Orchestrated Murder (4 page)

The Scene of Crime team had marked a number of things too small to see on the floor. With numbers beside each one, a team member was busy snapping photos. Two more were dusting the window frames for prints. The gray powder they used completely covered the desk. The team leader was crouched over the body watching the medical examiner do his thing.

Pratt called to the team leader, a man he knew well. “Frank, can you spare a minute?”

Frank Johnson walked to the doorway. “What can I do for you, Pratt?”

“How far have you gotten?”

Pratt braced himself. Johnson, known as a bit of a wiseass, liked to answer questions with song titles. He didn't disappoint.

“Well, I'll tell ya, it seems to be a case of ‘Nothing from Nothing Leaves Nothing.' Whoever did the deed didn't leave much behind as far as we can see.”

“No fingerprints?”

“Not many. Mr. Conductor Man over there seems to have been a bit of a neatnik. According to that guy Browne, the office would be cleaned at least once a day.”

“Not many? I suppose you're going to have to fingerprint that whole crew in the basement, aren't you?”

Pratt sighed. “I suppose it will come to that. How about the body and the murder weapon?”

“We're not going to get anything out of the murder weapon, if I know my job. I found a few smudges consistent with gloves. Hard to tell what kind. We'll check for residue, but it will take time.”

“And the body?”

“There's a bruise in the center of the guy's back consistent with somebody leaning on him with one knee and pulling back. That metal cable—”

“Cello string,” Pratt added absently.

“Right. Your young assistant told us that's what it was. Anyway, the cello string dug into the guy's throat pretty deeply. A lot of bruising there.”

Pratt and Johnson were joined by the medical examiner. “Death would have been pretty quick with that type of ligature,” he told them as he peeled off his latex gloves. “Just the amount of time it took the victim's lungs to run out of oxygen.”

“And those drum mallets used to secure the ends of the cello string?” Pratt asked both of them.

The medico answered. “It would have been hard to hold a small cable like that really tight with bare or even gloved hands. Quite ingenious to use those sticks, actually. The murderer could make the length of the loop smaller so he could apply more pressure. If your arms are extended out like this”—the doctor held his arms far apart—“you can't put as much oomph behind it.”

“Are you sure it was a male that did this?”

Both men looked doubtful to Pratt. Great. If they'd both come out strongly that they thought the murderer was male, it might have made things simpler.

“Hard to say,” Johnson finally answered. “The stiff wasn't a very big guy. Good strong woman might have been able to do the deed.”

“Doc?” Pratt asked, turning to him.

“I'll know more after the autopsy.”

The usual answer from a medical examiner.

“Can you give me
anything
to work with?”

Both men looked at Pratt and then at each other.

Johnson said, “Well, there is one thing.”

“What?”

“We found an open fountain pen on the desk. The nib was still wet, so it can't have been open that long.”

“Can you give me a time.”

“An hour only.”

“And what was he writing?”

“Can't help you there. There was nothing on the desk, floor, wastebasket or on the body.”

“Maybe he wrote on a pad?” the doctor threw in. “You might get impressions from the paper underneath.”

Johnson shook his head and told him, “That only happens on tv.”

“Gut reaction, Johnson,” Pratt said, changing the subject. “Do you think you're going to find anything more useful here?”

Johnson sighed heavily. “No. This murderer was smart. So unless he or she was also extremely unlucky, no, we're not going to find anything. That's not to say we won't keep trying though.”

Pratt nodded. “I appreciate that.”

One of the other techs walked up. “We're ready to move the body now.”

Pratt and the medical examiner stepped farther back in the hall to be out of the way.

“Will I see you at the autopsy?” he asked Pratt.

“Do you expect to find anything interesting?”

He shrugged. “Not really. But we always live in hope, don't we?”

Both men turned to watch the removal of the body.

“Detective Pratt, Detective Pratt!” Browne shouted as he appeared at the end of the hall. “I have to speak to you!”

The orchestra manager was coming fast. Behind him, looking much more relaxed, was Ellis. His face had a bit of a smirk.

Browne stopped right in front of Pratt, puffing like a bellows. “Your assistant has barred me from using my office! How can I do what you asked me to do if I can't use my office?”

Ellis shrugged. “I needed an Internet connection for my laptop.”

“You can use the secretary's desk down the hall.”

Pratt looked at Ellis, whose face was now studiously blank. What was the kid up to?

“We're all having to put up with a lot today,” Pratt said.

“But I have things I must be doing— right now!”

“I'll make sure you can get back into your office ASAP. Okay?”

Browne looked as if he wanted to say something else, but Pratt returned his pointed glare. After a few seconds, Browne turned away and stomped off.

Pratt waited until he was well out of earshot before asking Ellis, “What was that all about?”

Now Ellis grinned. “Our friend Browne seemed a tad too eager to get into his office. He was the person who found the body, after all.”

“I like the way you're thinking, my boy,” Pratt said with a smirk of his own. “Now have you got anything else for me?”

“I went down to the rehearsal hall to look for you. Spadafini's overcoat was there, so I checked the pockets. His cell phone wasn't there, but in looking around, I found it on the floor. It appears to have been kicked under the conducting podium.”

“I'm glad one of us is thinking,” Pratt muttered under his breath.

“I checked his call history. There were several recent calls to a number on the other side of the country.”

“And?”

“I did a reverse lookup of it. It's the phone number of the president of a rival orchestra—one that's currently looking for a new conductor.”

CHAPTER NINE

T
his is unexpected, Pratt thought.

“Did you call that number?” he asked Ellis.

“Naturally,” the younger man answered. “My mother always says I was born curious. And what's more interesting, the phone number is for the chairman of the board's home phone number, not his office number.”

