Played to Death

by Meg Perry

  I made a note of the call number on my phone; several other people wrote it down as well. Dr. Fleming said, “It’s an original score, handwritten by the composer. It’s sewn into a heavy cardboard folder with binding tape on the spine. The bar code and call number are on the cover, so if the cover is removed, the piece will have to be identified by looking at the music itself.” She stepped back.

  Dr. Madorsky stepped forward and gestured to the cop. “This is Detective Donna Aguilar from LAPD’s Art Theft Unit. She is coordinating with the UCLA Police Department in the investigation.”

  Aguilar handed a stack of business cards to Dr. Loomis and Conrad, which they began to distribute. Aguilar said, “This is my card; if any of you have any information about the missing piece of music, please don’t hesitate to contact me. Anything you tell me will be held in strictest confidence.”

  It sounded like Aguilar thought the theft must be an inside job. I wasn’t the only one who thought that, apparently; a few of the others looked unhappy. I’d never been to the music library and didn’t know how tight their security was. If they were locked down like Special Collections, it would have to have been an inside job - Special Collections was harder to get into than Fort Knox. But if they had open stacks like we did, it might be possible for a student to steal a piece of music.

  I wondered vaguely if Scott was familiar with the missing music. But I felt sure that if Aguilar had any questions about it, she’d be contacting the Philharmonic. I didn’t need to offer up Scott’s name.

  Besides, he had enough problems, what with the murder at the wedding.

  After Aguilar’s announcement, she left with Dr. Madorsky and Dr. Fleming. The rest of us stayed for our regular meeting. Afterward, I was standing to leave when Dr. Loomis said, “Jamie? Dr. Madorsky would like to see you in her office.”

  Oh, shit. What had I done? “Yes, ma’am.”

  I went back into the university libraries offices and presented myself to Dr. Madorsky’s assistant, who knocked on her door and announced my arrival. Dr. Madorsky came to the door; I saw that Dr. Fleming and Detective Aguilar were still with her. “Jamie, thanks for coming.”

  Like I had a choice. I said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  Aguilar said, “I understand that you have some experience with police work.”

  Oh, God. Liz and I had written a paper on librarian-police cooperation, and the word had gotten out. I said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And your brother is West LA Homicide?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Dr. Madorsky said, “Please. Have a seat.” She dragged a third chair over into the grouping across from her desk.

  Aguilar said, “I’d like to ask for your assistance in the investigation of this theft.”

  At least I wasn’t in any trouble. I said, “How can I help?”

  Aguilar and Dr. Fleming looked at each other. Dr. Fleming said, “The chance that this theft was an inside job is a strong possibility.”

  Aguilar said, “Unfortunately, people don’t always tell the police everything they know. They may be more forthcoming with someone they see as a colleague.”

  I said, “You want me to poke around asking questions.”

  “Essentially, yes.” Aguilar smiled. “Are you familiar with the music library?”

  “No, ma’am. I’ve never been there.”

  Dr. Fleming said, “But you must be friends with some of our staff.”

  I said, “Mark Gladwell’s still with you, right?”

  “He is.”

  “Mark and I were in library school together. We were friendly, although we haven’t seen much of each other lately.”

  Aguilar said, “Then this seems a good time to renew your acquaintance.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I glanced at Dr. Madorsky. “Is this considered official library business?”

  She chuckled. “It is. I’ve cleared it with Dr. Loomis.”

  “Thank you.”

  Aguilar asked, “Did you get one of my cards?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Great.” She stood. “I’m going to the music library from here with Dr. Fleming. I’d appreciate a call from you whether or not you learn anything.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Aguilar and Dr. Fleming left. Dr. Madorsky said, “I hate to put you in this spot, Jamie, but I thought you might be an asset to the investigation.”

  “Yes, ma’am, it’s all right. At least there are no bodies involved this time. It’s just a theft.”

  “Yes. And not a particularly high-value theft, at that.”

  “What is the value of the piece?”

  “Dr. Fleming estimated it at approximately $1,500.”

  I whistled softly. “Why isn’t it in special collections?”

  She shrugged. “You’re asking me? My second masters is in geography.”

  I laughed. “I didn’t know that.”

  She grinned and seemed far less intimidating. “Maybe to musicians, this piece isn’t special enough for special collections.”

  “Maybe.” It occurred to me that Scott would know the true value of the score of a cello solo. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Scott

  When Scott woke up Monday he panicked momentarily, thinking he must have overslept - then relaxed when he realized he was on summer vacation. The Philharmonic was off from Memorial Day through mid-July, when rehearsals resumed. Usually during the summer Scott would attend a festival, but this year he’d decided not to. He was going to attend a week of master classes, led by the principal cellist of the Philadelphia Orchestra, in San Francisco during the first week of July. Until then, for the rest of June, he was going to catch up on his reading and enjoy being single.

  He was playing - even when the Philharmonic was on break, he played three hours a day - when, from a distance, he heard his phone ring. He never let a phone call disturb his playing, so he’d left the phone in the kitchen. When he finished the piece, he went downstairs and listened to the message.

