The Mozart Conspiracy

by Phil Swann

  “Is he waiting on a train?”

  “It doesn’t look like…I can’t tell. Wait…I’ve lost him.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “No…it’s okay…I think I got him again…hang on.”

  Fowler screeched to a stop across the street from the station’s entrance and jumped out of the car. He crossed the street and ran down the steps into the Metro station. He walked slowly through the tunnel, looking in all directions for Petrovic or Sanders. “Sanders? Sanders, do you copy?” There was no reply. He walked deeper into the subway station, dodging people along the way. Finally, he reached the middle of the terminal just as a train was pulling in. The noise forced him to raise his hand to his ear to hear. As a stampede of commuters exited the train and another horde battled to get on, Fowler searched every face he could—no Sanders, no Petrovic. The doors closed, and the train pulled out. Fowler heard a commotion off to his left. People were huddled together, many yelling for police. Fowler withdrew his badge and raised it in the air as he broke through the cluster. “Federal agent.” In the middle of the crowd a woman was huddled on a bench. The woman’s eyes were locked wide open, and she was white as a ghost. “Ma’am, I’m a Federal agent, what’s the matter?”

  She moved her mouth, but no words came out. She pointed in the direction of the woman’s restroom. Fowler withdrew his sidearm.

  “Federal agent!” Fowler yelled, kicking open the door and entering with his gun leveled. Three steps in and he was brought to an abrupt stop. “Oh, God.” he mumbled, putting his hand over his mouth. Thirty-two years with the bureau and he’d never seen anything so savage. Blood was streaked across the floor from the stall to where Agent Sanders was lying in a pool of blood. His terrified eyes were frozen open. His throat had been cut so deeply that Fowler could see the back of the boy’s spine. The young FBI agent had practically been decapitated.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The statuesque woman walked through the lobby of the Marriott Hotel. Her flaming red hair was heavily sprayed, and her makeup was painted on thick under tortoiseshell eyeglasses. She wore sensible shoes that matched her oversized black leather purse but did little to diminish her height. She was attired in a blue pantsuit with a green ascot tied around her thick neck. She was not an attractive woman.

  “Mrs. Black?” the concierge called out.

  The woman turned but came no closer to the girl.

  “Mrs. Black, I know it’s none of my business, and forgive me if I’m being forward, but I just wanted to tell you something.”

  “What’s that, dear?” the woman replied in a soft voice.

  “It’s about your sister. I was here when you checked in last night, and I just wanted to tell you last year my sister was in a car accident too. She was in a coma for three months. But she’s fine now, practically back to her old self. I wanted to tell you to not give up hope. What hospital are you taking her to?”

  “Hospital?”

  “Yes, hospital. That’s why you brought her to Washington, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes, of course it is. I’m sorry, it’s the jetlag—Bethesda, I’m taking her to Bethesda Hospital.”

  “Great. That’s where my sister was. She’s going to be fine, Mrs. Black.”

  “Thank you, dear. That’s so reassuring.”

  The woman smiled and turned for the elevators. Just as the doors opened and she stepped in, a high-pitched chirping came from her handbag. She withdrew a phone and looked at the caller ID. It was the call she was expecting.

  “Bowen, I can’t believe I got you,” David exclaimed.

  “Mr. Webber, I’m sorry, the department has had me working doubles."

  "Have you gotten my messages?"

  "Yeah, thanks. How’s DC? Have you met Parsons?”

  “Yes, and you’re not going to believe it. She has the same Mozart piece that I do—not exactly the same, but it’s the same.”

  “Where’d she get it?

  “From a woman in Georgetown named Sugarberry. It’s weird, Bowen. She found it by accident, and only a couple of days ago. We still can’t figure out how or why Henry had her number.”

  “Man, that is weird.”

  “I’m on to something here, Bowen, I know it.” David paused and changed his tone. “Any word about J.P.?”

  Bowen sighed. “Nothing, and it's making me crazy. I've called in every favor I have on the force to try and get someone to give the case special attention. Everyone just tells me the same thing, ‘we're doing all we can.’ I hope you come up with something.”

