The Mozart Conspiracy

by Phil Swann

  "Motivate me? To do what?"

  "Whatever it was that Henry was doing."

  David fell back in his chair. “Bowen, it’s crazy. If this really is all about Mozart and this sketch, then why kill Henry? Why not just follow him and let him get it from me? Why kill him first? It's stupid. Then they kidnap J.P. and frame me so I'd continue Henry's work? Bowen—"

  "I know,” Bowen said calmly. “It's weird. But we don't have all the pieces yet. David, I know we're on the right track here."

  David looked at Bowen. The kid truly believed what he was saying. "And you're still sure they're connected. Henry's murder and J.P.'s disappearance?"

  "I am," Bowen said without hesitation. "I think you are too."

  David looked down and rubbed his temples. "Yeah, I guess I am."

  "Then we have to follow this lead, no matter how off-the-wall it might be."

  David didn’t reply.

  "So look at this music, okay?"

  David nodded.

  Bowen stood. "Let's get out of here."

  David pushed his chair back, but Bowen stopped him. "I don't think I should take you home. No reason to give my brothers in blue more than they already have. Can you get a cab?"

  "Yeah, sure," David said, resting back in his seat. "Call me, okay?"

  "I'll call you later."

  David watched as Bowen exited the front door of the restaurant and looked up and down the street before jumping in his Ford. David picked up the music. What did you want, Henry? David laid the music back on the table. He'd never felt so helpless and out of control. No, he remembered, he had—twice, as a matter of fact. The first time was when his parents were killed. He'd always wondered how he'd rebounded so fast from that. He wrote it off to the power of youth. When a person hasn't had enough time to make dreams and set goals, the ability to roll with life's detours must come easier.

  But the second time, that was a different story altogether. He had made dreams—he had set goals. And he lost the two, no three, loves of his life, almost at once—Kathryn, Henry, and his career.

  The knotting in his stomach started the way it always did.

  I'm sorry, David.

  The words still cut, the wound still bled.

  Henry was just helping me. More words, more blood.

  I'm sorry, Davey, I didn't know what to do.

  Turn it off, David pleaded to himself.

  You knew. You knew, and you didn't tell me. How could you?

  Stop it, Webber. For cryin' out loud, he's dead.

  Go to hell, old man!

  The words still cut. The wound still bled.

  You're very lucky, Mr. Webber. If you hadn't been drunk, you would have probably been killed. Your hand went through the windshield—we were able to save the hand, but you'll have some nerve damage.

  It always played out in his mind the same way, slowly. David began flexing his left hand.

  "Who's your friend?"

  David jumped when he heard the familiar baritone voice from behind. Lieutenant Pete Ryan, clad in tan Dockers and a green Polo shirt, set his coffee mug on the table and slid into Bowen's former chair. "Mind if I join you?"

  David stiffened and didn't reply.

  "Small world, huh? I was just grabbing some breakfast, and lo and behold, look who I see across the room. How are you doing?"

  "Fine," David answered.

  "How's your mouth? Did you need stitches?"

  "No, it's fine."

  "Good."

  For a moment David considered just getting up and walking away. That's what everything inside him wanted to do. But the words came out of his mouth before he knew he was saying them. "Are you here to arrest me again?"

  Ryan laughed with no sound. "No, I'm not going to arrest you.” He took a drink. “Though, I guess I can understand why you'd ask. You've had a pretty traumatic last couple of days, haven't you?"

  Again, David didn't reply.

  "No, actually I wanted to tell you that I think we might have screwed up after all. I'm now pretty sure that you're not responsible for Mr. Shoewalter's death. I saw you over here and thought I'd save myself a phone call. I want to apologize. I'm sorry, sometimes these things happen."

  More than anything David wanted to believe what he was hearing, but he couldn't. Mr. Webber, they're really gunnin' for you.

  "What about J.P.?" David asked, not looking at Ryan.

  "Or her too. That's another thing I wanted to tell you. We found Ms. Peterson's car."

  "You found J.P.?" David shouted.

  "No, we found her car, red ’75 Mercedes SL, no Ms. Peterson.”

