by Phil Swann
"I rang, knocked, and rang again. She's not here, Dr. Parsons."
Dani looked at Paul and David. "This doesn't make sense. She couldn't wait to have her collection exhibited in the museum."
"Maybe she just forgot you were coming.” Paul said. “She is old."
“She wouldn't have forgotten."
"You folks looking for Trudy?" a man walking a tiny Pomeranian called out from across the street.
"Yes, sir," Dani answered. "Do you know if she's home?"
He picked up his small dog and approached. "She left."
"Left?" Dani replied.
"Yes, last night, about eleven o’clock."
Dani looked at Paul and David, and then back to the man. "Are you sure?"
"Well, of course I'm sure. I was walking Sasha here, and I saw her leave with her suitcase."
"Her suitcase?"
"Was she alone?" David asked.
"No, sir. A younger gentleman was helping her into a car. They were in a hurry too."
All eyes looked at David as he fell against Paul's van and rubbed his eyes. "Welcome to my world, people."
»»•««
The Brink’s truck left, and Dani, David, and Paul sat silently in Paul's parked van for several minutes. Finally, Dani whispered what all three were thinking.
"God, please let that sweet woman be okay."
"Of course she's okay, Dan," Paul said. "Why wouldn't she be? She probably just forgot to tell you she was leaving town, that's all."
Dani looked at David, who said nothing.
Paul continued, "In fact, I bet if you check your voice mail, you’ll find she left you a message."
A slight smile of hope crossed Dani's face. She took out her phone and listened to her messages. Her expression said it all.
"Okay, so she forgot to call you, big deal," Paul said. "Dani, she's fine. She'll remember she was supposed to meet you and call apologizing, you’ll see."
Dani looked at David again, who was still silent. "What do you think?"
David looked at Dani and then Paul. "Yeah, Paul's right. She's probably fine."
"You don't believe that, do you?” Dani was on the verge of tears. "You think this is connected to the Mozart manuscripts, don't you?"
David struggled to offer a lie, "No…"
"Yes, you do," Dani interrupted. "And I do too."
"Dan, your imagination’s running away from you," Paul said. "Now look, you two, I don't know what happened to Professor Shoewalter or to your friend J.P., David, but just because an old woman forgets about an appointment and decides to go visit a sick relative somewhere doesn't mean we have a conspiracy at work. She had her suitcase, for goodness sakes, you guys—how many kidnap victims take a suitcase?”
Dani and David looked at one another. Paul was right; they had no evidence Sugarberry had been taken against her will and no real connection between J.P. and Henry. But without saying it to each other, they both also knew Paul was wrong—Sugarberry was not on vacation.
"I need to go to New York," David said.
"Why?" Paul asked.
"I'm coming with you," Dani added.
"No," David shot back.
"Yes, I am."
There were several seconds of silence before David spoke, "Bad things are happening to people around me, Dani. I'm not going to let you be one of them. This is my problem. The best thing for you…for both of you to do, is let me out of this car and forget you ever met me."
Dani looked at Paul and then back to David. "Cut the macho crap, Webber," Dani said with a gentle voice. "I'm coming with you, end of discussion. And you're wrong, it's not just your problem." She looked at Sugarberry's house. "Not anymore. Besides, you need me in New York."
"What are you two talking about?" Paul interjected. "Why do either of you need to go to New York?"
Dani answered, "Because we have to find out what Henry Shoewalter was working on and why David's Mozart sketch was so important. Do you know where Henry lived?”
David felt ashamed of his pathetic neediness. The brief moment of bravado was an act he suspected Dani didn't buy for a second. She was right. He did need her in New York. But not for any scholarly reasons—he just needed her. He nodded and looked out the window. "Yeah, I know where he lived."
Chapter Thirty-Two
Thurman Winfield reclined on a leather couch in the opulent Harlem offices of Electric Chair Records. His spectacles were perched on the end of his nose, and a book entitled This Business of Music rested open upon his chest. With no forewarning from his body, his eyes suddenly popped open. He got up and walked over to a desk sitting in front of a tinted-glass window.
