by Gerald Elias
‘That’s correct. In accordance with the Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act, a federal law on the privacy of student records, Kinderhoek Conservatory is constrained from releasing identifiable information from a student’s educational record to the public unless a student requests that the information be disclosed.’
‘If my student gives her permission, then we can get the information?’ Yumi asked.
‘Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it,’ Hedge said. Then added, ‘But my expectation is that she will decline that permission.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Yumi asked.
‘Ask her.’
They had hit a stone wall. The meeting was a failure. Not wanting to leave empty-handed, on their way out of the office, Yumi asked Connie Jean for her conservatory ID and password so she could access her Cbox.
‘Your ID is the first four letters of your last name followed by the last four digits of your social security number. I have no idea what your password is or anybody else’s. You have to come up with your own. It just has to follow certain guidelines.’
‘What guidelines?’
‘You can find those on the faculty page of the conservatory website.’
‘Do I need my password to access the faculty page?’
‘Not necessarily, but it would be a lot easier if you had it.’
Jacobus and Yumi returned to the inn. Chase Anderson met them there after his hospital shift ended at eight p.m.
‘What now?’ he asked.
‘You said there was a computer in the lobby,’ Jacobus said.
‘Yeah, but it’s really slow. It’s not even on Ethernet.’
‘Where’s there one that’s on Ethernet?’ Jacobus asked, as if he knew what Ethernet was.
‘There’s a bar and Internet café in town,’ Anderson said. ‘Van Winkle’s.’
‘Van Winkle’s?’ Jacobus asked. ‘They serve beer there?’
‘Thirty kinds. Their slogan is, “Get ripped at Van Winkle’s.”’
‘I only need twenty. Let’s go.’
At Van Winkle’s, Anderson and Yumi worked on designing a password that satisfied the myriad requirements of the conservatory computer system. Jacobus ordered nachos grandes, mainly to keep Anderson happy.
‘You want to check out Cbox now?’ Anderson asked Yumi.
‘No, I don’t really care about Cbox,’ Yumi confessed. ‘What I want is for you to break into the conservatory files and find a report on Mia Cheng.’
‘Without them knowing it’s you trying to break in?’ There was excitement in Anderson’s voice.
‘That’s right.’
‘Is that ethical?’
‘Didn’t you say you wanted to be a detective?’ Jacobus interrupted, wiping the foam of a Sleepy Hollow Dunkelbier off his lips.
Anderson considered his answer.
‘This might take a long time.’
‘There’s plenty of beer,’ Jacobus said.
Last call had come and gone, and still Anderson had not managed to negotiate the extensive firewalls that had been erected around all the harassment report files.
‘Let’s call it a day,’ Jacobus said. ‘After midnight I turn into a prince.’
‘No one will figure out it was me trying to get in,’ Yumi said. ‘Will they?’
‘No worries there,’ Anderson said. ‘I went through enough back doors. You’re safe. But you’re not the only one who tried to get in.’
‘Really! Who else?’ Jacobus asked, suddenly no longer tired.
‘Someone whose user ID is TAWR9122.’
‘Tawroszewicz? What the hell?’
‘You know him?’ Anderson asked.
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
Jacobus wasn’t sure of his next move, but Yumi was ahead of him.
‘Is it possible to get his password?’
‘I already did. It’s a simple one. F-r-#-1-0-P-R-I-X-!.’
‘I don’t know what F-r stands for,’ Yumi said, ‘but ten pricks? I can only imagine what that means.’
‘You have a sick mind,’ Jacobus said.
‘From studying with you too long,’ she replied. ‘Do you have a better idea what it means?’
‘No doubt the zero is the little kind. Combined with the one, it means “first” in French. It’s Premier prix. First prize. That’s what they call degrees when you graduate the Paris Conservatoire.’
Why would Tawroszewicz be interested in harassment files? Jacobus wondered.
‘Did he get into the files?’ he asked.
‘Don’t know.’
‘Hey, pals.’ It was the manager of Van Winkle’s. ‘We’re closing up. I’ll have to ask you to leave.’