  "Where?"

  "Mr. Webber, the car was found in an alley three blocks from your apartment." David went numb. "And there's something else. The car was clean except for the registration, a pair of sunglasses, a scarf, and a key card. The kind hotels are using nowadays for room keys. The card was for the Airport Holiday Inn. Care to guess which room it was to?"

  "Henry's?" David said almost under his breath.

  "Henry's. Care to guess whose prints were all over the car—except of course for Ms. Peterson's?"

  "Mine."

  "Yours." Ryan confirmed.

  David's chest tightened, and he could barely form the words. "How did Henry's key…why…but you don't think I have anything to do with it?"

  "No, that's not accurate. I said I don't think you're responsible. See, we've found no trace evidence that puts you in Shoewalter's room—that's hair, powder residue, prints at the murder scene, stuff like that. Also, nothing turned up in your apartment that puts you with Shoewalter. You not being a professional killer would make that practically impossible if you’d been there. But we do have the connection between that room key and the Peterson woman, so it's pretty obvious you have something to do with this case whether you know it or not."

  Was Ryan being straight with him? Was Ryan now thinking the same as Bowen, or was all this a ploy? Maybe he should tell him about Bowen? But if he did and Ryan was bullshitting him? Bowen would deny everything out of self-preservation, and he'd be back in jail. Bowen's dad would make sure of it.

  "Any ideas how Shoewalter's room key got in Ms. Peterson's car?"

  David shook his head.

  "And the two of you didn't go back to the hotel after she picked you up from the police station Thursday night?"

  "No."

  "Okay then, any ideas how your car got back to your apartment?"

  "No."

  "Why did Henry call you in the first place, Mr. Webber? You never told us.”

  "I don't know."

  Ryan looked long at David. He didn't speak, but David knew exactly what the detective was saying, “You're not telling me everything,” and now, for the first time, he wasn't. He couldn't, not yet, not until he found out what Henry was working on.

  "Mr. Webber, David, listen to my words," Ryan said, squinting his steel-blue eyes. "I'm telling you I don't think you're a murderer. Do you understand? I do think, however, you're a mouthy, arrogant, quick-tempered basket case who is about to get into something way over his head. I've seen this more times than I can count. Every husband whose wife has been killed, every father who loses a child, it's always the same, and I tell them all exactly what I'm going to tell you now: this isn't television, and you're not Magnum PI. If you know something that might help me, you've got to tell me. Because, beyond the stupidity of thinking you're smarter than an entire force of trained professionals, it's also, in your case, potentially very dangerous. Remember, David, whoever has done this has intentionally involved you. And if you start playing Dick Tracy, you could wind up as dead as Shoewalter. Am I clear?"

  David stared at the police lieutenant. God, he looked sincere. But that was his job, wasn't it? He remembered how he was when he arrested him; he was sincere then too. No, he had to wait. He had to find out what Henry was doing.

  "I don't know anything, Lieutenant Ryan. I wish I did."

  Ryan held David's eyes without saying anything until D
avid became uncomfortable and had to look away.

  "Okay, have it your way." Ryan stood abruptly, picking up the coffee mug. "Here's my card. Call me when you decide to help. By the way, that piece of music doesn't have anything to do with this, does it?"

  David had forgotten it was in view and replied as matter-of-factly as he could. "No, just something of mine I'm working on."

  Ryan's jaw remained clenched as he continued his accusatory stare. He turned with no goodbye and walked from the restaurant—with the coffee mug.

  David watched Ryan exit the same door as Bowen and disappear around the corner of the building to the back parking lot. David waited until he saw a black sedan with Ryan behind the wheel pull onto the street and head down Ventura Boulevard.

  David exhaled, sure that he had been holding his breath ever since Ryan had walked up to his table. My god, Bowen, you're right. J.P. and Henry are connected. What if Ryan was telling the truth? What if he wasn't a suspect? What if Bowen was wrong? Stop it, Ben thought. Don't try to make sense out of the picture. Just paint it.

