by Phil Swann
Bowen nodded.
David continued, “But the most famous was that Salieri had poisoned him. He was a composer in the Viennese imperial court. Salieri went totally bonkers in his last year of life—today we'd probably call it Alzheimer's—and he supposedly confessed to killing Mozart. The rumor even reached Beethoven and a lot of famous composers of that time. Even Constanze jumped on that one for a while. But ultimately, too many people around Salieri came forward and said Salieri had never said it, and it was just that, a rumor. No, there's no evidence his death was deliberate. In fact, most historians agree he died of pneumonia brought on by all the infections going around Vienna at the time. The little guy never was very healthy. Not too sexy, huh?"
Bowen shook his head and smiled at David.
"What?" David asked.
"Nothing."
"You have a bad habit of that, you know it, Bowen?"
"Sorry, man. It's just, like, you really know your shit. You sound so like…I don't know, an expert or something."
David responded by taking a bite of his scrambled eggs.
"Sorry, man, I didn't mean anything by—”
"Ol' Wolfy was kind of my thing," David said, chewing.
"What do you mean?"
"He was my specialty—I had an affinity for the guy. I wrote a ton of research papers on him and worked on a couple of special projects.”
"You must have been good."
David ignored the compliment. "And for some weird reason, I played him better than I did any other composer."
"Why do you think?"
"Beats me. I guess that was another reason Henry gave me this music."
"I'd like to hear you play sometime."
David responded quickly, “I can't play that stuff anymore."
His tone was enough for Bowen to let it drop. "Can we talk about Henry?"
David adjusted in his chair. "All right."
"You said you hadn't talked to him in a long time. Why?"
"That's personal," David answered.
"Did you guys like have a falling out or—”
David laid down his fork. "I said, it doesn't have anything to do with this."
Bowen nodded and moved on. "Was he still teaching?"
"I heard he retired about five years ago," David answered.
"What was he doing with his time?"
"Don't know, probably writing."
"Songs?"
David chuckled. "Guys like Professor Henry Shoewalter don’t write songs. Symphonies maybe, not songs. More likely he was writing books. The guy was a real scholar."
"Books about what?"
"Music history, criticisms, composers, that sort of thing."
Bowen sat back in his chair and put his hand on his chin.
"What are you thinking, Bowen?"
"What if he was writing a book on Mozart?"
"Okay, so?"
"That would explain why he needed this music. Maybe there's something important about this sketch we're not seeing?" Bowen began talking faster, "Hey, what if he found out there was something in this music no one else knew—you know, like some startling revelation about Mozart?"
David wiped his mouth with his napkin and tossed it on the table. "Okay Bowen, my turn—it doesn't make any sense. First of all, Henry had this for a long time before he gave it to me, so he would have already known everything there is to know about it. Second, even if there was some ‘startling revelation’ as you call it hidden here in an eighth rest or something, what could be so urgent to warrant him flying clear across the country and calling me in the middle of the night to get it? Why not just call me from New York and have me send it to him? Thirdly, what in the hell could be important enough to get himself killed over? And lastly, what does any of this have to do with J.P. being missing and me being set up to look like I did it?"
Bowen's excitement didn't recede. "I don't know, but I think we're onto something here. Look, Mr. Webber, the fact is Henry did fly clear across the country and call you in the middle of the night to get this page of music. And he was murdered, and Jean Ann is missing, and you have been set up. Pretty darn convincingly too."
David caught the emphasis on the last statement.
Bowen continued, "I went by homicide this morning. Everyone’s talking about you. They're all pretty pissed you were released and are damn sure you did it. Mr. Webber, they're really gunnin' for you. We gotta come up with something quick, or you'll be back in jail, and this time I don't think there's anything even my father will be able to do to get you out."
"That can't happen. I've gotta find J.P.," David yelled, inviting stares from the other customers.
"Lower your voice. Remember, I don't want to be seen with you."
David sat back.
"And that's another thing. We can’t meet face to face anymore unless it's absolutely necessary. We'll have to communicate by phone from here on out. I think they’ve got you under surveillance."
"What?"
"This morning, I'm sure I saw an unmarked car sitting in front of your building. They're probably out there right now watching us. But by the time they figure out who I am, we should be done with this. I'll just explain that because of my relationship with Jean Ann, I was carrying on my own investigation off the clock. They'll reprimand me, but that's all—maybe not even that if we're successful. So we have to be successful."
David turned his head, scanning Ventura Boulevard.
"Don't do that," Bowen scolded.
David rested his elbows on the table and put his face in his hands. His muffled voice was desperate. "What are we gonna do, Bowen?"
“Find Jean Ann, that’s what."
David looked up. "How? All we have is a theory on why Henry contacted me after all these years. You may be right, maybe this music is important, but that still doesn't get us any closer to finding J.P. or who killed Henry."
Bowen leaned in. "I know, man. But we have to start somewhere. We can't give up hope. We have to believe that Jean Ann is out there somewhere waiting for us to find her. At least that's what I have to do. How about you?"
