Played to Death

by Meg Perry

  He was getting mixed signals. Ethan had made the effort to do something with Scott every day since they’d met - but that was it. It was true that they were still getting to know each other, and they’d only met a few days ago. But in that time Ethan hadn’t said anything that could clearly be interpreted as interest in a relationship. His actions pointed in that direction, but Scott couldn’t verbally pin him down to anything.

  Even more strangely, Ethan hadn’t indicated any interest in having sex. They’d been out together for six days in a row and hadn’t even exchanged saliva, much less other body fluids.

  The most dates Scott had ever had before having sex with a guy had been three. Six was - absurd.

  Come tomorrow, they’d be on Scott’s turf. He’d cook a fantastic dinner, they’d drink some excellent wine, and Scott would make his move. At least in his own house he wouldn’t have to leave in humiliation if Ethan turned him down.

  In the meantime, he needed to spend some time on the chat site. He’d noticed in reading old posts that the majority were made on Friday evenings. He was hoping to get lucky so he could get this gig over with.

  He logged on and scrolled through the comments that had been left since he’d last checked in. There were quite a few; traffic had picked up some. He read the first few - then stopped cold.

  Earlier in the week, at Jon Eckhoff’s suggestion, he’d asked a question to the forum. Did anyone know of a collector of Damien Coffey scores? Coffey was a cellist/composer like Jeremy Isaacson, a few years older, who’d been struck with ALS and had died about ten years ago. Scott had posted that he owned an original Coffey cello duet and would like to find a buyer.

  He’d gotten a few negative responses over the first two days. A couple of people had known collectors of other composers - unfortunately, not Isaacson. No one had responded to his question yesterday, and Scott figured no one would.

  But here was a response, from username violoncelle.

  “@juilliardgrad: I am unaware of a collector of Coffey scores, but will ask around. Why do you wish to sell?”

  Scott checked the time stamp on the post. Ten minutes ago. Could the person still be on the site? Could he get that lucky?

  “@violoncelle: I’m moving - it’s a good opportunity to pare down my collection.”

  He waited. One minute, then two, then three. He was about to give up when a response appeared.

  “@juilliardgrad: I see. Do you have originals from other composers?”

  Scott steeled himself. Jon had given him the words to say, but it still made him nervous to type them.

  “@violoncelle: I have a Britten and an Isaacson. Not interested in selling the Britten, but might be willing to part with the Isaacson.”

  The next response was almost immediate.

  “@juilliardgrad: Which Isaacson?”

  Scott thought, Here we go.

  “@violoncelle: A duet, Andante and Vivace. Do you know an Isaacson collector?”

  “@juilliardgrad: I am a collector. Can we discuss terms?”

  Scott thought, Holy shit. He snatched his phone and texted Jon quickly. On live chat with Isaacson collector. He wants to discuss terms. This evening?

  Jon responded immediately. Yes. After 7:00.

  “@violoncelle: Of course. When are you available?”

  “@juilliardgrad: Meet me for a drink at Hotel Bel Air bar this evening. 8:00?”

  “@violoncelle: Perfect. I’ll bring the score so you can examine it.”

  “@juilliardgrad: Excellent. How will I know you?”

  “@violoncelle: Blond, mid-thirties, six feet tall, will wear a blue shirt. You?”

  “@juilliardgrad: Gray, late sixties, 5’11”, will wear a blue pocket handkerchief.”

  An old guy. Scott wondered if he was gay. If so, the blue shirt might work to his advantage - he’d been told blue went well with his eyes.

  “@violoncelle: Wonderful. I’ll see you there.”

  “@juilliardgrad: Indeed. Thank you.”

  Scott waited a minute to make sure the conversation was over, then logged out and texted Jon. This evening, 8:00, Hotel Bel Air bar. Meeting for a drink.

  There was a pause, then Jon responded. Cool. I’ll be there ahead of time with Detective Aguilar and my supervisor, Tim Garcia.

  Scott wondered briefly why Kevin wouldn’t be there but figured it was none of his business. He texted back, Okay. Then he called Verna Ziegler.