  David picked up the music again and stared at the ink marks made so long ago. Dots and stems—that's all it really was, dots and stems. Nothing more than a language some learned to express their emotions. Some better at it than others, for sure, but…really nothing more than dots and stems. Certainly nothing worth dying for, or killing for. "She's dead," David whispered to himself, his eyes filling with tears, his mind darting from one thought to another. "She has to be." It's like all those news stories. When someone disappears, there's never a happy ending. David scanned the page again. What could be so important? Henry and J.P. are connected. That makes me the common denominator. Heat rose in David's body. He began tapping his spoon on his empty coffee cup in a slow rhythm as confusion and helplessness turned to anger and then rage. Ryan's words echoed, “You could wind up as dead as Shoewalter." David's face turned to stone. "So the fuck what?"

  David gently put the old music back into the leather pouch. He got up from the table, oblivious to the looks around him, and headed for the hostess stand.

  "Hi, can I use your phone? I need a cab, and I’ve lost my cell.”

  The hostess gave David the phone and the number to the taxi service. He ordered a cab, hung up, and immediately dialed another number.

  David listened and then said, "Yes. I need to book a flight from Los Angeles to Washington, DC."

  ∙•∙

  Gilbert was behind the wheel, and Sanchez was looking through binoculars as Ryan pulled into the parking lot of the convenience store. Gilbert rolled down the window.

  "What’s he doing?" Ryan said, bringing the car to a stop.

  "He's probably calling a cab."

  "All right, you guys, stay on him," Ryan said, shifting the car into gear. "I'm heading back." Ryan held up the coffee mug from David's table with a handkerchief. "I'm gonna find out who Mr. Webber's friend is."

  As Ryan turned the black sedan back onto Ventura Boulevard, neither he nor the two other detectives noticed the charcoal-gray Ford Focus that pulled out of the gas station a block away as Ryan drove past.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dearest,

  I didn't want to wake you. I could tell you had a long night. I trust your performance was…adequate. I received your message and am so looking forward to seeing Uncle Nick and family for lunch—oh joy! You can pick me up at the spa. Have Leon call Charise and let me know you're on your way.

  Ciao, K

  Anthony sat at a table on the balcony in his satin robe and read the note over his glass of fresh squeezed. Showered, shaved, and oozing with the renowned Depriest polish, he bore little resemblance to the belching, red-eyed, and thoroughly disheveled man who staggered through the front door earlier that morning. Having neither the desire, nor the ability, to climb the spiral staircase and get into bed with his wife, he opted instead to pass out on the couch in his downstairs study. Had he, however, he would have found the bed empty. His wife wouldn’t arrive home for another hour.

  Anthony wadded up the note and lobbed it over the ledge. He picked up the cordless and dialed. "Leon, phone my wife's spa. I'll pick her up in forty-five minutes."

  »»•««

  The door-slash-security-man of the very exclusive Park Avenue Health and Beauty Spa was whistling a familiar refrain as smiling Upper Eastsiders strolled by. It was an ideal, sunshiny Saturday afternoon in the Big Apple.

  Kathryn Depriest emerged from the tinted glass doors exactly forty-three minutes after she was given the message from her husband. From the immaculate pedicure to the perfectly applied makeup on a flawlessly featured face, the tall, slender blonde had gotten what she came for, the look that epitomized health, wealth, and beauty.

  As the only child of Joseph Junior and Annabelle Whitebridge of Boston, Massachusetts, and granddaughter of oil baron Joseph Whitebridge Senior, Kathryn had grown to wear her station in life with ease. She had always known the truth of who she was and what was expected of her. It was a truth she had once rebelled against, but one she rediscovered after marrying Anthony and began the catapult into the thick of the New York elite. She'd also reacquainted herself with the weapons of such breeding, one of which being the coquettish smile she now offered to the Irish-American Goliath holding the door.

  "Thank you, Michael."

  "You're welcome, ma’am. Did you have a nice workout?"

  "Lovely, Michael."

  "Did you sleep well last night?" the man said with a sly grin.

  Kathryn scanned the avenue in both directions for the black limo before reaching for the back of the young man's head and running her bright red fingernails down the back of his thick neck. "Hard as a rock, Michael.”