“That's suggestive.”

“I thought so too.”

“So tell me about your phone call,” Pratt said.

“The man himself answered on the first ring.”

“What was his response when you told him what had happened?”

“He already knew. One of the other board members had just called him with the news,” Ellis said.

“Lordy, that was quick.”

“This is a really big deal. Spadafini was the hottest young conductor on the planet. And I checked out the street. You wouldn't believe the number of reporters and trucks out there.”

Pratt could feel the pressure rising several more notches. “So did you learn anything else helpful?”

“I think you should get this information firsthand.” Ellis handed over his cell phone. “I told him you'd call right away.”

The detective had to admit he was impressed with Ellis. The lad could think on his feet—not that he'd say anything. The last thing a green detective needed was too much praise. That route led to a big head and sloppy work.

Pratt took the offered phone. It was already ringing. “This guy's name?”

“Julius Roseman.”

The phone line clicked to life. “Hello?”

“Julius Roseman, please,” Pratt said.

“This is he. Detective Pratt?”

“Yes. Would you be willing to answer some questions informally?”

“Certainly, although I have to say I'm still reeling from shock at what's happened. I spoke to Maestro Spadafini just this morning, quite early.”

“May I ask what the conversation was about?”

“Well, there's no use hiding it now. It's all going to come out, I suppose. Spadafini was in talks with our orchestra's board to become our conductor.”

Pratt opened his eyes wide at that news. Ellis flashed a quick smile and nodded.

“And does the management of his current orchestra know about this?”

“I know what you're thinking, Detective Pratt, but I assure you this is all above board. Although we've obviously had to be careful to keep everything under wraps.”

“But did they know they were about to lose their star conductor?”

The phone was silent for a moment. “Spadafini was going to tell them,” Roseman finally answered carefully. “He felt their offer of a bit more money was, shall we say, an insult to his current international standing. Our orchestra was prepared to pay him what he wanted. It's as simple as that.”

“So he was going to jump ship.”

“Well, you put it less delicately than I would, but yes. He was going to come to us.”

Pratt frowned. “Was a contract signed?”

“My secretary was here preparing it. That is, until we got the news. Now, Detective Pratt, unless you have any more pressing questions, I have an emergency meeting of our board to attend. I'm sure you understand.”

Pratt thought for a moment. “I will be asking your local police to come over and take a statement. They'll contact you to arrange a time. I'd also like to ask you to keep this information to yourself for the moment.”

Roseman laughed. “Believe me, the last thing I want is our orchestra getting sucked into this mess.”

“I won't keep you, then. Thank you for your help.”

The line went dead. Obviously, Pratt had been dismissed by his better. He handed the cell phone back to Ellis.

“So what did he say?” Ellis asked.

Pratt normally would have resisted telling the youngster anything. After all, it wasn't as if they were partners. The older detective preferred working alone. This time, though, he felt thinking out loud might be of benefit, might help him order the facts in his mind, so he told Ellis.

“What's the next step?” the kid asked.

Pratt was about to answer when his walkie-talkie squawked. “Pratt,” he answered simply.

It was the sergeant up at the stage entrance. “The chair of the symphony's board of directors is here. He's demanding to speak with you.”

“Just what I need,” the detective muttered to himself. “Tell him I'll be there in a moment.” Pratt switched his walkie-talkie off and turned to Ellis. “I want you to dig around in Spadafini's past. See if you can find any more dirt.”

“Got it,” Ellis said and trotted off.

“Now, let's see what the big shot wants,” Pratt said to himself with a heavy sigh as he headed for the stairs.

What he didn't need now was another person barking at him.

CHAPTER TEN

P
ratt found a casually dressed gray-haired man waiting by the security desk. His foot tapped impatiently.

“Officer Pratt?”

“I am Detective Lieutenant Pratt,” was the curt reply.

“James Norris. I heard what the sergeant here said to you, so you know who I am. I demand to know what's going on.”

The best way to handle this joker would be in private, Pratt knew. “Perhaps we could talk in your office?”

Using the elevator, they arrived back upstairs at the opposite end of the corridor from Spadafini's office. Right in front of the elevator doors was a desk for a secretary. Pratt would have expected Browne to be there. Instead, they found the orchestra manager in his boss's office.

The boss was clearly not pleased.

“What are you doing in here, Browne?” Norris demanded.

“The police have thrown me out of my office and I need the use of a computer and the Internet.”

“My secretary's desk is perfectly adequate for that.”

Browne's face was carefully wiped of any emotion as he got to his feet. “I judged it would be better to work on the official press release in private.”

“You judged wrongly. Now please leave. The detective is going to bring me up to speed on how his investigation is going.”

Pratt caught the deep scowl on Browne's face as he shut the door.

“Tell me what you've found out about this tragedy,” the president said as he took his seat behind the desk. He motioned the detective into another in front of it.

Pratt sized the man up for a moment. Clearly, he was used to people jumping on command. Maybe it would be good for Norris to jump for someone else for a change.

“I'd like to ask you a few questions first, if I may,” Pratt began.

“I suppose that's understandable,” was the answer as Norris leaned back in his chair. “All right. Ask away, Detective.”

Pratt flipped open his notebook. “Give me your impressions of Spadafini.”

“Let's see…A musical genius, absolutely brilliant. Hardworking. Difficult at times. The man knew what he wanted and wouldn't take second best for anything. The orchestra has really flourished under him.”

“Even though they didn't like him?”

“Yes, I suppose that has to be taken into account. As I said, he wouldn't take anything but the best—especially in performance. Confidentially, the board encouraged him to get rid of the deadwood. We had a lot of musicians who were well past their best-before date.”

“Would that include the two musicians who died last year?”