by Rick Blechta
“I’ll catch up with you then.”
As Pratt hustled for the elevator, he thought about the three times he was certain Norris had lied to him. Experience told him that people most normally looked away when they were lying. The only decorative thing on Norris’s desk was a framed photo of a beautiful young woman. A daughter, perhaps, or maybe a second wife? Each time the man had lied to Pratt, he’d looked at that photo. The last time had been the longest. It had followed Pratt’s question about Spadafini leaving the orchestra.
The detective was pretty sure Norris didn’t want the horny conductor anywhere near that woman.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Food was being delivered into the rehearsal room when Pratt arrived at its doors. He looked longingly at the boxes. All he’d had that morning was a cup of dispenser coffee. Still, a missed meal would cut down on the gut he’d developed since Dori walked out on their marriage. A diet of fast food will do that to you.
“What do you have for me, Cooper?” he asked the detective who’d called him.
“We found something in the instrument storage lockers.”
The room next door had lockers where the orchestra’s musicians could securely store their instruments if they didn’t want to take them home. The detective explained that they also used the lockers to store various odds and ends they might need, along with purses and the like.
“I hit on the idea of asking each musician we questioned to open their lockers for us before we talked. I thought maybe our murderer might have stashed something here.”
Two lockers were open as they entered the long, narrow room. One was large and on the bottom row. They went to that first.
Pratt asked, “Whose locker?”
“A trombone player.”
But there was a cello inside. Pratt crouched to look at it. The second-thickest string was missing.
“You said the stiff upstairs had been choked by a string from one of these.”
Pratt got to his feet. “So how did the trombonist explain this?”
“He claims it’s not his instrument. He’s only keeping it in here as a favor for someone else.”
“Whose cello is it?”
The detective flipped his notebook back a page. “An orchestra member who died last year.”
Pratt felt his heart beat faster. “Annabelle Lee?”
“You know about that?”
“Why does this guy have her cello?” Pratt shot back.
“Like I said: someone in the orchestra asked him to keep it in here.”
“Who?”
The detective consulted his notes. “Someone named Daniel Harvey.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“Not yet. That’s why I called you.”
Pratt’s mind was racing. He felt like a bloodhound that had suddenly picked up the scent. A real smile split his face for the first time that day.
He pointed to the other open locker farther down the room. “What about that?”
“That belongs to one of the percussionists.” “Let me guess: he’s missing a pair of his sticks.”
The other detective grinned. “Got it in one. Special ones too.”
Pratt already had his walkie-talkie out. “Johnson! You still here?”
It took nearly twenty seconds, but the walkie-talkie eventually crackled and the Scene of Crime tech’s voice said clearly, “Yeah. We’re still working over the room.”
“The evidence bag with the murder weapon, is that still here?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to send someone up for it, okay?”
“Just make sure I get it back promptly.”
“Sure, sure. I also need someone down here to work over the instrument storage room. There’s some evidence that needs collecting.” Pratt turned back to the detective with him. “Get one of the uniforms to go up two floors to the offices and fetch an evidence bag. In the meantime, bring that Harvey character in here. I want to hear what he has to say.”
While the detective was out of the room, Pratt found Ellis via the walkie-talkie. “So what do you need to tell me?” he asked.
“Well, based on stuff I found on news sites on the Internet, our boy seems to have been a regular Don Juan. The ladies all seemed to go gaga over him. There’s a fan page on Facebook, for pity’s sake. Anyway, he lost a chance at conducting one of the big European orchestras because of his habits with the females.”
“Anything else?”
“There’s not a peep anywhere about Spadafini possibly jumping ship.”
“I need you to do something else for me. Find out what phone numbers belong to James Norris. I-”
“The chairman of the orchestra’s board?” Ellis interrupted.
Pratt shouldn’t have been surprised that the kid knew. He was proving to be pretty sharp.
“Yes. Get his home and cell phone numbers, then cross-check it with any numbers that Spadafini has called recently.”
“I’ll also check his text messages. I may have missed something when I glanced at it earlier. Most of what is there is soft-core porn chatter with his current girlfriend.”
“That little thing? She seemed so darn innocent when I was talking to her earlier.”
“They’re the worst ones.” Ellis laughed.
“Whatever. Find me what I want and then meet me down here. We’re finally making some progress-I hope.”
“Right. I’ll be down ASAP.”
A tall, slender man with graying hair appeared in the doorway. Pratt looked at him for a long moment just to make the musician a bit more apprehensive. Satisfyingly, he glanced twice at the open locker.
“Are you Daniel Harvey?” Pratt asked.
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“Could I ask you to look at something for me?”
The man licked his lips nervously. “Of course. I’m happy to assist the police.”
He doesn’t look it, Pratt thought. “That’s good. Step this way please.”
Pratt led Harvey to the locker where the cello was. They both crouched down.
“Can you identify this instrument?” he asked.
