by Rick Blechta
“Well, obviously, it had to be one of us.”
“All of you felt that way?”
Disgust crossed Eliza’s face. “There are always a few ass-kissers.”
Pratt decided to switch channels. “You’ve made a pretty damning statement about Spadafini. Care to say more?”
Her face went hard. “Got a few hours?”
“Frankly, no. But I need some idea of what you mean.”
“Tell me, Detective, have you ever even heard an orchestra play?”
Wanamaker’s tone of voice made it clear she thought cops weren’t capable of understanding classical music.
“I get to a half dozen of your concerts a year-when work doesn’t get in the way. And I also enjoy opera. You really need to widen your views about the police.”
She smiled for the first time. “Touche!”
“Now tell me what you know-or guess.”
“Many of us hold Spadafini responsible for two deaths that have occurred in the orchestra since he took over.”
“Two deaths?” Pratt got his pen busy in the notebook.
“Yes, last year, in a vendetta none of us understood, Spadafini rode our timpanist, Mort Schulman, until he had a heart attack from the stress.”
“And you blame your conductor for this?”
“You weren’t there! Everything Morty did was wrong. Spadafini took every opportunity to belittle him, to question his musical ability. Morty was only two years away from retiring. If it was so damned important, why didn’t they just give him some money and let him go early?”
“And the other death?”
“Annabelle Lee, one of our cellists. She jumped in front of a subway train four months ago.”
“Just how was Spadafini connected with this?”
“Everyone knew he was screwing her.”
Pratt had heard of the unfortunate death. Every witness, and there were many, stated she had been alone at the end of the platform and clearly jumped. There had been no suicide note that he’d heard about.
“Really. You have proof of this?”
“It stands to reason. Within a week of a new piccolo player joining the orchestra, Annabelle was dropped, humiliated in front of the orchestra, and Spadafini was off pursuing his next conquest.”
“Was he successful?”
Eliza Wanamaker glared at Pratt. “Why don’t you ask the little fool yourself?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Pratt was interrupted by a knock on the door behind him. It was the sergeant from upstairs.
“Sorry to bother you. Five more detectives have arrived. You’re also to call the captain right away. And the media have shown up-in force.”
Pratt’s sigh was heavy. “Where’s young Ellis?”
“No idea.”
“Find him. Send the detectives along to the rehearsal room. And get me Browne.”
The sergeant started to turn away, then stopped. “Almost forgot. Someone sent these over. The captain wants everyone to carry one.” He handed Pratt a walkie-talkie. “They’re digital and encoded so the press can’t listen in.”
By the time Pratt got back to the rehearsal room himself, the detectives were coming down the hall. He outlined the situation as quickly as he could. The looks they passed among themselves told the story. They could see the mess they’d been dragged into.
Browne arrived, and Pratt asked him to arrange for each detective to have his own room to work in. By the time that was sorted out, they were down to storage rooms and even a broom closet.
Pratt addressed the newcomers. “This is all preliminary questioning. Just ask general questions. I want to know where everyone says they were during the break when Spadafini was murdered. Then we can cross-check that. I want your impressions of how truthful they’re being. Make note of anything interesting. And above all, be quick. The press hounds are baying outside, and the whole city is watching.”
“More like the whole world,” one detective muttered.
Several of the detectives were shaking their heads as they went into the rehearsal room to get the first group of musicians for questioning.
Pratt pulled out his cell phone. He hated the damned things. But they were a fact of life for detectives these days, same as computers-which Pratt also hated.
Surprisingly, the captain picked up on the first ring. “What’s the story, Pratt?”
“It’s a total mess down here.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. Any progress?”
“Some,” Pratt answered and gave his boss a quick update.
“I just got off the phone with the chief. The mayor’s in his office, along with one of the symphony board’s big shots. The chief stressed how they all wanted this situation resolved quickly.”
Pratt rolled his eyes and felt a headache coming on. “The men just arrived, and I’ve given them their marching orders. The Scene of Crime team is also at work. We’re moving as fast as we can.”
“I’m counting on you, Pratt. Keep me in the loop. Understand?”
Captain McDonnell hung up before Pratt could even answer.
Ellis came hurrying down the hall. “I hear you wanted to speak to me.”
“What have you been up to?”
“I was just talking to one of the Scene of Crime guys.”
“And?”
“They’re not coming up with much. There are no fingerprints on the murder weapon. They doubt if they’re going to get any dna evidence, since the murderer was likely wearing gloves.” Ellis took out his notebook and read. “Preliminary findings are that Luigi Spadafini was knocked to the ground and strangled from behind. The murderer had his-”
“Or her,” Pratt interrupted. “Don’t forget that an active woman could have done it. Spadafini was not a big man.”
“Right. The murderer had his or her knee in the center of the conductor’s back and pulled upward.
“Was the murderer left- or right-handed?”
“What?”
“A joke, Ellis. I was making a joke.”