  Verna was one of Scott’s fellow Philharmonic cellists, a motherly type who took all the younger players under her wing. She also owned a handful of rare cello scores. Scott - after getting permission from the police - had spoken with her earlier in the week. She owned the original Isaacson duet that Scott had offered violoncelle and had agreed to let Scott borrow it for the purposes of this ruse.

  Verna was also a Sherlock Holmes fan. When she answered, Scott said, “Hi, Verna. The game’s afoot.”

  “Oh, how exciting! Do you want to pick up the Isaacson score?”

  “If you don’t mind. Are you home now?”

  “Yes. Come on over.”

  Verna lived in Hancock Park. It wasn’t far out of Scott’s way to drive past Ethan’s house on the way to Verna’s, but he resisted the temptation.

  Verna met him at her front door with a glass of iced tea. “Someone bit?”

  “Yep. A man in his late sixties who wants to meet at the Hotel Bel Air. Know anyone like that?”

  She shook her head thoughtfully. “Doesn’t sound familiar. The other collectors I know are all musicians. I don’t personally know any musicians that can afford Bel Air.”

  Scott laughed. “No kidding.”

  Verna handed Scott a large clasp envelope with the Isaacson score inside. “Don’t spill anything on it.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Let me know what happens.” Verna grinned. “I’ll never sell this score now. I will cherish it always as the one used to catch a murderer.”

  “With any luck. Thanks, Verna.”

  Jamie

  Mid-morning Friday, my dad texted me. “I’m here. See you in a bit.”

  “Good.” I was only working until 2:30. Pete and Dad would pick up Mel and drive to campus, since the Jeep had a parking sticker that I paid good money for. They’d come to the library and get me - I was the one with the tickets - and we’d walk over to Royce Hall for the ceremony. After graduation, Ali and Mel were having us all over for a celebration. Dad would spend the night with Kevin and head home tomorrow.

  At 2:30 on the dot, Lance Scudieri called me. “Your family’s here.”

  “Be right there.” I closed up the office and went downstairs. Dad, Pete and Mel were waiting at the circulation desk; they all smiled when they saw me. Mel said, “You guys should have told me what the uniform was.”

  Dad, Pete and I were all wearing polo shirts and pressed khakis. Mel was in a silky t-shirt, drapey black dress pants and flats. I said, “You look great, as always.”

  Pete glanced at his watch. “Let’s go. I’d like to get a seat where we can see.”

  It wasn’t hard to spot Kevin as the graduates walked in - he was one of the tallest. When they were all seated, the speeches began. Thankfully they were short; a few of them by graduates of the extension program were inspiring. The graduates filed across the stage to receive their certificates. When Kevin’s name was called, we applauded wildly. He glanced up and flashed us a grin then went back to his seat.

  After the ceremony, we met him outside and took some pictures. I’d missed Kevin’s first graduation, as I was still in classes at Oxford, so I was delighted to be able to attend this one. A couple of people stopped to say hello to him and there was some general milling around before we headed for our car.

  When we got to Mel’s, Ali was already home, mixing up a salmon salad. When Mel filled a plate for herself, I said, “I thought you were vegan.”

  She made a wry face. “I couldn’t hang with it. I missed fish too much. So now I’m a pescetarian.”

&
nbsp; Ali said, “Mealtime is much easier now.”

  We took our time eating, relaxing with a beer, enjoying each other’s company. At one point, the discussion veered to weddings; Kevin said, “Oh. That reminds me. Scott arranged a meeting with a guy who might be the Isaacson collector.”

  I said, “No kidding. When?”

  Kevin glanced at his watch. “About a half hour from now. Jon, Tim and Donna are probably already in place.”

  “Where?”

  Kevin grimaced. “The Hotel Bel Air bar.”

  The site where Kevin had killed Hunter Mitchell. Pete said, “It’s a good thing you had graduation tonight.”

  “It is.” Kevin sighed. “I wouldn’t have looked forward to going back in there.”

  I said, “Did Scott get an Isaacson score from someone?”

  “Yeah, another Philharmonic player.”

  Pete asked, “Did the collector seem to be reluctant?”

  “No. He freely offered up that he was an Isaacson collector, and he said he was in his late sixties. We’re thinking now that he may not know about the murder or where the score came from.”