  His stomach fell when he heard the voice. It was Jamie.

  “Hey, Scott, it’s Jamie. Sorry to hear you’ve gotten tangled up in that wedding murder. But I’m calling about something different. There’s been a theft from our music library, and you might be able to give me some background information that would help.” A wry-sounding laugh. “I figure you’d rather talk to me than the police, although I’m not sure about that… Anyway, if you could stop by my office this afternoon, that’d be best, but if you can’t you can call me.” He recited a number. “That’s my office number. I’ll be here from three until six. Thanks.”

  Scott checked his watch. If he went to see Jamie around four, it might be easier to find a parking space.

  Having resigned himself to the prospect of having to see Jamie, he climbed back into the loft, picked up his bow and resumed playing.

  Jamie

  Scott didn’t call back, and I wasn’t sure he’d show up. If I didn’t hear anything by the end of the day, I’d sic Aguilar on him.

  But at 4:15, Lance Scudieri called from circulation, speaking formally for the benefit of the visitor. “Dr. Brodie, there’s a gentleman named Scott Deering to see you.”

  “Thanks, Lance, I’m expecting him. Send him up.”

  A minute later Scott appeared in my doorway. “Hi.”

  I stood up. “Come on in.”

  Scott walked into my office and looked around. “You redecorated. It suits you.”

  “Thank you.” It did suit me. Because I hadn't gotten a new office during the renovation, the library administration had allowed me to redecorate the concrete-block cell that I lived in. I'd painted the walls a soothing color, sort of a light moss green, and lined the walls to my right and left with bookshelves made of 1x6 boards stained a warm dark brown. Most of the shelves were jammed with books, but the top shelf was at eye level and contained photos and memorabilia.

  Scott went to the shelves and examined one of the photos of Pete and me, taken up at Eagle Rock
during a hike. It was one of my favorite pictures of the two of us. “This is your partner? The guy I met at the wedding?”

  “Yeah. Pete Ferguson.”

  “How long have you been together?”

  “Three years. We started dating pretty soon after you broke up with me.”

  “Hm.” Scott examined the rest of the pictures. “Is this a recent one of your dad?”

  “Yeah. That's his girlfriend.”

  “He has a girlfriend now?”

  “It’s a casual thing.”

  “He looks great. Hasn't changed a bit.”

  “It's only been three years.”

  “True.” Scott took down a picture of my nephews Colin and Gabe from earlier in the year. “These are Jeff's kids?”

  “Yeah. They've changed some, huh?”

  “Kids will do that.” He replaced the photo and turned to face me. “Listen, before we talk about this music thing, I want to apologize to you.”

  I asked, although I knew the answer. “For what?”

  “For breaking up with you the way I did. That was a dick move.” Scott bit his lip. “I was going to talk to you about it at dinner that night. Then when you ended up in the hospital, I just…”

  I said, “You needed to get it over with.”

  “Yeah. And I convinced myself that it would be better for you to get it over with too.” He shook his head. “I am so sorry. I should have waited. I should have -”

  I held up my hand. “It was a long time ago. And it left me free to start dating Pete when he asked me out, so it’s worked out for me. Apology accepted.”

  Scott slumped in his chair a little, picking at a thread on a shirt button - his tell for embarrassment. “I never wanted to be that kind of person.”

  “You’d never do that again, would you?”

  He looked up, surprised. “No.”

  “Then you’re not that kind of person anymore.” I gave him a wry smile. “Are you seeing anyone now?”

  “I just broke up with the latest. It was no great loss.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Brent Fogerty. Worked in the men’s department at Neiman-Marcus. I met him when he sold me a suit.”

  “Ah.”

  Scott shrugged. “I've dated four different guys since I broke up with you. I think I'm taking a sabbatical.”

  “That might be a good idea. Clear your head, think about what you're really looking for.”

  Scott drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair for a minute, another gesture I recognized, then waved his hand in dismissal. “Anyway. I can’t imagine what I can help you with, but you’re right, I’d rather talk to you than the cops.”

  “Okay, here’s the story. There’s been a theft of a score from our music library. The UCLA police and LAPD’s Art Theft unit are investigating, but the University Librarian has asked me to help from the inside. The score is a cello solo.”

  Scott’s interest was piqued. “Which one?”

  “The only cello solo by a composer named Jeremy Isaacson. Written in 1987.”

  “I know that one. The Adagio and Allegro.” Scott gave me a pointed look. “Isaacson died in 1989 of AIDS. He was 38.”

  “Oh. Was he a cellist?”

  “He was. Not a particularly renowned one. His forte was composition. He wrote several other pieces, for cello and piano and for string ensembles.”

  “Our music library director estimated the value of the piece at $1,500.”

  “If it’s the original, that’s probably true. Don’t they lock stuff like that up?”

  “That surprised me too. Why would anyone steal it, though?”

  Scott shook his head thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Unless there’s a collector out there.”

  “A collector?”

  “Yeah. People collect original music scores like they do old books. Serious collectors usually limit themselves to a particular composer, genre, or period. There may be someone out there who collects Isaacson and didn’t have this piece.”

