Annabel indicated she wasn’t aware of the story, and Josephson recounted it for her.
“Remarkable,” she said when he’d finished.
“It certainly was remarkable,” Josephson said. “I couldn’t contain my glee when Aaron and I left that yard sale and returned to my shop with the scores in hand. Aaron was—well, Aaron was more stoic than I. He was anxious to get back to Washington and start the authentication process in his laboratory at the university. That’s the last I saw of the scores, or of Aaron. Dreadful what happened to him. Such a cruel way to die. They’ve never found the murderer, have they?”
“No, but they might be getting close.”
Mac’s comment caused Josephson to straighten in his chair. A puzzled expression crossed his face. “Do you know who killed Aaron?” he asked.
“No,” Mac said, “but there might be new evidence that will help the police solve the case. But wait, we’ve come up to the point where Dr. Musinski returned to Washington with the scores and was killed. You told me on the phone that you’ve found the scores. We’re listening.”
Josephson drew a breath and sipped his coffee, which had gotten cold. Annabel ordered a fresh pot and Josephson continued.
“In the months after Aaron’s murder and the disappearance of the scores, I was in a state of shock. My friends were concerned for my health and well-being. I was numb. Not only had my friend and associate been cruelly killed, rare manuscripts worth a million dollars, perhaps more, had vanished. It took me years to gather my senses and decide to pursue those Mozart-Haydn masterpieces.”
“If they were,” Mac said.
“If they were what?” Josephson asked.
“Masterpieces. Dr. Musinski hadn’t had a chance to examine them to ascertain their provenance.”
“Oh, no,” Josephson said, slowly shaking his head. “I never doubted for a moment their validity, nor did Aaron.” He sounded angry at Mac’s comment. “Verifying their origins was necessary, of course. Potential buyers would expect no less than authentication by someone of Aaron’s stature. No, they were what we believed they were. Do you doubt that?”
“Not at all,” Mac said, now taken slightly aback at Josephson’s apparent anger at being challenged.
“All right,” Annabel said. “Let’s assume the scores are authentic. You say you woke up, in a matter of speaking, and started to pursue them. What did you do?”
Josephson sat back, his hands laced on his small potbelly, and gathered his thoughts. He came forward again. “I began by making inquiries of friends around the world. Those of us who deal in rare manuscripts form a tight-knit fraternity, as you can imagine. Of course, no one knew at that juncture that we’d unearthed the string quartets. Everything had happened so fast. Many of my friends were flabbergasted when I told them what Aaron and I had found. Some were skeptical, especially those who also have an interest in missing musical material. They doubted whether Mozart and Haydn had ever collaborated on string quartets. Others accepted that those two towering geniuses had, indeed, written together, but were cynical about my tale of having uncovered the material in a yard sale. I suppose I can’t blame them. It was an unlikely scenario. But a true one!” He slapped his hand on the table.
Annabel said, “You saw those manuscripts, Marc, and they looked to your trained eye as though they came from the period in which Mozart and Haydn were known to have been together.”
“Yes, they did. I had only a cursory look at them on that table in the yard, but when we returned to my shop, I had the opportunity to sit down with a magnifying glass and study them closely. Of course, I’m not a musician or musical scholar, so their musical structure escaped me. But from the standpoint of the paper on which they were written, the ink used, and other factors, they were definitely of that era.”
Mac finished his second cup of coffee and suggested they go back to their apartment to continue the discussion. A half hour later they sat in the Smiths’ living room. Rufus, their blue Great Dane, took a liking to Josephson. “Lovely animal,” he said, not sounding as though he meant it.
Mac poured them snifters of cognac. “So,” he said, “where did you leave off?”
“The manuscripts and their authenticity,” said Josephson.
“I suggest we accept that they are what Marc and Musinski believed they were,” Annabel offered. “Let’s get to the reason we’re here. You told Mac the scores are no longer missing. Where are they? How did you find them? Why are you sharing this with us?”