  “How about me? Are they still gunnin’ for me?”

  “Now more than ever. It’s totally freaked them out you left town. But Dad says you’re not under arrest, so there’s nothing they can do. When are you coming back?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to go to Georgetown tomorrow with Dani—uh, Dr. Parsons—to meet a man at the university who might know something about the guy who supposedly wrote the piece Sugarberry owns. Then we’re going to meet Sugarberry. I’ll keep you informed.”

  “Okay, and I’ll do the same at this end.”

  “Do that, Bowen. If you hear anything about J.P., call me.”

  “Of course, Mr. Webber. I’ll call you if anything develops. Good luck.”

  “Thanks. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  Joshua Bowen clicked off his phone and stepped off the elevator. Three minutes later, he was in his room looking in the mirror at his ridiculously painted face. With a cold stare, he pulled the red wig from his head. He turned on the hot water in the shower and took off the ascot and blue pantsuit. Ten minutes later, the lean, hard, naked body of Viktor Petrovic stepped out.

  Petrovic, still naked, walked into the main room carrying the leather bag. He reached under the nightstand, retrieved an empty trash can, took out the plastic lining, and neatly spread it on top of the bedspread. One by one, he began lifting out the contents of the bag and placing them on the plastic—a Nikon camera, baseball cap, black beard, a wig, and a bloody shirt.

  “I was told a few minutes ago not to worry, that you were going to be all right. What do you think?”

  J.P. lay in the bed on her back. Her wild eyes darted around the room in frantic confusion. She tried to speak but was unable.

  “I think it depends on the resourcefulness of your Mr. Webber, that’s what I think.”

  Petrovic removed a wadded up, bloody shirt from the bag and unfolded it. With two fingers, he lifted out a bloody serrated nine-inch blade. He swung it like a pendulum in front of J.P. “Yes, let’s hope he’s very resourceful.”

  »»•««

  “Mozart, yes, I saw it with my own eyes,” Dani said, the phone tucked between her ear and shoulder as she folded laundry on her dining room table.

  Paul was silent for a moment.

  “Paul, you there?”

  “Yeah, sorry, Dan. Webber’s friend who was killed, what did you say his name was?”

  “Henry Shoewalter. You might have heard of him. David said he used to be a professor at Juilliard.”

  Paul was silent again.

  “Paul?”

  “Yeah, I’m here…hang on a sec.”

  Dani heard Paul put down the phone. A minute later he was back.

  “Holy Moses. Yeah, I remember now.”

  “Remember what?” Dani heard Paul turning pages in a book.

  “Mozart, you say? Well, it stands to reason.”

  “Why? Paul, what—”

  “I haven’t thought about these guys since school.”

  “Paul, what are you talking about?”

  “Dan, I’m sitting here with my yearbook from Juilliard. Professor Henry Shoewalter wasn’t teaching when I was there, but he was on every advisory board imaginable. He was a big shot to beat all big shots.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  “There’s something else—jeez, it’s just such a common name, I didn’t even connect it,” Paul said almost to himself.

  “Who?”

/>   “David Webber. I’ve also heard of David Webber.”

  Dani stopped and took the phone in her hand.

  “You have? How?”

  “David Webber’s legendary. Well, that might be an exaggeration, but not much of one, especially to a Juilliard student.”

  Dani sat down on her sofa. “Why?”

  “When I was in school, I remember hearing stories of the young phenom David Webber. A few years before I got there, he was a hotshot student who got off challenging his professors’ interpretations of famous works. As it turns out, Webber’s critiques were so brilliant, many were adopted as curriculum. He was like a child prodigy or something, heralded as a genuine musical genius. When I was there, it was said he was the last great virtuoso pianist Juilliard graduated. He’s in my yearbook’s list of who’s who alumni.”

  “There’s got to be a mistake. It can’t be the same person. The David Webber I met today is a crude lounge piano player from L.A.”