  The young Irishman's breath got short. "You look incredible," he said, discreetly touching the neckline of her blouse.

  "You like it?" Kathryn replied, adding a twirl.

  Like many of the women at the club, Kathryn kept a partial wardrobe on the premises for all occasions, formal, casual, and somewhere in between. Lunch with the Depriestiano clan, however, always posed a particular problem. She surrendered to yellow pastel slacks and a cream-colored satin blouse.

  Long ago she'd ceased hiding her true feelings about her husband's family. She found them crude and revolting. When she married Anthony, just out of college, she wasn't fully aware of, nor cared to know, his background. For no reason at all, she'd just presumed he was from wealthy upstate stock. In the years that followed, Anthony spoke little about his childhood except to say it was “challenging.” The awareness of her husband's true lineage, and the reputation of Uncle Nick and the Depriestianos’ of Flatbush, came slowly. In the beginning, she’d found it somewhat charming—married to the mob, what a hoot. Not that Anthony was a mobster—a ludicrous thought to say the least. True, she'd come to know her dear husband to be a liar, a cheat, and a spoiled brat, but a mobster? Anthony Depriest wouldn’t know which end of the barrel to point. But he was the nephew of Nicholas Depriestiano and that made divorce tricky, if not downright suicide. Not physical of course, but certainly financial. Mummy and Daddy had all but disowned her, and she’d come to the conclusion early on that she’d rather live a charade with Anthony than go running back to them for anything. Besides, the arrangement did have its advantages.

  She dropped her hand and released the valet’s gaze when she saw the limo round Seventy-first. She arrived at the curb the same moment as the car. The door-slash-security man dutifully opened the car door, she stepped in, and the door was shut without the two uttering a word or giving a passing glance. Anthony was deep in a copy of the New York Times.

  "Afternoon, dear," Kathryn said, adjusting the collar of her blouse.

  "Afternoon, dear," came the reply from behind the newspaper.

  Kathryn retrieved the Arts and Leisure section from the seat, and the two read in silence as Leon navigated east to the FDR and then south to East River Drive and the Brooklyn Bridge. Anthony pretended to read, waiting for his moment. As
the car moved onto the Prospect Park Express Parkway, Anthony folded the paper and dropped the bomb.

  "Dear, do you remember Professor Shoewalter?"

  Kathryn lowered the paper with a look of disgust. "Of course, I do. I told you just a few months ago I had spoken to Henry."

  "Oh, that’s right, where is my mind going? What was it he wanted again?"

  "Research. He asked me to do some research for him."

  "Just like the old days, huh?" Anthony said, with a wide grin.

  Kathryn looked out the window. "He said I was the best research assistant he ever had. That was nice of him to say, those were good times. I was sure I'd never hear from him again after—” Kathryn stopped herself.

  "What type of research?" Anthony asked.

  "Just some historical data on Mozart, nothing too complex.”

  "So you did it, then, the research?”

  "Yes, of course I did, I told you that also. About three months ago I gave him everything he asked for. Really, Anthony, if you're not going to listen to me when I speak, I might as well stop talking to you."

  "Have you talked to him since?"

  "No, that was it. Why the sudden interest in Henry Shoewalter?"

  Anthony's eyes became sad. He took Kathryn’s hand. "Dear, I-I don't know how to say this."

  "Say what?"

  "Well…it's just that—oh my, this is difficult."

  "Anthony, what are you talking about?"

  "Dear, last night, a few of the musicians were talking. Most of them knew the professor—hell, I guess most of them studied under the old man. Well, dear, this will come as a terrible shock, but Professor Shoewalter is dead."

  Kathryn's mouth fell open, and she had to catch her breath.

  "I'm so sorry, dear. It gets worse. It seems the old man was murdered."

  "Murdered? Why? How?" Kathryn's eyes filled.

  "I don't know, except that it happened in Los Angeles. It's quite a news story out there, television, newspapers, everybody is talking about it."

  Kathryn let her newspaper fall. "Oh, my God. That poor, sweet man." Kathryn was working hard at collecting herself. "Have they arrested anyone?"

  "Yes. But he's been released."