Orchestrated Murder (2 page)

Spadafini's body lay near the huge window behind his desk. Sadly, the building was covered in mirrored glass, so no one could have seen in. Pratt stood for nearly a minute, memorizing every detail in front of him. Then he moved toward the facedown body.

Thick wire was wrapped around the conductor's neck, which was heavily bruised. Fastened to each end of the wire were strange-looking drumsticks. “Do you know what this is around his neck?” Pratt yelled to Browne.

“I, ah, didn't take a close look. I just saw the maestro, ran to my office, picked up the phone and called the police.”

“Sir, I mean, Pratt,” Ellis asked, “do you mind if I have a look?”

“Do you have something for your feet?”

“Of course.”

The youngster was soon standing next to him. “That looks like a cello string, and those sticks are definitely timpani mallets.”

“How do you know?”

“I played trombone all through high school.”

Pratt remained in the room for several more minutes, then went back out to the hall to wait for the arrival of the Scene of Crime team.

Pulling out his notebook, he turned to Browne. “Could you tell me your whereabouts in the building this morning?”

Browne's eyes opened wide. “You suspect me?”

“I suspect everyone and no one,” Pratt answered, quoting Sherlock Holmes. Browne didn't seem to notice. “Just answer the question, please.”

The other man looked up at the ceiling. “Well, I got here well before anyone arrived. I knew it was not going to be an ‘easy' rehearsal. Everyone was pretty angry. I was present in the rehearsal room when the orchestra arrived. Of course, I had to deal with the stage-crew problem around that time.”

“When was that?”

“Shortly after the rehearsal began. I talked to them for about fifteen minutes before they stormed out. Then I went up to my office to do some work.”

“Is that near this office?”

Browne pointed. “Just down the hall, there.”

“And you didn't hear anything?”

“I heard him storm down the hall at the beginning of the break. He was muttering to himself in Italian.”

“Then what?”

“Well, I was on the phone to our secretary, looking for a package she was supposed to send out by courier yesterday. The person it was sent to hadn't received it yet, so I called her to ask what had happened.”

“And?”

“She said she'd left it at the security desk. I went down to see if for some reason it was still there. When I came back up, I noticed Spadafini's door was open. When I looked in, I could see him lying on the floor behind his desk. I called the police immediately.” He shivered. “I had to have just missed the murderer. I was gone barely five minutes.”

Finally the elevator doors at the end of the hall opened, and the Scene of Crime team stepped out.

“I want a complete workup on this as soon as you can,” Pratt told them. “I need to know what happened in a big hurry. They're leaning on me downtown.” To Ellis he said, “Call the captain. Tell him I need every detective down here that he can spare—unless he wants us to bring an entire orchestra to him for questioning.” Then he turned to Browne. “Don't leave the building. I will need to talk to you again later. Now could you show me where the orchestra is?”

“We should take the elevator down. It's faster.”

As they descended to the basement and his first glimpse of the orchestra of self-confessed murderers, Pratt knew he was in for it.

CHAPTER THREE

P
ratt walked through a set of double doors and into a large room.

Spread out in front of him should have been one of the country's great orchestras. On the podium should have been one of the best young conductors in the world. Great music should have been filling the space.

Instead people were spread about the room, talking in small groups. Seventy-six pairs of eyes looked up at the detective. He knew he needed to look deeply into all of them at the same time. That first glance often tells so much, and this time the opportunity was being wasted. Somewhere in this room was the person who knew exactly what had happened two floors above. Someone in this room had committed a cold-blooded murder.

He needed to say something—but what?

The two uniformed policemen stationed in the room, one male, one female, walked over to him.

“What's up?” the male asked in a low voice. “They're getting antsy.”

“Have you kept them from using their cell phones?” Pratt asked, ignoring the question.

“Of course,” the female officer answered, “but it's been hard.”

“They don't want to listen to what we're telling them,” the other added.