“Oh.”
“Now I have a question for you. You said that string used to strangle Spadafini was from a cello. Are you sure?”
“It’s too long for a violin or viola string and too short to come from a bass.”
“And you know that from your high school music class.”
“Yessir. My sister played the cello.”
“You also said those sticks were used for playing the timpani. Again, certain?”
“Ninety-five percent.” Ellis hesitated. “Why are you asking this?”
“I just had a very interesting conversation with a member of the orchestra. I do believe the murderer was trying to tell us something-or, more likely, muddy the trail.” Pratt put his arm over Ellis’s shoulder. “You had a satchel in the back of the car when we drove over. Am I right in thinking it contains a laptop computer?”
“Yes, it does.”
“I’ll bet a young buck like you is pretty good with them.”
“They say I am.”
“Can you do a little research for me?”
“Like what?”
“I’ve got two names: Mort Schulman, who played timpani for the orchestra, and Annabelle Lee, who played cello. They’re both dead. Find out everything you can about them. Okay?”
Ellis’s face brightened. “Sure. I’ll get my laptop and go online as soon as I can find a place to sit down.”
Pratt looked at Ellis. “Spare me the technical mumbo-jumbo. Just get me the information.” As Ellis took off, Pratt called after him. “And I need it yesterday! Got that?”
The young detective waved over his shoulder as he crashed through the door at the end of the hall.
CHAPTER SIX
Finding himself alone for a moment, Pratt stepped into a nearby men’s room to mentally catch his breath. He’d barely been here an hour, and so far he’d just been responding to the situation. The chance for the success of this investigation hung on whether he could begin to direct where things wer
e going. He knew he would take the fall if this investigation went south.
At one of the sinks, he splashed several handfuls of water onto his face, enjoying the way it refreshed him. Looking at his reflection in the mirror as he turned off the water, Pratt felt depressed. He was developing jowls, the top of his head was shiny rather than covered with thick hair as it had been, and frankly, he looked terrible. Somehow his life was still on hold since his wife walked out on him over two years earlier.
Out in the hall again, he saw Browne leave the rehearsal room with the detectives and the first group of orchestra members to be questioned.
Pratt fell into step next to him. “I want to ask you a few questions.”
“Certainly. I want to do anything I can to help in this crisis.”
“Tell me what you know about Mort Schulman and Annabelle Lee.”
“Tragic, both of them. Mort had frankly been getting old, and he was definitely overweight, but it was a shock to us all when he suffered his heart attack right after a concert.”
“I heard Spadafini had been riding him for several months. Did he have something against Schulman?”
“That’s news to me. Actually, I don’t attend rehearsals all that much. My job also includes working with the conductor, guest artists, hall staff and, of course, the board members. All I know is, Mort didn’t complain to me about Spadafini.”
“And Annabelle Lee?”
“A lovely girl and one of our best young talents. Her passing was such a loss.”
“Cut the public relations crap,” Pratt growled. “I’ve got better things to do with my time.”
Browne didn’t answer. He showed each of the detectives the rooms they’d be using. Pratt waited, arms folded.
“All right, Detective Pratt,” Browne finally said. “My job is to help keep this orchestra running smoothly. Spadafini’s murder is a complete disaster for us. I’m just trying to keep things going and minimize the fallout.”
Pratt bit back a sharp answer that it was a greater tragedy for Spadafini. “So tell me about the two of them.”
Browne sighed and looked down a moment. “There were rumors about Luigi and Annabelle-”
“I’ve heard it was more than rumors.”
“All right! They were having an affair.”
“Did Spadafini have a wife?”
“No. He said it would have cramped his Italian playboy lifestyle.”
“Was there anyone else in the orchestra Spadafini was involved with?” Browne sighed again. “Our new piccolo player.”
“Was that recent?”
The orchestra manager looked uncomfortable. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that this is what upset Annabelle so much.”
“Could it have driven her to suicide?”
“I…I don’t know. Perhaps.”
“I have one of my men checking on it, but you could help a lot if you’d tell me whether she left a suicide note.”
“Look, Detective, this would have been a huge scandal if it had come out.”
“Did she leave a suicide note?” Pratt repeated.
Even though they were alone in the corridor, Browne looked around before speaking. “I asked the maestro about it. He said there was a letter sent to his apartment. He told me he burned it without reading it.”
“Did you believe him?”
Browne sighed. “Would you have wanted to read something like that?”
“And he or you never contacted the police.” Pratt made it sound like a statement.
“There didn’t seem to be any point. The girl obviously jumped in front of the train on her own. Fifty people must have seen it.”
“Your conductor sounds like a heartless bastard.”
“He could be.” Browne looked away for a moment. “But he was a sublime musician.”
“That doesn’t excuse anything. You should have gone to the police with what you knew.”
“What good would it have done? It’s not as if Spadafini killed her himself.”
