at Bowen. Bowen looked straight ahead as he spoke. "Yes. Please get in the car."

  David didn't move.

  Bowen lowered his forehead onto the steering wheel and closed his eyes. "Look, Mr. Webber, I am a cop, all of three months out of the academy. Man, I'm putting my career on the line here. I shouldn't even be seen talking to you. If you'll just get in the car, I can explain everything—or at least what I know."

  David stood motionless for a moment longer. His eyes never left Bowen as he got into the vehicle. Both men were silent until Bowen turned onto the entrance ramp of the 101 freeway.

  "Where's J.P.?" David demanded.

  "I don't know."

  David's glare never wavered from the driver.

  "Really, I don't know," he repeated. Bowen's left knee bounced nonstop. He turned the radio on and then off again, adjusted the air conditioner several times, and sprayed the windshield with washer fluid twice.

  "I don't think that window's gonna get any cleaner," David said.

  "Sorry." Bowen let go a long exhale.

  "You said you spent the night with her."

  "Yeah, I did," Bowen replied, looking like a boy confessing to his priest.

  "Where?"

  "Her place.”

  "You're lying. J.P. had an early appointment today. She was going home and going to bed."