  “Would there be any reason for a cellist to want the piece to play from?”

  “No. If all you want to do is play it, you don’t want a valuable copy because you’re going to write on it. Make notes to yourself.”

  “Is it possible to find out if there’s a collector out there? Are there, like - chat rooms or online groups for collectors?”

  Scott shrugged. “I suppose. There are online groups for everything, aren’t there? That’s more your area than mine.”

  “Yeah.” I had some research to do. “Could you ask around to your Philharmonic pals? See if anyone knows of an Isaacson collector?”

  “We’re on break for the next five weeks. I won’t see anyone for a while.”

  “Oh. That’s right.” I grinned. “We’ll leave that to the cops, then.”

  Scott said, “Besides, if the collector is a cellist and stole the piece, they’re hardly likely to tell me about it, are they?”

  “No. They won’t tell the police either, but at least the cops have a better idea of when someone is lying to them.”

  I walked Scott out of the library into the sunshine and said, “Thanks. I appreciate the help.”

  Scott said, “I have to admit, this is interesting. Will you let me know what the cops find out? Um - you can text me or something.”

  I grinned. Scott’s curiosity had overcome his hesitation to maintain contact. “Sure, I’ll let you know.”

  Scott

  As Scott walked away from the library, he blew out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

  That didn’t go so badly.

  His phone rang as he reached his car, and he glanced at it. Wiley. Scott sighed and answered. “Hi, Wiley.”

  “Scott. My God.” Wiley’s voice was subdued. “I can’t believe what happened to Elena.”

  “No shit. I had to identify her body.”

  Wiley sucked in a breath. “I am so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. There’s nothing you could have done.”

  “Have you talked to the police?”

  Wiley said, “Of course. A couple of times.”

  “Do they have any ideas about what might have happened?”

  Scott snorted. “If they do, they haven’t shared them with me. I know one of the detectives on the case, though. Used to date his brother. He’ll find the killer.”

  “Which one?”

  “Detective Brodie. The bigger, blonder one.”

  “Oh. The other one did most of the talking.”

  “You were interviewed in person? You’re back from Portland already?”

  “Yeah, late last night. My wife is staying for a few more days. The cops came to see me this morning.” Wiley sighed. “I need to see Elena’s parents - to apologize - but I don’t… What if they blame me?”

  “Wiley, how could they blame you? You were hundreds of miles away.”

  “I know, I know. But I’m the one who put her on the quartet. If she hadn’t been there…”

  Scott sighed. He felt bad for Wiley, but the guy was wallowing. Scott didn’t have much patience for wallowing. “If she hadn’t been there, she would have been killed someplace else. Whoever did this was after Elena for some reason, not a random violinist. It’s not your fault, Wiley.”

  Wiley took a deep shuddering breath. “I know, you’re right. Listen - Elena’s memorial service is Thursday afternoon. Would you come to it? With me?”

  Scott couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do less than attend a funeral for a teenager. “Why? I barely knew the girl.”

  “But you were there. You’re one of the last people to see her alive. And - I have to go, and I don’t want to face that alone.”

  “What about someone else from the college? Or your wife?”

  “The college will send a representative but not anyone who really knew her. And my wife will still be in Portland. Please, Scott? As a favor to me?”

  Scott tried to think of an excuse and couldn’t. Shit. “Okay, fine. But you
owe me. Again.”

  “I know, and I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” Wiley sounded pathetically grateful.

  Scott got the address for the church and said goodbye. He put his keys in the ignition but sat there for a minute, shaking his head.

  He really needed to learn how to say no to Wiley.

  Jamie

  Over dinner, I filled Pete in on the theft and my conversation with Scott. Pete said, “How hard is it to steal something from the library?”

  “Not as hard as it should be. We have security gates that are supposed to sound an alarm when an item is removed without being checked out. But they don’t always work like they’re supposed to. I’ve also known cases where someone removed the pages with the barcodes on them and walked out with the book.”

  “What about a rare piece of music like that? Shouldn’t it have been better secured?”

  “It should. I’m going to the music library tomorrow to see what their setup is. I’d think a piece like that would at least be in the reference section, not the circulating collection.”

  “I remember when we went to your Special Collections area to look at the copy of the Book of Kells. It was like getting screened at the airport.”

  “Yeah. The things that are in there are truly rare and highly valuable. It’s nearly impossible to steal something.”

  Pete said, “It makes me think it might be an inside job.”

  “That’s what Detective Aguilar suspects.”

  “Who’s this guy you know that works there?”

  “Mark Gladwell. He was in my class in library school, but I haven’t seen him much since then.”

  Pete tapped on my plate with his fork. “Be careful. If it was an inside job, and someone’s feeling jumpy, they may react badly to someone asking questions.”

  Tuesday, June 9

  Jamie

  When I got to work the next morning, I dealt with the immediate issues in my email then told Liz and Olga that I was going to the music library. I took a folder so it would look like I was on official business and went to track down Mark Gladwell.