Pratt felt like telling them, “Of course! They're musicians.” He refrained. At this point he needed all the help he could get. “Other than staging the largest mass confession ever, has anyone offered further information?”

“No—except for permission to use the restroom.”

“Has anything happened that I should know about?”

“We were told to keep them here, accompany anyone who wanted to use the restroom, and keep our mouths shut. We've done that. As for anything suspicious, well, no.”

Pratt nodded. “Fair enough. I'm going to talk to them, and there are too many for me to watch at once. While I speak, one of you watch the left-hand side of the group and the other the right. I want to know anything odd you see. Can I count on you? Good.”

He walked over to the conductor's podium and stepped up. It seemed like the best place to make a speech. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?”

Being disciplined musicians, all chatter stopped immediately. Several moved to their regular seats and sat.

“I am Detective Pratt and—”

“When are we going to be able to leave?” someone called out. “I have students this afternoon.”

“When is someone going to tell us what's going on?” said a voice from the back.

Pratt put his hands up. “I only just arrived. Surely you understand how serious this matter is.” Then he stopped and fixed them with a stare. “And just how seriously your behavior is being taken.”

“What do you mean?” a younger man near the front asked.

“I know you're doing this to protect the murderer. It won't work. We will find out who did this. My best suggestion is for that person to come forward now. Then the rest of you can go home.”

Pratt really didn't expect someone to just leap to their feet—but it would have been nice.

CHAPTER FOUR

A
s he spoke and answered the few questions he could, Pratt's eyes never stopped moving. The killer was somewhere in the room, and a telltale glance just might give him or her away. But there was nothing.

Browne, who had accompanied him from upstairs, picked up the dead conductor's overcoat, which had fallen off the back of his chair.

Pratt was momentarily distracted. “Put that down, please.”

“Detective?”

His head turned right, where the cello section sat. An older woman had spoken. Rail thin with gray hair, she reminded Pratt of one of his grade-school teachers.

“Yes?”

She got to her feet. “I'd like to speak with you.”

Pratt noticed that every eye in the room had turned to the woman. Not all were friendly.

It was best to keep his response as short as possible. “Yes, certainly. Would you come with me, please?”

Leaving the rehearsal room, the detective realized he didn't know where to take this woman. So he asked her to suggest someplace.

“I suppose the Green Room or one of the artists' dressing rooms.” She strode through a doorway and up the stairs, forcing Pratt to keep up. “You'll need my name.”

“Yes.”

“Eliza Wanamaker.”

Pratt realized this interview would be difficult. The woman was a “force of nature.” This is what he called people who were hard to control and direct when being questioned.

Arriving at stage level, Eliza gestured left and right. “Green Room or dressing room?”

“What's a Green Room?”

She looked at him with pity. “It's the room where everyone waits before going on stage. And before you ask, it's very seldom actually painted green.”

It was just to the right, bright and airy with large windows overlooking the loading dock for the stage. Sofas and chairs dotted the room, but they took their seats near the door.

The Wanamaker woman began speaking before Pratt could dig his notebook out of his inside jacket pocket.

“The first thing you must understand is that Luigi Spadafini was a first-class shit.”

Pratt couldn't help blinking at the unexpected comment. “Pardon me?”

“There's no doubt about his musical gifts. The man was a bloody genius with a baton. But as a person, he deserved to die.”

She sat back, crossing her arms. Her expression clearly dared Pratt to disagree.

“You're confessing?”

Eliza Wanamaker's guffaw filled the room. “Heavens no! I just thought you should know how the orchestra feels about our late conductor.” She leaned forward again. “For months we've entertained ourselves with increasingly ridiculous ways to do him in.”

“Sort of as a way to break the tension?”

She blinked in a surprised way. “Why, yes. I just never thought anyone would actually do it.”

“But you do have some suspicions?”

“No idea.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“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. “Touché!”

“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

P
ratt 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?”