  “Well, I don’t know about crude, but the David Webber who went to Juilliard was no lounge piano player. I’m reading a list of accomplishments right here under his name. International Tchaikovsky Competition winner, gold medalist at the Arthur Rubinstein Competition, first place at the San Antonio Piano Competition, the list goes on and on.”

  “Lord, he’s another Van Cliburn.”

  Paul laughed, “Yeah, that’s another competition he won…twice.”

  Dani was both stunned and bewildered. This couldn’t be the same guy. “Does it say what happened to him? A person with credits like that doesn’t just fade into obscurity.”

  “No, I…” Paul stopped himself. “Wait…you know…for some reason…"

  "What?" Dani begged.

  "Well, I don't know, but—and I base this on nothing—but I seem to remember there was talk of him being dead—killed in a car accident or something.”

  “A car accident?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure of it. When I was at Juilliard, the rumor was David Webber had been killed in a car accident.” Paul chuckled. “Well whaddaya know about that, the great David Webber lives.”

  “Yeah,” Dani mumbled as Hemingway jumped on her lap. “He sure does.”

  »»•««

  David reached for a cigarette but stopped it halfway to his lips. With a sigh, he put it back in the pack and settled back just in time for Ravel to amble onto his chest. David closed his eyes and stroked the purring cat’s head. “I met someone today, Ravee.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Dani picked David up at his hotel at twenty past seven. When David got into the car, he saw a different Dr. Dani Parsons from the one he'd met earlier in the day. Her hair was down, she was in cowboy boots, a pair of faded Levi’s, and an untucked red plaid flannel shirt over a gray T-shirt. David realized he was overdressed in slacks, white Polo, and a tweed sport coat and was a little miffed he hadn’t been warned this was a casual outing. But for once in his life, he vowed to hold his tongue.

  "How's your cat?" Dani said as David maneuvered his six-foot frame into the small vehicle.

  "Still a little unnerved by the flight," David replied.

  "You usually travel with her?"

  "It's a him, and I don't usually travel."

  Dani shook her head. "Is it just me, or is talking to you like trying to talk to a fortune-cookie?"

  "What do you mean?" David responded, worried he'd inadvertently said something wrong.

  "Meaning, you make all of these delightfully cryptic statements, but don't follow them up with any explanation."

  Realizing that Dani wasn't really mad, David laughed.

  "What's so funny?"

  "Sorry. It's just that of all the up-front girls I've met in my life, you're absolutely the most up-frontest."

  Dani smiled. "Yeah, well it comes with the territory."

  “What territory's that?" David asked.

  "See," Dani said, "I can be a fortune-cookie too."

  The Capitol Promenade was a window shopper’s paradise. Specialty shops resided in storefronts of nineteenth century décor. Dani and David strolled along a cobblestone sidewalk under Dickensian light posts that bathed the outdoor promenade in a soft yellow glow. What it may have lacked in congruity, it more than made up for in sheer quaintness. Cherry and maple trees lined both sides of the almost four-city-block plaza. Troubadours and street magicians plied their trade up and down the promenade, and women, as if right out of the original cast of My Fair Lady, peddled flowers to passersby.

  It only took a mere forty-five minutes into the excursion before Dani had David toting two shopping bags. The subject of Mozart was brought up only briefly when David wandered into a secondhand record store and looked at a Vladimir Horowitz recording of Mozart’s Grand Concerto for the fortepiano.

  “He was amazing,” Dani said over David’s shoulder.

  “Mozart or Horowitz?”

  “Yes,” she replied with a grin.

  They were watching taffy being pulled at a candy shop when Dani asked from out of the blue, “David, you ever been to Moscow?”

  David did a double take. “Moscow? Like Moscow, Russia?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  Dani huffed. “Can’t you ever just answer a question directly?”

  “Uh…yeah, of course I can.”

  “So?”

  “Why you want to know?”

  “You’re impossible,” Dani said, rolling her eyes. “Okay, answer this. Did you go to Juilliard?”

  “Yes.”