  I said, “If it was even him that bought it.”

  “Yeah. Lots of ifs. But some of our questions might get answered tonight.”

  Pete said, “What happened with the Hello Kitty bag?”

  Kevin drained his beer. “There was no score in it. Otherwise it seemed intact. Her license and credit cards appeared to be undisturbed, although there wasn’t any cash in her wallet. We lifted prints that weren’t Elena’s but didn’t get any hits.”

  I said, “She might not have had cash before she was killed.”

  “True. All of her other things were still there - house keys, girl stuff.”

  Mel laughed. “Girl stuff. I like that.”

  Scott

  Jon had told Scott to get to the bar early so he could choose his seat. When Scott walked in at 7:45 and scanned the room, he didn’t see any older men with blue pocket squares. That was a relief.

  He ordered a tonic and lime then chose a table away from the entrance, as he’d been instructed, with an open table beside it. Donna Aguilar, Jon and another man - medium height, medium build, Hispanic - casually moved from where they’d been standing at the bar to the table next to Scott. They didn’t acknowledge his presence, but they’d be able to hear everything Scott and the collector said.

  Scott laid the clasp envelope on the table in front of him. A waiter brought his drink, and he took a sip. His mouth was dry and his hands were clammy. He ran through some mental relaxation exercises, and began to feel somewhat better.

  At 7:58, Scott had nearly finished his drink when a silver-haired man wearing a suit with a blue pocket square walked into the bar. The man stopped and scanned the room, spotted Scott and smiled. He strode to the table and stopped. “Juilliardgrad, I presume?”

  Scott stood and held out his hand. “Scott Deering.”

  The man shook his hand firmly. “Tristan Oliver. What are you drinking?”

  “Tonic and lime.”

  “Superb. I’ll be right back.” Oliver went to the bar, placed an order, and returned. He sat across from Scott, smiling broadly, and nodded at the envelope. “Is that the Isaacson duet?”

  “Yes.” Scott handed the envelope over.

  Oliver removed the score gently and laid it on the table. “Oh my. This is in excellent condition.”

  Scott said, “It’s been well taken care of.”

  “Indeed.” Oliver flipped through the pages carefully, then sat back and smiled. “How did you come to have it?”

  “It was a gift.”

  Oliver steepled his fingers and raised an eyebrow. “How badly do you want to be rid of it?”

  Scott laughed. “Not badly enough to give it away.”

  Oliver’s smile widened. “Wise young man.”

  Scott decided to quit beating around the bush. “Do you have other Isaacson originals?”

  “Yes. I have all of his string quartets and just recently acquired his only cello solo. If our transaction is successful, I’ll have all of his duets as well.”

  Scott could see Jon and the other cops from the corner of his eye; none of them had twitched yet. He said, “Are you a cellist?”

  “Strictly amateur. I played in high school, but in college I was pre-med. Not much time for formal music since then, although I’ve continued to play for my own amazement.”

  Scott chuckled at the older man’s little joke. “So you’re a physician.”

  Something flickered in Oliver’s gaze - an unpleasant memory, Scott thought. “Yes. I retired three years ago.” His smile returned. “Now I have time to indulge in my hobbies.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “Yes.” Oliver leaned forward, suddenly all business. “I’m willing to pay you $1,000 for this.”

  “Oh.” Scott tried to look disappointed. “I was hoping to get $1,500. As you’ve seen, it’s in pristine condition.”

  “So it is.” Oliver considered for a moment. “I paid $1,500 for the solo piece I bought. I’d be willing to go as high as $1,200.”

  “Hm. Can I think about that for a few minutes?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you find the solo you bought through the chat site?”

  “Not our chat site, a different one. A fellow there asked if anyone was in the market for Isaacson originals. I told him I’d be interested in the solo and gave him my email address. A week later, he contacted me and told me he had it.”

  “Wow. Did he own it already?”

  Oliver looked surprised. “I assume so. How else would he have procured it so quickly?”

  Jon turned in his seat so that he was facing Scott’s table and said casually, “He might have stolen it.”