David nodded. No matter how naïve the kid’s feeling for J.P. might have been, he was happy he wasn't in this alone. How do you do it, J.P.? he thought. Even now, you've found a way to take care of me.
"So look," Bowen started again, "when I went by homicide, I did find out some details about the murder."
David swallowed. "I'm not sure I wanna hear this."
"I went down to property. That's where they keep all the evidence and personal effects from the cases. I went through Henry's stuff. I found something."
"What?"
"This." Bowen reached in his back pocket and withdrew a faded brown leather address book and handed it to David.
David struggled for breath.
"You all right, man?"
David coughed to clear his throat. "Yeah, it’s Henry’s address book. I gave it to him for his birthday years ago."
"Get out of here, really?"
David couldn't respond.
"I've looked through it. I want you to do the same. See if anything jumps out at…hey," Bowen interrupted himself, "DHW, the initials burned inside the flap here, that's you, isn't it?"
David nodded, fighting his emotion, "Yeah, David Henry Webber."
"Henry. That's your middle name, wow, what a coincidence."
"Not really," David uttered softly as his memory took over.
"Are you sure about this, Davey? A name is an important thing. It'll be with you for the rest of your life."
"Yes, sir, I am. I've thought about it a lot. I want you to know, sir, that I first thought about changing my last name to Shoewalter but then decided that would be disrespectful to my real parents. So, I thought since I didn't have a middle name, I could use yours. I think David Henry Webber sounds better than David Shoewalter Webber, don't you?”
"I think it sounds wonderful."
"Man, if they find out I took that, I won't only be fired, I'll be arreste
d."
David folded back the back flap of the book and pulled on a tiny piece of leather that hung from the inside stitching. The back lining of the wallet opened, revealing a secret pouch sewn into the fabric.
"Cool," Bowen said.
A folded white slip of paper fell onto the table.
Bowen grabbed the paper and unfolded it.
"What is it?" David asked.
"It’s a phone number and an extension, but no name, just a number."
"That's a lot of help."
Bowen handed David the slip of paper. "Look at the heading on the stationary."
David took the slip of paper. The Airport Holiday Inn, Los Angeles.
"Didn't you tell me he arrived about midnight?"
"Yeah," David said, knowing where Bowen was heading.
"He'd only been at the hotel for a few hours. He must have just written that number down before he was—” Bowen stopped himself. "Sorry, man."
A chill went down David's back.
"I want you to call that number and see who answers," Bowen ordered.
"Why me? Why not you?"
"Because whoever answers may mean nothing to me but something to you." Bowen handed David his cell phone. "No time like the present."
David took the phone and dialed the number off the slip of paper. On the third ring the line was answered.
“Smithsonian Institution, how may I direct your call?”
David was taken off-guard, “The Smithsonian Institution?” he repeated for Bowen’s behalf. “Uh…I’m not sure. I have an extension, five—two—zero?”
“That’s the office of Doctor Dani Parsons—one moment and I’ll connect you.”
Chapter Twelve
The fifth floor of the museum was deserted on weekends and the primary reason why Dani always enjoyed dropping by. It still made her smile when she stepped off the elevator into the vacant hallway. Sure, there was nothing she could do here that she couldn't do from her computer at home, but here just felt better, more scholarly. Especially on weekends when the business of running the nation's historical Mecca wasn’t in full gear. When it was just a place of history. It even smelled different.
Dani unlocked the door and turned on the light to her small, cluttered office located down the hall from the conference room. She tossed her backpack on the chair in front of her desk and hit the space bar on her computer keyboard, causing the dancing gophers of her screen saver to abruptly bow and then disappear. As the computer booted up, Dani opened Mrs. Sugarberry's green satchel and retrieved the old manuscript. She laid the sheet of music on her desk and sat down, one leg tucked under her. "What are you and where did you come from?"
Not taking her eyes off the piece of music, Dani typed in her password. Seconds later she heard the expected words, "You've got mail.” She looked at the screen and saw she had seven new emails. One from a college roommate she had recently started corresponding with again and two from an Internet company that offered discount prices on designer fashions. "Only two, don't you guys love me anymore?" And sure enough, four emails from her dad.
Dani saved the messages as "new," deciding she would respond later from home. She closed her mailbox and typed in a new address. Seconds later, the web page to the Smithsonian Institution came on screen. She typed in another password and waited. One short beep followed by two long beeps. The computer asked for another set of commands, which Dani entered. The screen went black before the words National Archives Research Library rolled across the screen.
Dani positioned her mouse in the search field, typed the word cook, and then hit Return. She waited as the computer searched the massive database. “Nothing matching your request” appeared on the screen. She reentered Doctor James Cook and Georgetown. Nothing. She tried one more time, Doctor James Cook and Georgetown and free black. Again nothing.
"Wishful thinking, Dan," she muttered aloud.
Dani looked long at the music again. "Oh, just for laughs."
“Gertrude Sugarberry.”
“Nothing matching your request.”
"You're batting a thousand, Dan."
