The Mozart Conspiracy

by Phil Swann

  "What can I say? She changed her mind," Bowen nearly squeaked. "Look, when she dropped you off, she didn't know I was going to call her and beg her to let me come over. If it means anything to you, it took a hell of a lot of convincing on my part before she said yes. I'm glad she did, though. It was the most incredible night of my life. I've never felt so much…"

  David looked out the window as Bowen recounted his passionate rendezvous with J.P. It felt weird, and he didn't know why. He and J.P. had always been very open about their flings and one-night-stands. But this was different somehow.

  "…she's funny too. I've never laughed so much in bed in my life—”

  David slammed his hand on the dashboard. "Shut up. I don't need to know the details, okay? I just want to know where she is. Now either you know something or you don't. If you don't, then fine, I'll thank you for the ride home, and you can be on your way. But if she's hurt, and I find out that you had anything to do with it, I swear, cop or no cop, I'll rip your heart out your mouth."

  Bowen's reaction took David by surprise. He smiled.

  "What the hell's so funny?"

  "Jean Ann said you had a temper. She talked about you a lot last night. She really described you perfectly. Except for what a talented musician you are, I wouldn't know about that. But everything else, wow, she really nailed you. Tell you the truth, it was getting kind of annoying. I was beginning to think she was in love with you or something. But she explained your relationship."

  David scowled at Bowen. "Yeah, and what would that be?"

  "You know, friends…best friends…really special friends. Right?"

  David rubbed his hands over his face. I don't even know where to start. "Okay, I need some answers," David said, leaning his head back on the headrest. "Let's backup. You met J.P. last night at the police station."

  "Right, the Pacific Division."

  "How?”

  "What do you mean, how?" Bowen asked with a slight chuckle.

  Bowen's casualness irritated David. Venom filled his words. "How does a cop get a damned date with someone who's at the jail to bail out a friend?"

  "Oh that," Bowen said, seemingly a little embarrassed, "Well, from what I hear, it's not really that uncommon, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I wasn't really on duty. I mean, I was in uniform, but I was coming off my watch and getting ready to go home. Mr. Webber, I never intended for what happened to happen. It was just…fate, I guess."

  David was growing more impatient. "Go on."

  "Well, like I said, I was leaving, and there was this woman—Jean Ann—standing in front of booking looking kind of lost. I asked if she needed help. She said a friend of hers was brought in, and she was there to bail him out. She was really cute, you know?”

  David didn't reply.

  "Anyway, I showed her where she needed to go. What more do you want me to say? We talked—we connected—we just clicked. Hasn't that ever happened to you, Mr. Webber?"

  David looked at the young police officer. Oh, jeez, J.P. He's so young.

  "Anyway, she got you cut loose, and by the time you were released, we'd decided to get together this weekend. We said goodbye, and that was it. But I just couldn't wait until the weekend. You know how it is. I couldn't stop thinking about her. So I called her last night after I got home. I knew it was nuts, and I told her so. But you know what she said? She said, that's okay, I like nuts, luv. You know how she talks. Oh man, she's just great."

  David closed his eyes. "Yeah, she is that."

  Bowen pulled over to the curb in front of David's apartment and turned off the engine. "She was fine when I left. About an hour later, I get a call from a buddy down at Pacific. He wanted to double check to see if I’d hooked up with the woman I was talking to. That really pissed me off too. I mean, it was none of his business, and I told him so. But he said the reason he was asking was because the woman's friend had an All Points out on him. That was you, Mr. Webber. He just wanted me to be careful."

  David took a deep breath and put his face in his hands.

  Bowen continued, "I had to call Jean Ann and tell her. But there was no answer. So I jumped in my car and drove back to her place. I must've knocked a hundred times on her door, but nothing. I figured she must've heard, so I raced over here to your place. I got here as you were being put into the squad."

  Bowen looked at David for the first time since stopping the car. "A buddy works the desk at Van Nuys. That's how I learned that Jean Ann was missing and you'd become the number one suspect."