Mac laughed. “Annabel has a talent for getting to the point.”
“Yes, I see that,” Josephson agreed, but not sounding particularly pleased. “As I said, I contacted friends around the world once I’d come out of my doldrums. Surely, I thought, someone would become aware of the manuscripts being sold on the black market, perhaps even have them offered to them as potential buyers. No such luck. That’s when I hired Mr. Poindexter.”
“Who’s he?” Mac asked.
“A private investigator, and a very good one, I might add.”
“In London?”
“The firm for which he works is London-based, but they have offices in other cities around the world. I contacted that firm and was assigned Mr. Poindexter as my investigator.”
“I’m sure he didn’t come cheap,” Mac commented.
“No, he certainly didn’t. I invested my life’s savings in his services, but I reasoned that it was worth it when compared to the value of the manuscripts.”
“Go on,” Annabel urged.
Josephson picked up the manila envelope from where he’d perched it on the floor next to his chair, opened it, and withdrew a sheaf of papers. He looked through them until finding the one he sought. “Ah, here. We can start here,” he said. “Mr. Poindexter used his firm’s vast network of investigators to identify certain individuals who in the past had shown keen interest in such material. One in particular stood out from his report, a wealthy gentleman in Paris, Georges Saibrón, who was known to have purchased valuable Mozart scores, some legitimately, some not so legitimately. Using a fellow investigator in Paris, Mr. Poindexter closely monitored Mr. Saibrón’s activities over a four-month period.” He dropped that sheet of paper to the floor and replaced it with another. “Something interesting developed toward the end of the investigation into Saibrón. He was visited by someone, an American, who claimed he had the scores and was willing to sell them.”
“How did this investigator, Poindexter, learn about this?” Mac asked.
“It’s my understanding that he’d enlisted the services of an individual who worked for Mr. Saibrón. Saibrón is a successful exporter of French wines and has quite a large staff. I gather it wasn’t difficult to find someone on that staff willing to exchange information from inside the company for a fee. I learned while working with Mr. Poindexter to not question his methods.”
Not necessarily a prudent decision, Mac thought.
“Go on,” Annabel urged. She’d slid to the edge of her chair.
“According to Mr. Poindexter, this American and Saibrón struck a deal, and the scores were ultimately delivered to Paris by the American.”
“I see,” said Mac.
Rufus yawned loudly, startling Josephson. “Everything is big about Rufus,” Mac said, “even his yawns. So the scores are now with this Georges Saibrón.”
“No,” Josephson said.
“No?” Annabel repeated. “Then where are they?”
“In Vienna. Mr. Saibrón quickly sold them to a collector there. I have his name.”
“That’s not important for the moment,” Mac said. “This American. Who was he?”
Josephson sighed, sat back, and rubbed his eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “Long flights tire me.”
“Me, too,” said Mac.
“The American?” Annabel said.
“At first, I couldn’t believe it,” Josephson said. “To think a man in his position would stoop to such a thing.”
Mac and Annabel looked at each other. T
heir thoughts were identical at that moment, unpleasant thoughts confirmed by Josephson.
“It was the detective who’d investigated Aaron’s murder, Mr. Raymond Pawkins.”
THIRTY
Mac walked Josephson back to the hotel.
“I must admit, Marc, what you’ve outlined for us this evening is—well, let’s just say it’s as troubling as it is shocking.” They stood in the lobby exchanging final words.
“You can imagine my reaction when the final pieces were put together for me by Mr. Poindexter,” Josephson said. “At first, I didn’t believe it. But once I did, I was angry. To think that someone in law enforcement would kill to obtain the scores was unfathomable.”
“Let me caution you again, Marc, we don’t know if Detective Pawkins killed Dr. Musinski. You’ve traced the route the scores took, that’s all.”
“Can it be any other way?” Josephson said. “Whoever took those scores must have murdered Aaron.”