Dani logged off and thought for another minute. She picked up the music and started humming the melody. "It's beautiful," she said with a sigh. She looked at her watch and then picked up her telephone and dialed.
"Paul, you there? Paul, it's Dan, pick up the phone." Dani smiled and then spoke again in a singsong way, "Paul, it's safe. I've already met with Sugarberry."
The phone clicked, and Dani heard the machine on the other end feed back, "Hello? Hello?"
"What a wiener."
"What do you mean?"
"You were screening me because you thought I was going to try and get you to go see Sugarberry."
"I was not."
"You were too, you little turd."
Paul laughed.
"Well, just so you know, it was your loss. I did meet with her, and she's delightful, and her collection is amazing. Maybe this won't be so bad after all."
"Really? That's great, Dan. I can't wait to see it."
"Glad to hear you say that, Paul."
"Uh oh."
"Actually this doesn't have anything to do with the collection, I don't think."
"What do you mean you don't think?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, I don't know what I have."
Dani told Paul about the old piece of music and how it was attributed to a Dr. James Cook. She summarized her impressions of the piece and relayed Sugarberry's tale of how there was thought to be more works by Dr. Cook.
"Fascinating."
"Isn't it? Paul, this may be a wild goose chase, but I think there might be something special here. What if there are other pieces by this guy? We may have stumbled onto one of America's foremost composers no one's ever heard of. And Paul, he's African-American—pre-civil war. Can you imagine the ramifications?”
"Yeah, I can imagine. I can also imagine what Beckman's going to say when he finds out. He'll shut it down, Dan. He'll either shut it down or give it to someone else."
"Beckman doesn't have to know. As far as I'm concerned, this is just part of the American Sheet Music Exhibit he put us on."
Paul said nothing for a moment. "Okay, I'll go along with that for now, but if stuff starts turning up, we have to tell Beckman, agreed?"
"Agreed," Dani responded, rolling her eyes and crossing her fingers in the air. "So what are you doing right now?"
"Laundry," Paul answered dryly.
"Laundry? Paul you gotta get a life. I'm coming over."
"Okay."
"I’m going to stop by my place first and get my cello. I want to hear how this thing sounds."
"You eaten?" Paul asked.
"No."
"I'll order a pizza."
"Perfect, see you in an hour."
Dani hung up and went to a copy machine buried under a stack of textbooks. After making three copies of the piece, she went to the safe in the opposite corner and dialed in the combination. She opened the safe, withdrew a metal briefcase, placed the copies in the safe, and put the original in the briefcase. She shut the safe's door and spun the tumbler. She walked over to the bookcase behind her desk, scanned the titles, grabbed three large tomes, and placed them in her backpack. She grunted as she threw the heavy sack over her shoulder. She grabbed the briefcase, turned out the light, and closed the door.
Thirty seconds later her phone rang.
Chapter Thirteen
“I’m sorry, sir, there’s no answer. Would you like Dr. Parsons’s voice mail?”
“No, thank you, I’ll call back. Thank you.” David turned off the phone.
"What time is it?" Bowen asked.
"Almost ten thirty, why?"
"The Smithsonian…interesting."
David said nothing, handing the phone back to Bowen.
"What do you think?" Bowen asked.
David raised his eyebrows and nodded. "I think you might be right. Henry must have been researching something on Mozart a
nd needed the sketch.”
Bowen replied, "Now we just have to figure out what it was and why it was so important." Bowen thought for a moment. "Did he ever work for them?"
"The Smithsonian? Not that I’m aware of, but it's been years since I've talked to Henry. He very well could've. He probably knew people there. He played off and on with the National Symphony for years."
The waitress came by the table and asked if they would like anything else. Bowen declined and handed the waitress a twenty. Neither spoke, both lost in thought, until she returned with the change.
"What was the person's name again?" Bowen asked, taking a pen from his shirt pocket.
"Dr. Danny Parsons."
"Okay, it’s ten thirty, that makes it one thirty on the east. Must be out for the weekend."
"Or out to lunch," David interjected.
Bowen didn't hear. “We'll call again Monday morning." Bowen wrote the name on the back of the receipt and then thought for moment. "In the meantime, can you…like…I don't know what's the word…analyze this music?"
"What do you mean, analyze?”
"We need to find out what Henry was working on."
David shrugged. "That would help."
"Well, maybe you can find out what that was by going over this thing, you know, really study it.”
"Bowen, that's not exactly my expertise. Yes, I know a lot about Mozart, and I used to play the shit out of his Concerto in B-flat, but what you're asking is completely out of my wheelhouse. There are highly skilled people who do that sort of thing, and I'm not one of them. Plus, what the hell am I even supposed to be looking for?"
"Anything odd, out of place, I don't know, I'm not a musician. Look for something that Henry might have seen as—”
“Why?” David interrupted. “Why would anyone do this, Bowen?"
Bowen choose his words carefully. "Well, the framing you is easy to answer. It's to throw the police off the trail. Taking Jean Ann, if that's what has happened, I still don't get, unless—” Bowen stopped.
"What?"
"Unless it's to motivate you.”