  David talked into his hands, "But you knew I couldn't have had anything to do with J.P. being missing ’cause you were with her?"

  "Right. I didn't leave until close to seven, and she was fine. They didn't come for you until after seven. You couldn't have done anything to Jean Ann. It was impossible. Plus, Mr. Webber, the way Jean Ann talked about you guys, I knew you wouldn't do anything to her."

  David raised his head from his hands and looked at the young police officer. The boy was sincere.

  "Well," David said, "at least that explains how I got out of jail. An LAPD officer is a pretty damn good alibi."

  Bowen looked away.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Mr. Webber, that's not why you're out of jail, and I'm not your alibi. You're only one of two people who know I was with Jean Ann last night."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Mr. Webber, the department can't know about me and Jean Ann."

  "The hell they can't," David replied. "You can tell them—”

  "I can tell them nothing," Bowen shouted back.

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm a cop. And my old man is Arthur Bowen."

  "Who the hell is Arthur Bowen, and why should I give a shit?"

  "Jesus, man, don't you read the papers or watch the news? Dad—Arthur Bowen—is the deputy district attorney of Los Angeles county. That's the other person who knows."

  David laughed. "I don't give a shit if he's the president of the United States, you're gonna tell the police you were with J.P. last night, and she was fine this morning when you left her place."

  "No, I'm not," Bowen said, his voice almost squeaking again.

  "Then I will."

  Bowen looked David directly in the eye. "And if you do, you'll be back in jail so fast you won't know what hit you."

  David took in Bowen's cold stare. The understanding came like a punch in the face.

  "Holy shit," David whispered. "Your old man got me out."

  Bowen looked away.

  "Why get me out? Why not just keep your mouth shut?"

  An expression of sheer pain covered Bowen's face. "Because that would have been wrong, Mr. Webber, and I'm a decent guy and so is Dad. Mr. Webber, there is no hard evidence against you, as far as I can tell. Everything they got on you is circumstantial. You know what that means?"

  "I've watched a cop show once or twice in my life, Bowen—yeah, I know what it means," David answered.

  "The circumstances look like you killed the guy at the hotel and are responsible for Jean Ann's disappearance. Now, I don’t know much about the murder. Hell, for all I know you could have done it, but I doubt it, not the way Jean Ann talked about you. And I know you didn't do anything to Jean Ann, but Mr. Webber, why should I destroy my life and my dad's career if I don't have to? I told Dad about it, and he got you out. But only because he reviewed the evidence and decided there wasn't enough to keep you locked up. I promise you if there were, you'd still be in there right now. Dad's an honest man. He would sacrifice me, and himself, in a second if it were the right thing to do."

  "Well, isn't that noble," David replied. "I still don't get it. You could've just as easily let your dad pull a few strings, get me out, and never tell me. Your conscience would be clear, and no one would be the wiser. Why risk telling me?”

  Bowen tightened his jaw and looked at David like a man about to explode. "Because I want you to help me find Jean Ann."

  "You've gotta be kidding?"

&nb
sp; "No, I'm not. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but we—I mean we the police—are right about one thing. You're the connection. The murder of the old man at the hotel and Jean Ann's disappearance, you're the common thread, the common circumstance." The young man paused. "Don't you want to help?”

  David lifted his finger in front of the boy's face. "Bowen, I'm going to move heaven and earth to find J.P. But the idea of you getting me out of jail to help you find her is just a little too—”

  "Too what," Bowen said, sounding even younger.

  "Movie of the week. Look, Bowen, you're a cop. Doesn’t this go against everything you guys are taught? And isn't it illegal for me to—"

  "I think I love her!" Bowen broke, dropping his head in defeat.

  Oh J.P., you really did a number on this one.

  "I can't lose her, Mr. Webber. She's got to be alive."

  David's body jerked. A part of him wanted to hit Bowen for even suggesting otherwise. Another part wanted to break down and bawl his eyes out at the possibility.

  "You know how many active missing person cases LAPD has? Over twelve hundred. That's twelve hundred people a department of five thousand is supposed to find, while at the same time trying to protect and serve a city of eight million. Mr. Webber, I don't want Jean Ann to be just another file in a drawer. I'm going find her, Mr. Webber, with or without your help."