‘Ten more minutes?’ Jacobus asked.
‘Five.’
Once the manager was out of earshot, Jacobus said, ‘Chase, can you use Tawroszewicz’s ID and password to access faculty information?’
‘No sweat.’
‘Find his student evaluations. Everyone’s told me they’re great but everyone also seems to dislike him. Perchance, something is amiss.’
After their allotted five minutes, Anderson was still searching.
‘Hurry up,’ Jacobus said.
‘I’m almost there. I’m almost there. Got it!’
‘What do they say?’ Yumi asked.
‘They actually look pretty good,’ Anderson said. ‘In fact, they all look good. He was telling the truth.’
Jacobus scratched his head.
‘Read me one,’ he said.
‘Your five minutes were up five minutes ago,’ the manager shouted to them.
‘OK,’ Jacobus shouted back. ‘We’re just about to go, but the young lady has to go to the bathroom first, all right? She’s not feeling well. I think it was those nachos. Were they FDA approved?’
‘Jesus! OK. Go ahead. But I’ve got to be back here at seven so give me a break.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Yumi whispered to Jacobus. ‘I’ll give my nose a thorough powdering.’ She patted him on the cheek.
‘Read,’ Jacobus said to Anderson.
‘“Professor T is one of the good teachers I’ve ever worked with.” “Mr T often compliments at us.” “After two years with Professor Tavrosevich I always want to play in an orchestra again.” “Sometimes I think I like playing the—”’
‘Did you read all of that accurately?’ Jacobus asked.
‘Of course I did. Just because I go to a community college doesn’t mean—’
‘Down, boy! I’m not questioning your intelligence. I’m questioning the poetic license. What’s your take?’
‘Weird syntax.’
‘My take, exactly.’
TWENTY-ONE
Friday, April 3
The phone next to his bed woke Jacobus.
‘Who the hell is it?’ Jacobus grumbled into the receiver.
‘Moshe Schneidermann. You sound a little hoarse. Are you feeling well?’
‘What time is it?’
‘Seven a.m. You did ask for sooner than immediately.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Last night, Dr Dahl received written permission from Sybil Baker-Hulme to exhume Aaron Schlossberg’s body. It’s Friday and he didn’t want to wait until Monday out of fear the body would be beyond recovery. Also, Ms Baker-Hulme will have a difficult time as it is trying to placate her in-laws. If the body had been exhumed and defiled over Shabbos it would have been impossible.’
‘When’s the autopsy?’
‘Today. Fortunately, we had a very cold winter so the ground temperature might have helped retard decomposition, but delay at this point could make the exercise pointless.’
‘How long will it take to get the results?’ Jacobus asked.
‘Two weeks. Maybe three.’
‘Jesus! What takes so long? Handel wrote the whole damn Messiah in three weeks.’
‘Perhaps God was on his side. Dr Dahl will send tissue samples to the state laboratory. They will all require careful ana
lysis, and as is the case with all public institutions, the laboratory technicians are overworked and underpaid.’
‘Then just let me know what the results are when you can,’ Jacobus said.
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that.’
‘Why not? Don’t you trust me? It was my idea to get the autopsy in the first place!’
‘Calm yourself, Mr Jacobus. I’m not trying to keep anything from you. The fact is, even I can’t get the results. By state statute – New York County Law 877, I believe – autopsy reports are only disclosable to three entities. First, to personal representatives, spouses, or next of kin. Second, with a court order, to anyone who is or may be affected in a civil or criminal action by the contents or anyone having a substantial interest therein. Or third, to certain state agencies.’
Why must getting to the truth be so difficult? Jacobus asked himself. Maybe there was a way.
‘You tell Dahl that under New York County Law 877, as the personal representative of Sybil Baker-Hulme, he is hereby instructed to render unto me upon the conclusion of his autopsy the results of said autopsy.’
‘Are you?’
‘You can be damn sure I will be, but first I need to take a crap before Yumi gets here. She doesn’t like it when my bowel movements keep her waiting.’
‘Have a pleasant day,’ Schneidermann said.