Mac didn’t prolong the debate, although what Josephson had deduced made sense—too much sense.
“You will think about what I’ve asked of you?” Josephson said.
“Yes, of course, but no promises. Frankly, I’m not sure what you’ve asked is the right approach.”
“I leave the approach to you, Mac. I knew I made the right decision in calling you. I feel so much better being in your capable hands.”
Mac said nothing.
“Thank you for a splendid dinner. Your wife is as lovely as I remember. I look forward to hearing from you in the morning.”
Mac hurried back to the apartment, where Annabel had been busy in his absence making notes of everything she could remember from the evening. They’d asked Josephson if they could make copies of some of the reports on their home photocopy machine, but he declined to do so despite their assurances that the copies would not leave their possession.
“I need a drink,” Mac said, heading for the kitchen. “You?”
“I already have one,” Annabel called after him.
“So,” he said after he’d joined her on the couch, “what now?”
She shook her head and sipped. “I don’t want to believe him. I’ve been sitting here conjuring all the reasons not to believe him.”
“Lay them out for me.”
“All the evidence he has comes from this Poindexter character. Is he to be believed?”
“The agency he works for is respected, Annie. I don’t see what Poindexter or his agency would have gained by giving Marc false information.”
“Maybe not deliberately false, Mac, but possibly erroneous. They wouldn’t be the first private investigatory agency to phony up results to satisfy a good-paying client.”
“No, but let’s view them in a positive light and take a look at what you’ve written.”
Based upon what Josephson had allowed them to see, there wasn’t any doubt that the private investigator, and those working for him, had done a thorough job of building a case against Pawkins. According to the reports, Pawkins had visited Georges Saibrón two months after the murder of Aaron Musinski. A series of receipts were attached to the report, Air France records of the trips Pawkins had taken, and hotel bills. There had been three trips within six weeks of one another. Poindexter’s source inside the Saibrón organization told him that the Mozart-Haydn string quartets had been delivered during that third trip.
The next report traced Pawkins’ movements following his final trip to Paris. He’d flown to the Grand Cayman Island, where he’d opened an account at one of that island’s numerous private banks, their existence marked only by small, nondescript placards on their doors. Two days later, according to Poindexter, Georges Saibrón wired Euros equivalent to a half-million U.S. dollars to that account.
“So much for the famed secrecy of Cayman Island banks,” Annabel said.
“Happens all the time,” Mac said. “You can always find someone willing to give out a little information about accounts in return for a payoff. I did it myself once or twice when I was practicing criminal law. The important thing is that if this information is true—and I don’t see any reason to doubt it at this juncture—Ray Pawkins is not the man I thought he was. He might be not only a thief, he could be a murderer.”
“A cop investigating a murder he committed.”
“Convenient. But as I told Marc, there’s nothing in these reports pointing directly to Ray as Musinski’s killer.”
“One and one add up to two, Mac.”
“Not always. Look, what we have to hash out is what Marc wants me to do.”
“You aren’t considering it, are you?”
“There was a moment when I was open to it. Not anymore.”
“Good.”
“I’m listening. I always do—listen to you, Annie. Go on.”
“You should go to the police with this, Mac.”
“And tell them what, that I’ve met with a gentleman from London who claims he knows that Ray Pawkins took the musical scores from the apartment of a murder victim?”
“A victim whose murder he investigated.”
“Marc Josephson has his own agenda in this, Annie. He’s more interested in having Pawkins return the money he lost than the possibility that Pawkins murdered his friend. Ray says MPD has reopened the Musinski case based upon new forensic evidence. The focus is back on the fellow who worked with Musinski at the university.” She started to respond but he added, “I don’t feel it’s right to simply go to the police with what Marc has told us. Yes, it looks like Ray probably took those scores from Musinski’s home and peddled them to this Frenchman, Saibrón. That’s bad, if it’s true. But to paint him as a murderer is premature. Josephson is the one to contact the authorities. He’s got the evidence. But Pawkins deserves a chance to clear this up before that step is taken.”