  David drew a breath and fell back into his seat. A young Asian boy rode by on the sidewalk, popping wheelies and blowing bubbles with his gum. On the grassy area at the corner of his apartment building, a young African-American girl was standing under a maple tree, plastic bag at the ready, coaxing her poodle to take care of business. Mr. and Mrs. Schwartz, the friendly elderly couple that lived above David, were coming out for their nightly constitutional. Life was going on all around him. How can this be? Don't they understand? Henry's dead. Murdered. And J.P.'s missing. Don't they get it?

  "Please, Mr. Webber, I know I can—”

  "I'll help," David said.

  "What?"

  "I'll help. We are going to find her, we've got to."

  Bowen closed his eyes and sighed in relief.

  "So what now?” David said leaning forward, trying to focus his mind.

  "Well, first you must understand something—we do this my way. I can get my hands on everything the department has up to now. But I can't be connected to this case. It would kill my career and my father's. Understood?"

  David flinched inside. I could still give a shit about what happens to you or your old man's career. "Okay."

  "All right. First, we have to find out what connection the old man and—”

  "Henry."

  "What?"

  "Henry, his name is Henry Shoewalter. Not just the old man at the hotel. And he was my friend."

  "I'm sorry. Okay, we find the connection between Henry, Jean Ann, and you. There's got to be one. I know I haven't been a police officer very long, but the one thing I have learned is not to believe in coincidences."

  "I have no idea. I can't believe I could—”

  "Believe it, Mr. Webber," said Bowen, stopping him. "I know I'm right. Why did Henry call you so late last night?"

  David explained he hadn't talked to Henry in several years and recounted what he could remember of the telephone conversation.

  Bowen looked off into the distance. "So you say he was adamant about getting that music he gave you?"

  "Very."

  "What's the song?"

  "It's not a song—it's a sketch."

  "I thought you said it was music?”

  "A sketch is music." David rubbed his tired eyes. The last thing he felt like doing right now was giving this kid a music lesson. "Before a composer writes a full score for an opera or symphony or something, he'll write it first on the piano. That piano arrangement is called a sketch. What I have is an old piece of staff paper with sixteen bars of music. It's a sketch—or at least part of one."

  "And that was the gift?"

  "Yeah, quite an expensive one too."

  "Okay, I give."

  "The eight bars were written over two hundred years ago. It's a partial sketch by Mozart."

  "Mozart, like in the composer?"

  "Yeah, like in the composer."

  "Cool. Any idea why he’d want it back?"

  "None. Look, Bowen, don't you think I've gone over this a thousand times in my head? I don't know why he wanted it back or why it was so important for him to call me in the middle of the night to get it."

  "Is it worth a lot of money?" Bowen continued grilling.

  "I guess—hell, I don't know." David's frustration was mounting. "I had it appraised seven, eight years ago. A guy down at Christie's said it would probably go for about five thousand on the low side, twenty on the high.”

  Bowen shook his head. "That's a lot of dough but not enough to die over."

  David didn't respond.

  "Okay look, we need to look at—”

  "Don't have it,” David interrupted as if by rote. “My bank—safety deposit box."

  Bowen nodded. "Okay. Tomorrow's Saturday, banks close early, so we need to get it first thing in the morning. Until then, I want you to write down everything you can remember about the conversation with Henry. What he said, how he said it—everything. Then I want you to totally recount on paper the events of the past twenty-four hours. Leave nothing out. Anything you saw, heard, smelled, said, or even thought."

  David yawned. His head was pounding. A dull pain pushed from behind his brow just above his eyelids. "You mean like how my car got back here last night if I didn't drive it?” he said almost to himself. "Okay, I'll try. Let's get out of this car. We can work in my place."

  "No, I can't," Bowen replied.

  "Why, afraid to be seen with me?"