After Jacobus’s breakfast, which was all of three cups of coffee and a half piece of toast, they went to hear Mia rehearse ‘Spring’ with the chamber orchestra at Feldstein Auditorium. Jacobus and Yumi sat at the back of the hall and off to the side so as to remain as inconspicuous as possible. He didn’t want to make any more trouble if he could avoid it. Yumi assuaged his concerns, assuring him they were the only audience.
Their primary interest was to see how Mia had recovered from her tumultuous discussion with them. But it was also to take a closer look at Tawroszewicz. Chase Anderson’s Internet search had teased Jacobus’s curiosity. There were things he didn’t understand fully, though he had his suspicions.
For the short amount of time Mia had had to prepare, her rehearsal of ‘Spring’ went remarkably well, especially considering the abnormal circumstances. Her playing was secure and clean, styled appropriately for Vivaldi, and reflective of the imagery of the music. It reminded Jacobus of the young Yumi, when she had first studied with him. And as with Yumi, he detected something hard as steel in Mia’s playing that sought to conceal, to deflect attention, rather than to expose and connect with the listener. It had taken a murder and a stolen Stradivarius for Jacobus to unravel what had been under the surface with Yumi. With Mia he already knew, or thought he did, and rather than being unsympathetic, he lauded her courage.
‘Mr Jacobus,’ came a voice from behind him. Snooty accent, Lilburn had said.
‘Ah, Mr Millefiori,’ Jacobus replied.
‘Have we met?’
‘No, you haven’t had the pleasure.’ Jacobus turned his head to the left to hear the man better. The orchestra on stage in one ear, Millefiori in the other. Stereo.
‘Then how did you know it was I?’
‘Regal accent.’
‘Ah, thank you for noticing. And what brings you here?’
‘To listen to Yumi’s student. You?’
‘To evaluate Mr Tawroszewicz. For his tenure review.’
‘And so?’
‘Sorry. That must remain confidential.’
‘You were friends with Aaron Schlossberg, weren’t you?’ Jacobus asked.
‘We worked a lot together,’ Millefiori replied. ‘His reputation was greatly enhanced when we performed his compositions on tour. We have one coming up in the fall and will premier what turned out to be his last completed symphonic work, Cataclysm for Orchestra. It will indeed be bittersweet.’
Jacobus tried not to cringe visibly.
‘No doubt,’ he said. ‘With all that collaboration I imagine you knew him as well as anyone.’
‘I should say.’
‘Maybe even better than his wife.’
‘Better than Sybil? Why do you suggest that?’
‘In all the years you worked with Schlossberg, did you have any sense he was taking advantage of his students?’
‘He did work them hard, and to my knowledge never paid them, if that’s what you mean.’
‘That’s not what I mean. I mean improper sexual advantage and I mean female students.’
Jacobus heard Millefiori swallow several times before he responded.
‘As I said, Mr Jacobus, some things must remain confidential. Some things are better left unsaid, especially unproven things. Now I must leave and work on this damned evaluation. Excuse me.’
‘See ya,’ Jacobus said. He heard Millefiori’s footsteps quickly recede and turned his attention back to the rehearsal.
Unlike the previous orchestra rehearsal he had attended, this time Jacobus found Tawroszewicz to be circumspect, if not explicitly kind, in his comments to the students. He kept his badgering to a minimum and even offered what for him was a compliment: ‘Not bad.’ For once, he seemed more concerned with the orchestra than about his own grandiose self-image. The orchestra did, in fact, seem to sound better, and Jacobus wondered whether there was an actual improvement or whether the more positive atmosphere alone merely gave that impression. Or whether the two whethers were one and the same.
Vivaldi described ‘Spring’s’ sparely orchestrated slow movement as: ‘On the flower-strewn meadow, with leafy branches rustling overhead, the goatherd sleeps, his faithful dog beside him.’ The only prominent part other than the solo violin was the harpsichord. Jacobus, sleep-deprived from a late night and early morning, related strongly to the goatherd and had to strain from nodding off. He pressed his sore foot into the floor, hoping that the pain would resuscitate him. To his pleasant surprise, far from causing him to cringe, the ache had subsided to a mere, dull reminder of his accident. Hope revived him, and he looked forward to being back on his feet and lying to the nurse about how he had followed her RICE instructions.