“Mac, do you know what you’re sounding like?”
“Tell me.”
“You’re sounding like a criminal defense attorney again. You’re sounding as though Ray Pawkins is your client.”
“He may need an attorney.”
“But not you.”
“Of course not. I don’t defend clients anymore. But I do believe in giving him the benefit of the doubt. I believe in that for anyone. By the way, Marc offered me a fee. Ten percent of what he collects from Ray.”
“Which you turned down, of course.”
“Of course. As I said, I think Ray Pawkins deserves the benefit of the doubt.”
“I suppose he does. What do you intend to do, take him to lunch and ask if he murdered Aaron Musinski?”
“That’s a possibility.”
“And what if he says, ‘Yes, I killed him, and I stole his musical scores and sold them to some Frenchman for a half-million dollars.’ Then what?”
“A bridge to cross.”
“Well, Mac,” she said, “I’m not as sanguine about this as you seem to be. If Raymond Pawkins is a murderer and a thief, I certainly don’t want him investigating the Charise Lee murder for the Washington National Opera. Oh, my God!”
“What’s the matter?”
“What if he…?”
“I see where you’re going with this,” Mac said, placing his hand on hers. “What if Pawkins killed Charise Lee.”
“And ended up investigating that murder, too.”
Mac’s thoughts went to the attractive Asian woman who’d waited for Pawkins at the supers rehearsal. He also recalled Pawkins saying that he was looking into a worker at the Kennedy Center who “has a thing for Asian women.” Was Pawkins talking about himself?
He didn’t express these musings to Annabel. It was all circumstantial, all speculation based on nothing. Instead, he said, “Tell you what, Annie. Let’s sleep on it. We’ll discuss it again in the morning after we’ve had time to let what we’ve been told tonight settle into some sort of logical pattern. We’ll decide then what to do.”
“Including what Marc Josephson has asked you to do.”
“That’s not in question, Annie. I
don’t want any part of what Marc has asked of me.”
Josephson’s request of Mac had been simple. He wanted him to act as a go-between with Pawkins to try to convince the retired detective to pay Josephson the money Pawkins had received for the Mozart-Haydn scores from Georges Saibrón. “Use the threat of going to the authorities if you must,” Josephson had said as they stood in the Watergate lobby an hour earlier.
Annabel kissed her husband on the cheek, then on the mouth. She pulled back and exhaled a stream of air. “I was actually afraid you were considering doing it,” she said.
In bed, she reminded him, “Don’t forget the tech rehearsal tomorrow night, dress rehearsal the night after that, then opening night. And, of course, there is the ball following that.”
“It looks like there are two operas going on at once,” he said, “one on the stage, and the other offstage.”
“And murders taking place in both,” she said, tightly wrapping her arms about him, as though to squeeze such thoughts away.
THIRTY-ONE
Marc Josephson was not pleased with the way the evening had gone.
After leaving the lobby, he sat alone in his Watergate Hotel room, an assortment of pills prescribed by his London physician for his nervous condition and a glass of water at his side, and pondered what the Smiths had said, particularly Mac.
He’d come to Washington convinced that Smith would eagerly rally to his cause and agree to broker a deal with Pawkins. After all, he’d offered Smith a fee for his services—a hefty one, considering how little he had to do to earn it.
But both Smiths seemed skeptical of what he’d presented. They’d asked so many questions, and he sensed that at times Annabel Lee-Smith found his answers lacking. How dare she? How dare they question his veracity? He’d gone to great expense building a case against Detective Pawkins. It was all there in black-and-white, supported by receipts from airlines and hotels. George Saibrón’s employee had verified that Pawkins had delivered the scores to the Frenchman, and that he had wired money to the bank in the Cayman Islands. Another person with access to bank records had reported to Poindexter that Pawkins had opened an account there, and that Saibrón’s money had been deposited into it.
Murder at the Opera Page 24