  Bowen smiled. "Now that you mention it, yeah. Wouldn't be too cool for me to be seen coming in and out of your apartment. But the fact is I have to be at work in an hour. You're going to have to start without me. Looks like you could use some sleep anyway. Get it. It'll help the memory."

  David nodded in agreement as Bowen started the car.

  "This is something we're going to have to deal with. I can only work on this with you when I'm off duty, and even then we've got to be very discreet, because like I said, it wouldn't be cool for me to be seen with you. Actually, it would be disastrous and hurt the case. They'd start looking at us instead of the people who are really responsible."

  "What if I come up with anything or J.P. calls me or something? How do I get in touch with you? Call the station and ask—"

  "No," Bowen shot back. "Under no circumstances are you to contact me through the department." He took out a pen and wrote something on a slip of paper. "Here. This is my cell number. I'll always have it on. You'll be able to reach me anytime. Leave a message if I don't pick up. And if I'm ever in a situation where I can't talk, I'll just say, sorry you have a wrong number. I'll call you back when I can. Okay?"

  "Yeah, I got it," David said, opening the door and stepping out.

  "You get some rest, Mr. Webber. I'll come by in the morning when I get off, and we'll go to your bank."

  "One last thing," David said, standing on the curb holding the top of the car door.

  "What?"

  "How did you know where I lived?"

  "Please, man," Bowen replied. "I'm a cop. I got it from your arrest report."

  David nodded.

  "Get some rest, Mr. Webber. We'll find her."

  David shut the car door and watched Bowen drive off.

  Chapter Ten

  Saturday morning found the Potomac its usual alive and vital late-spring self. Sailboats, fishing boats, and yachts of every shape, color, and kind painted the mariner's paradise like an artist's palette. Dani sat at a traffic light on Rosslyn and Washington Boulevard frantically hoisting her sail, the ragtop of her VW. The beautiful morning that had greeted Dani for her daily seven a.m. run was gone by eight. It was now a little after nine, and the m
ercury had dropped a full fifteen degrees; ominous clouds lay to the west. To everyone else in the nation's capital, this was a loss of good fortune, to Dani, a chance to put on the forest green angora sweater and navy cords she'd gotten on sale last weekend.

  The signal changed just as Dani hooked the last latch into place. With the precision of a cluster bomb, she whipped the car into the right lane and assaulted the Key Bridge exit. As she crossed the bridge, she was reminded of March 25th, the last time she’d been to Georgetown. She remembered it so specifically because it was her birthday and her last date with Jerry. Ah yes, Jerry Slater, handsome, smart, a congressional aide, and a law student on the way up the ladder of success, and unfortunately…gay as Tinkerbelle. It figured, she bemused, that the first man she'd ever met who enjoyed all the same things she enjoyed—music, art, theater, shopping—God, did he have impeccable taste in clothes—also turned out to have impeccable taste in men. For as long she’d live, she would never forget sitting in that bistro on M Street, listening in amazement as Jerry shared his revelation. The revelation being the captain of the sculling team at Georgetown—he did have taste. She could still hear him apologizing for leading her on and thanking her for making him see the truth about himself. "No thanks necessary, Jer," was all she could think to say at the time. "Glad to help."

  Exiting the Key Bridge, Dani turned right onto M Street and landed in the middle of trendy boutiques, cafes, and antique shops. The stop-and-go traffic gave Dani a chance to spruce up her makeup in the rearview mirror and double check the address of Mrs. Gertrude Sugarberry. A reluctant, and brief, call on Friday evening had garnered an invitation from Madam Sugarberry for pie and tea. Dani decided the sooner she got it over with the better, so she accepted without hesitation. Besides, she reconciled, her Saturdays usually consisted of little more than balancing her checkbook, tidying up her Arlington condo, and returning emails from her dad back in Oklahoma. Ever since she'd gotten him his first computer for Christmas, email and the Internet had become the old fellow's life, three emails a day since January.

  She turned north onto Wisconsin and cruised past the cobblestone sidewalks and ancient oak and hickory trees that canopied both sides of the street. She realized this small burg represented everything she both loved and hated about Washington, DC.