‘That’s what’s-her-name, the accompanist,’ he whispered to Yumi after a particularly tasteful arpeggio in the harpsichord. ‘Right?’
‘Lisette Broder?’
‘Yeah. Her.’
‘Yes. They had her play with the student orchestra because there aren’t any harpsichord majors this year. How did you know?’
‘It’s the same realization of the continuo part when Audrey Rollins rehearsed with the orchestra and played at the masterclass. Broder said she had lost her part and was playing from a manuscript. Per tradition, in the manuscript Vivaldi would only have written the bass line, leaving the realization of the upper lines up to the creativity of the keyboardist, who in those days would often have been the composer himself. So for two different keyboardists to execute the realization exactly the same way would be as likely as Charles Hedge awarding me the Nobel Peace Prize. You think you can grab Broder after the rehearsal while I talk to Tawroszewicz?’
‘Why?’
‘Two reasons. First, she plays with all the students and is in all their teachers’ studios. Chances are she can’t help but overhear a lot of unofficial gossip. Second, she went to school with Aaron Schlossberg and maybe had a thing for him. Maybe she could shed some light on his youthful escapades.’
Their quiet conversation was interrupted by students stomping their feet and tapping their bows on their music stands at the conclusion of Mia’s performance. Tawroszewicz thanked the orchestra and told them the rehearsal was over, which elicited even more vociferous cheers. Yumi wheeled Jacobus forward to the edge of the proscenium.
‘I’m going to congratulate Mia first and then I’ll look for Lisette,’ Yumi said. ‘I’ll come back for you in a few minutes.’
‘Ask Mia why she never reported Schlossberg to the police.’
‘Now’s not the time, Jake.’
‘Is there a right time? Let’s get it over with.’
‘I’ll play it by ear,’ Yumi said, and
left Jacobus.
Jacobus heard the stage emptying quickly. A vague residue of English Leather remained around the podium, but it could have simply been Tawroszewicz’s olfactory doppelganger.
‘Mr T, are you still there?’ Jacobus asked.
‘Ah, Mr Jacobus. You’re brave man to still be at the conservatory. They told me Connie Jean tried to kill you.’
‘Who’s “they”?’
‘It doesn’t matter. You know. The grapevine.’
‘Ah, yes. The grapevine. I, too, hear things through the grapevine. I hear that your tenure review might not go so well now that your buddy, Schlossberg is out of the picture.’
‘Those are the sour grapes you heard on the grapevine, maybe,’ Tawroszewicz said. ‘Schlossberg and me, we were never friends.’
‘But at his party—’
‘What does anything mean at a party? Will I say bad things about a man in his own house?’
‘What bad things?’
Tawroszewicz laughed unpleasantly. It reminded Jacobus of the moment in Othello when Iago gets his hands on Desdemona’s handkerchief.
‘You should ask his wife that question,’ Tawroszewicz said. ‘Not me.’
‘Ah, yes! The Dame Sybil. Isn’t she supposed to narrate at your Vivaldi performance?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So when is she going to rehearse with you?’
‘As late as possible. Why waste rehearsal time?’
‘Not the best of chums, either?’
‘I am not the only one with whom she is not best friends. But I still have allies. And I will take my chances with tenure.’
‘You’ve got your student evaluations.’
‘I have another rehearsal to go to, Mr Jacobus.’
Jacobus heard the quickly receding footsteps echo on the stage floor. Tawroszewicz’s brusque conclusion to their conversation confirmed his suspicions.
Other, more familiar, footsteps crescendoed in his direction.
‘So?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t ask her,’ Yumi said. ‘But I did tell her I wanted to talk to her in private.’
‘All right. And Broder?’
‘By the time I finished talking to Mia,’ Yumi said, ‘Lisette was gone. Another rehearsal, I guess.’