Harvey started to reach for it, and Pratt grabbed his arm.
“Don’t touch that, sir. It’s evidence in our murder investigation.”
Perhaps that was laying it on a bit thick, but Pratt felt making the musician nervous would get the best-and quickest-results.
“It’s, ah, it’s…” Harvey was struggling to keep himself together. “It belonged to Annabelle Lee, who used to play in this orchestra.”
“I know. She committed suicide last year.”
“Yes. Yes, she did.”
“And why do you have her cello?”
Harvey looked at Pratt with very frightened eyes.
“She was my cousin.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Without a word, Pratt stood, and the musician collapsed to his knees.
“I did not kill Spadafini! You have to believe me. Much as I wanted to, I didn’t do it!”
“I’d like to believe that.”
“You have to. I…I was with someone during the entire break. I didn’t leave this floor.”
“Who?” the detective asked.
“Leanne Shapiro. I was with her the entire time. Other people saw me too.”
Now they had something to run with. “Ellis!” he barked into the walkie-talkie. “Where are you?”
“On my way down the stairs. What’s happening?”
“Just double-time it, okay? I need you.”
Pratt walked over to Detective Cooper, who was standing in the doorway, and said in low voice, “This Shapiro woman, if she’s already been questioned, find out what she said. If she hasn’t, do it now. Don’t tell her anything about what’s going down. Maybe, just maybe, we’ve gotten lucky.”
“Got it.” The detective angled his head. “What about this guy?”
“Move him to an empty room. I think I’ll let Ellis have a shot at him.”
Ellis arrived, breat
hless and looking eager. “I’ve got some news.”
“Not now. Things are moving a bit fast at the moment.”
“There’s a break?”
Pratt couldn’t help smiling. “I hope so. It’s too soon to know.” He filled the young man in on what had been happening. “You question Harvey more thoroughly. I didn’t have time to go into why he has his cousin’s cello. It may have something to do with the case, it may not, but we need to know.”
Ellis hustled Harvey out. Pratt closed the door and leaned against it to catch his breath-and think.
In his twenty-eight years as a detective, he’d never had a case like this. In one way, it was a dream. Unless there was something he was missing completely, the murderer was still here. Any evidence was still here.
The silliness of the orchestra’s massconfession aside, the big problem was that any one of them could have done it. That meant questioning a really huge pool of suspects.
Spadafini had obviously been a bastard of the first water. His womanizing alone was outrageous, but his treatment of the people he worked with was contemptible. Pratt felt sure that was the reason for his death.
So, who did it? Pratt was looking for a crowbar, that bit of information he could use to pry the truth loose. The real issue was being able to pick out the important clues from the mass of information they were collecting.
His biggest enemy was time. All these people couldn’t be kept here forever. Getting them fed and watered was only buying him a bit more time. Would the murderer give it up under questioning? He doubted it. For the moment he or she could hide in plain sight.
The tired detective shook his head. And that indeed was the problem: how to smoke out the murderer.
Pulling out his cell phone, he dialed the captain.
“Pratt! What have you got for me?”
The situation was quickly outlined.
“I could really use more people,” Pratt told his boss. “We’re stretched too thin, and time is running out. I can’t keep the orchestra here forever.”
“I’ll have to shake someone else’s tree. You’ve got everyone from here.” The captain changed the subject. “Did you talk to El Presidente of the symphony’s board?”
“Yeah, Norris was here. He may still be around, as a matter of fact. He wanted an update on where we stood. I got called away.”
“Not a nice man to cross, I would think. When I got called up to the chief ’s office, he was there with the mayor to turn up the heat on us.” The captain chuckled. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but Norris said he was going to go down there to personally shake things up. On his way out he was grumbling that it was his second trip down of the day and he had better-”
“What did you say? Pratt interrupted. “He was here already this morning? When?”
“Norris said he’d had to come down to thank the orchestra for coming in for the extra rehearsal. He talked about what a sensitive bunch they are, how they needed to be stroked all the time. Didn’t he tell you about that?”
“No, he didn’t,” Pratt growled. “And I’m going to find out why.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Pratt took the stairs back up two at a time. His tiredness was forgotten. He hated being played by someone.
He found Norris in his office with Browne. Both men looked up in surprise at the abrupt entry.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d already been down here this morning?” Pratt asked angrily.
“Look here, Detective! I don’t like your tone.”
“I don’t like people not being honest with me.”
“In case you don’t remember our earlier conversation, you never asked me.”
“Well, I’m asking now.” Pratt sat on the other vacant seat in front of the desk and made a show of taking out his notebook and pen. “When were you down here and why?”
“I don’t have to talk to you.”
The detective got to his feet again. “Okay. Play it that way. We’ll talk downtown. Bring a whole law firm to hold your hand if you want. I don’t care. But just remember that you’re going to be escorted out of here in front of all those reporters outside.”
Pratt pulled out his walkie-talkie and turned up the volume again.