  Dani threw her arms in the air. “Finally, a direct answer. Piano?”

  “Yes, piano major.”

  “Wow, you must have been good. Not an easy program to get into.”

  “I was all right.”

  Dani laughed.

  “What?” David asked.

  “Oh, nothing. I just never would have taken you to be the humble type.”

  “Uh…okay?”

  “What did you think of Red Square?”

  “Dani, what are you talking about?”

  “I talked to Paul. I told him about the Mozart, he’s excited.”

  “Good,” David said, trying to follow where she was going.

  “He remembers Henry Shoewalter.”

  “He does? Did he have him?”

  “No, he’d stopped teaching by the time Paul went to Juilliard, but he was still on the faculty.”

  “Too bad, he was a great teacher.”

  “He’s also heard of you.”

  “Me? How?”

  “He said you were pretty famous—big man on campus type.”

  David shrugged, “It’s a small school.”

  “Oh, for cryin’ out loud, David, let it go. You won the Tchaikovsky Competition in Moscow, for heaven’s sakes. You know how big that is?”

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re going to tell me?”

  Dani grunted. “Okay, let’s try this. When did you move to L.A.?”

  “About twelve years ago.”

  “Why L.A.?”

  “Why not?”

  Dani scowled.

  “Sorry. I like the weather…the weather’s real nice.” There was an uncomfortable pause, then he asked, “So, where are you from?”

  “Oklahoma, born and raised,” Dani answered with no inflection.

  “Family still there?”

  “Dad and brother.”

  “How’d you end up in DC?”

  “The museum. I got the job after I got my doctorate.”

  “Why music history?”

  “Why not?” Dani replied.

  Both were silent for a several moments.

  Finally, David said, “Listen, Dani, it was a long time ago. I don’t talk about it because it has nothing to do with who I am now. It's complicated.”

  Dani looked into David’s eyes and nodded. When she spoke, her voice had a noticeable softness to it. “You know, everyone thinks you’re dead. Paul told me the rumor is you were killed.”


  David offered a half smile and began erratically opening and closing his hand. “I was,” he said, in a near whisper.

  Dani started to respond, then stopped herself. Instead, she smiled and said, "Come on, time for you to buy me that dinner you promised."

  »»•««

  Fowler sat hunched in a chair.

  “It’s not your fault, Tom," Greenfield said. "You know that, don't you?”

  “The hell it’s not,” Fowler spat back. “I should have never sent that kid after Petrovic. He was too young.”

  “He was a trained federal agent, Tom. What happened to him could have happened to any of us.”

  Fowler sat up. The bags under his sixty-two-year-old eyes showed the strain and anguish of the past few hours. He spoke quietly, but with sharpness. “I want that sadistic bastard, Bob.”

  “I know. I do too.”

  “And Woo, I want to talk to that son of a bitch. He knows more than—”

  Greenfield interrupted, “That’s not going to happen.”

  Fowler looked up. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s incommunicado, Tom. We can’t get to him. Right after he ID’ed Petrovic, he went under. I’ve talked directly to the director of the CIA, and I quote, ‘Woo is not available.’”

  “My ass. We have a hacked-up federal agent in the morgue—”

  “Tom, I even tried the secretary of state. Negative, Woo’s under.”

  “On what? What’s he working on?”

  “It’s classified, highest level. No one’s talking.”

  “This is bullshit, Bob.”

  Greenfield leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. “What about Webber and the girl?”

  Fowler let out a frustrated breath. “We have them both under surveillance, six-man teams on both. All agents have digital cameras, and each team leader is equipped with a laptop with direct interface to the mainframe’s Comparative Imaging Processor. We’ll know in minutes if Petrovic is around.”

  “What if he’s in disguise?”

  “I don’t care if he dresses up like Ronald McDonald. We have his image now, so if he shows up, the C.I.P. will ID him.”

  “But you don’t think he will, do you?”

  Fowler fell back into the chair. “Highly unlikely. He knows we’re on him. If he is following them, we’ll have to take pictures of half of DC to find him.”