  Oliver was shocked. “Excuse me?”

  Jon flipped his badge out. “Detective Eckhoff, LAPD Homicide. This is my partner, Detective Garcia, and Detective Aguilar, LAPD Art Theft Unit. Two weeks ago, the original Isaacson solo was stolen from UCLA’s music library.”

  Oliver gasped. “Stolen? But - mine wasn’t stolen.”

  Garcia spoke. “How do you know?”

  Oliver’s stupefied state appeared to Scott to be real. “Well, I -” He stopped, staring at the police as Jon’s identification hit him. “Wait a minute. You’re homicide detectives?”

  Jon said, “The young woman who stole the piece was strangled to death the next day.”

  Oliver clapped his hand over his mouth. He looked stricken. He turned to Scott. “Are you a detective as well?”

  “No. I really am a cellist with the Philharmonic. They needed someone who spoke the language.” Scott reached across the table and lifted the score. “This belongs to a friend.”

  Donna said, “We’d like to take a look at that solo score you bought.”

  “Yes. Of course. I -” Oliver shook his head in disbelief. “This is so - unexpected.”

  Donna was radiating skepticism. “Did you not notice the university barcode on the cover?”

  That confused Oliver. “Cover? There was no cover.”

  Garcia said, “Do you live nearby?”

  “Yes. Just a mile up Stone Canyon, at the end of Fontenelle.”

  Jon stood. “We’d like to follow you up there, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course.” Oliver stood as well. “Believe me, detectives. If the score I purchased was stolen - I had no idea. And it wasn’t a young woman who sold it to me.”

  Donna asked, “Who did sell it to you?”

  “A man named Chance Percival.”

  Garcia raised his eyebrows. The name sounded fake even to Scott. Jon said, “Can you describe him?”

  “Yes - although he was rather nondescript. Mid-forties, I’d guess, thick-framed glasses, medium height, wearing a severely tacky toupee.”

  Donna and Garcia looked unhappy. Jon said, “May we follow you to your house?”

  “Of course.” Oliver took his keys from his pocket and headed fo
r the exit.

  Scott trailed after Jon. The adrenalin was draining from him, and he was exhausted. “I don’t have to come, do I?”

  “You’re not allowed to come.” Jon grinned and thumped Scott’s shoulder. “You did a great job. Completely cool.”

  Scott snorted. “Not really. Will you let me know if the score is the stolen one?”

  “Sure. I’ll text you.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Scott turned away from Jon, then turned back. “Where’s Kevin?”

  “Graduation.” Jon opened the driver’s door of an exceptionally ugly sedan. “Later.”

  Scott watched both cars pull out, thinking, Graduation from what?

  Jamie

  We were still at Ali and Mel’s when Kevin’s phone rang. He checked the screen and said, “Ah. It’s Jon. The sting must be over.” He answered, “Tell me something good. No kidding. Who’d he buy it from? Huh. You know, that name sounds familiar. No, Tristan Oliver.”

  We’d all been listening politely. When Kevin said Tristan Oliver, Pete and I gasped. Kevin gave us a funny look. “Hang on, Jon.” He said, “You two know Tristan Oliver?”

  I said, “We sure do. Fertility Research, Inc? The business partner of the woman who killed my friend Dan Christensen? Who tried to kill Pete and me?”

  Kevin’s jaw dropped. “Damn. That’s right.” He said to Jon, “The guy was an innocent bystander in a scam involving his practice three years ago. It’s a long story. Tell Tim he’s the Fertility Research guy.”

  There was a pause while Kevin listened. “Okay. If you get prints off the music, check them against the unknowns on our vic’s wallet. Right. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He hung up.

  Pete said, “Tristan Oliver. I’ll be damned.”

  I said, “Did he know he’d bought stolen property?”

  “Jon and Tim don’t think so. He was completely cooperative.”

  “Who’d he buy the score from?”

  “A middle-aged man in a bad toupee who gave his name as Chance Percival.”

  Pete snorted. “If you’re going to make up a name, at least make it something believable.”

  Kevin said, “Yeah, well, Oliver bought it.”

  I said, “Based on his history, I don’t think he’s a very good judge of character.”