After looking at Browne for a moment, Norris got to his feet too. “Perhaps I spoke hastily, Detective. Please…take a seat.”
Knowing he had to keep the upper hand, Pratt nodded, then sat. “Tell me about this morning.”
“Our concert last night wasn’t the best, at least in Spadafini’s eyes. The man was a bloody perfectionist. Tonight’s performance was going to be recorded for a radio broadcast, so he demanded an extra rehearsal. To keep him happy, I agreed. Of course, our musicians were furious, so it was up to me to placate them with a little pep talk before the rehearsal.”
“What time was that?”
“Nine o’clock. I spoke for about five minutes and promised them all a bit of a bonus as a token of thanks from the board. I departed immediately afterward.”
“Where did you go?”
“Directly home.”
In order to build up a little tension, Pratt made a show of looking back at several pages in his notebook. “You and the mayor were in the chief ’s office before the press even got wind of what happened down here. How did you find-”
“From me,” Browne interrupted. “I called Mr. Norris right after my call to the police.”
Pratt turned to the orchestra manager. “Who else did you call?”
“Um…my wife to tell her I certainly wouldn’t be home for lunch.”
“Oh really.”
“And where did you call Mr. Norris from?”
“I used my cell phone. As chairman of the board, he needed to know right away.”
“Your cell phone.”
“Yes.”
“Detective Pratt,” Norris said, “I appreciated that Browne was doing such a good job under very trying circumstances. I’m not sure I would have thought of something like that if I had been in his place. We’re very lucky to have Mr. Browne.”
Pratt brought his attention back to Norris. “When you left, did anyone see you?”
“The security guard was at his desk, if that’s what you mean.”
“I was with him too,” Browne added.
Pratt looked at Norris, again with a pause. “And you went right home.”
Norris returned the stare. “I went right home.”
“At home, who saw you?”
“My daughter and her boyfriend.”
“Anyone else?”
“I wasn’t home long. Maybe our maid. I really don’t remember.”
Seeing that there wasn’t much more to be gained, Pratt got to his feet. “I see you’re working on a press release,” he said, looking down at a sheet of paper on Norris’s desk.
“We have to say something. The longer we wait, the worse it will be.”
“I have to ask you not to release this until I’ve taken a look at it. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to compromise the investigation.”
“No. Of course not. Speaking of which, are you any closer to knowing what happened?”
“We’ve found out a number of useful things. I have hopes.”
Pratt left them and walked down the hall a short distance. Outside Browne’s office, a uniformed cop was standing.
“Any problems with the locals?” Pratt asked.
“If you mean Browne, how about every ten minutes or so? Are you keeping him out of his office just to annoy him?”
“Maybe.”
The cop smiled. “Good. He’s a jackass.”
Pratt’s walkie-talkie had been turned off for nearly ten minutes, and as he took the elevator down one floor to the security desk, he listened to the wash of chatter. Seemed as if everyone wanted to talk to him.
“I’m at the security desk,” Pratt was saying as the elevator doors opened. “Sorry for being offline. Ellis-you there?”
Through a bit of crackle, Ellis said, “Live and
in person.”
“Good. Do you know where the Green Room is?”
“I’m sitting in it right now.”
“Sit tight. I’ll be there shortly.”
The security guard was standing just inside the stage door, talking to the two cops guarding it.
Pratt motioned him over to his desk. “You were on all morning?”
“I came on duty at seven am.”
“James Norris, do you know him by sight?”
The guard snorted. “Of course. Been working here five years, haven’t I?”
“Did you see him arrive this morning?”
“I buzzed him in shortly before the orchestra started rehearsing.”
“When did he leave?”
“About fifteen minutes later. I let him out.”
“But he has a key.
“I suppose so. I’ve never seen him use it.”
“So he could have come back in again.”
“Why?”
Pratt wanted to throttle the man. “Let’s just say he did, okay?”
“Well, I’ve been here all morning, but I did my rounds starting at ten-oh-five and was gone for twelve, maybe fifteen minutes. I suppose he could have come back in.” The guard looked down at his cubicle. “But we’d have a video record of it, wouldn’t we?”
“Did the sergeant who was up here look through the security recordings?”
The guard nodded once.
“Did he look at the footage showing the stage door?”
Again the single nod. “I helped him.”
“And what did it show?”
“Nothing. The camera ain’t been working for a week. I’ve called in for a repairman and complained to Browne.”
Pratt heaved a sigh as he headed down the hall to the Green Room.
When he got there, Ellis was sitting on a sofa, legs crossed, while he scribbled madly in his notebook.
“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked when he looked up.
Pratt sat down heavily at the other end of the sofa, not bothering to correct him.
“Get anything interesting out of Harvey?”
“No. He has his cousin’s cello to keep it safe. She didn’t have a will, and her mother and father are fighting over it. I had no idea the darn things were that expensive!”