Pratt fixed the manager with a hard stare. “It sounds to me like you’re trying to excuse his behavior.”
“He ran his life by a different set of rules than normal people. If you want to know, he told me that Annabelle became demanding. She wanted to move in with him, regularize their relationship. She didn’t understand when he told her that this would never happen. He said he’d never led her on, made promises he didn’t plan to keep.”
“And you believe he was telling the truth?”
“How should I know? I wasn’t his priest!”
At the end of the corridor, the door opened and one of the uniformed cops came through it.
“Detective Pratt?”
“What is it?”
“The orchestra is getting hungry.”
Pratt looked at his watch: nearly twelve thirty. “I suppose we have to do something. They’re going to be here a while longer- unless someone confesses.”
Browne looked relieved as he said, “Occasionally, we have sandwiches brought in for long rehearsals. I’ll see to it.”
“One other thing, Browne. I need a list of all the orchestra members who are here today.”
“I’ll go up to my office and print it out.”
As he hustled off, the uniform said, “You asked me to tell you if we spotted anything interesting. There’s one woman who’s been sitting in the back. She seems more upset than most of the others. People keep going back to talk to her.”
“Let me guess: she’s the piccolo player.”
“What’s a piccolo?”
As the two men headed back to the rehearsal room, Pratt was thinking to himself, This is going to be a very long day.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Is there anything you’d like to tell me?” Pratt asked the short and very pretty young blond woman sitting in front of him. “I’m willing to hazard a guess that you play the piccolo,” he added.
He’d asked the uniformed cop to send the upset woman out to speak to him. Once she’d appeared, Pratt had taken her upstairs and found the backstage area where he knew they could talk without being disturbed. This needed to be handled just right.
She sat stiffly with her hands clenched in her lap. “Actually, I play piccolo and flute in the orchestra.”
Pratt pulled up another chair. “Your name, dear?”
“Sofia. Sofia Barna.”
“That’s Polish, isn’t it?”
“My parents are from Poland. I was born in Toronto.”
“And you’ve been in the orchestra how long?”
“Nearly six months.”
“How do you like it here?”
“It’s okay. I’m lucky to have landed the job.”
“How are you f inding life in our city?”
“All right, I guess.”
Pratt circled a bit closer with the next question. “And when was the last time you saw Luigi Spadafini?”
Her eyes opened wide. “Why are you asking that?”
“Please answer the question.”
Sofia looked around as if she wanted to run away.
“Take your time,” Pratt said kindly.
“This morning just before he…just before he…”
Pratt studied her closely. Obviously she’d been crying, and right now her face looked like she just might do it again. She also had all the signs of someone with something to hide.
“I meant before that.”
“The concert last night. He was so angry afterward. That’s why we had the emergency rehearsal this morning.”
“But you also saw him after the concert, didn’t you?”
The young woman wilted, put her head in her hands and began sobbing. Pratt let her go on for a while.
“Miss Barna,” he eventually asked, but kept his voice gentle, “would you please answer my question?”
She snuffled a moment longer, then raised her head and wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeves.
“You were seeing him, weren’t you?”
She suddenl
y looked defiant. “Who told you? That Wanamaker woman, the orchestra’s busybody?”
“So you’re not denying it?”
“No. I suppose I can’t. I know people in the orchestra guessed. I was careful. Luigi wasn’t quite as careful. It wasn’t his nature.”
Pratt decided to take out his notebook. “Did you spend the night together?” At first he thought she wouldn’t answer, but eventually he got a nod. “All night?”
“Do you also want a detailed description of what we did?” Sofia asked harshly.
“What was Spadafini’s mood like?”
“He was very angry at the orchestra. He went on and on about it. Then just before midnight, his phone rang.”
“His cell phone?”
“No. His home phone. I think he’d left his cell in the car. He got out of bed and took the call in his study. I heard a lot of shouting through the door.”
“Do you know what the argument was about?”
“No. I think it was about money or something. The only clear thing I heard was about Luigi not owing anything.”
“He used those exact words?”
She nodded.
“And did he say anything to you about it later?”
“Not a word. Actually, he was in a very good mood when he got back in bed. A very good mood…”
Sofia looked as if she was going to cry again. Pratt gave her some time to regain control.
“Did you come to this morning’s rehearsal together?”
“Of course not! I took a cab from his place around nine o’clock and went home to change clothes.”
“Then you came here.”
She just kept from rolling her eyes. “We had a rehearsal.”
“Did you speak to him at all after you left his apartment?”
“No.”
“You had no communication whatsoever? You didn’t, for instance, go up to his office during the break?”
She looked really horrified. “Are you suggesting I murdered him?”
“I’m only trying to find out what happened. You were intimate with the man. It’s a logical question.”
“No! I didn’t go to his office. Luigi was in a very bad mood. I stayed in the rehearsal room to practice. Ask anyone in the orchestra. I was there for the entire break.”