As if looking into a crystal ball, he stared down at the desk. He picked up a lead-weighted ashtray and moved it in front of him. Then he took off his glasses and placed them off to the left and set the book off to the right, creating a perfect triangle. He studied the geometric design he'd created.
Satisfied, he turned his attention to a bowl of wrapped chocolates sitting on the table beside the couch. He retrieved the bowl and brought it back to the desk. He counted out ten pieces of candy into the ashtray. He pulled out all the change in his pockets and divided it equally between his eyeglasses and the book. Then he sat down and studied his work.
Like a chess player, he reached for his eyeglasses and pushed ten coins to the ashtray. He then took a chocolate and placed it beside his eyeglasses. He slid five coins from beside the book next to his eyeglasses, each time taking a candy and putting it back into the ashtray, followed by pushing the ten coins from the ashtray over to the book.
He went through the drill twice more. Afterward, he sat back in his chair, unwrapped a chocolate, and popped it in his mouth. "Old Nick," he said, chewing on the candy, "you crafty little Italian. So that's what you're up to."
»»•««
“Bowen, its David. The Sugarberry woman is now missing. I don't know what the hell is going on, so Dani and I are going to Henry's house in New York. Maybe we can find out what he was working on. We're catching an afternoon shuttle and should be back tonight, but I won't be staying at the hotel anymore. This is costing a fortune, and I can't leave my cat, so I'm checking out and will be crashing at the house of a guy named Paul Rogers. He's a colleague of Dani's. I'll call if I come up with anything…no, I'll call you tonight either way. And please, Bowen, you do the same."
Petrovic finished listening to David’s message and sat down on the bed. His face was expressionless as he cracked his knuckles. "It's time this comes to an end," he said, looking down at J.P.
»»•««
A white-paneled furniture truck was parked at the end of an abandoned taxiway at Washington's Reagan National airport. Inside the vehicle, three men in suits sat. No one spoke. The only sound was a low hum coming from the three computer terminals and two GPS receivers lining the interior of the cargo area. Two of the men wore headsets. The third, Thomas Fowler, did not. Instead, he was hunched over a makeshift desk looking over the latest batch of images pulled from the printer.
"Sir, the assistant director is pulling up."
Fowler grunted as he stepped from the cargo area and into the cab of the truck. Greenfield opened the door and pulled himself into the cab of the mobile control center just as Fowler fell into the driver’s seat.
"Can't remember the last time you actually joined me in the field, Bob."
"Probably the last time you put the bureau's collective butt in a sling." Greenfield glanced back into truck. "How's it going back there?"
Fowler shook his head. "We've been on them all day. No sign of Petrovic."
"Where are they now?"
"Getting on a shuttle for New York."
"Shoewalter's?" the assistant director stated more than asked.
"That'd be my guess. We thought we were getting a break. There was no way Petrovic was going to be able to stay incognito in an airport. We have agents all over the terminal, on the tarmac, even in the baggage area. Zilch."
"T
oo bad," Greenfield said.
"Yup," Fowler replied, rubbing his eyes. "So why are you here, Bob?"
"I'm meeting the Los Angeles district attorney’s plane in a half hour. Thought I'd drop by to see if you have anything I can tell him."
"You could have just called."
"Yeah, well I wanted to be able to tell him I'm personally on top of the situation, and assure him all is being done that can be done, and what is being done is the right thing. Tell me it’s the right thing, Tom."
"You think we should pick up Webber?"
"How about you, you still think it’s best to just follow him?"
"I talked with New York. Fifteen agents are waiting to cover Webber and the girl the minute they get off the plane at La Guardia. And there’s something else."
"What?"
"Kathryn Depriest’s got a tail."
“Really, who?"
"None other than Jimmy Depriestiano."
"That is interesting. What's Old Nick up to?"
Fowler finally smiled for the first time since the massacre in the subway station. "I don't think Old Nick put the tail on her."
"Her husband?"
"I think Anthony is playing both ends against the middle."
Greenfield considered the possibilities. "What are you going to do?"
"First, see what happens with Webber in New York. I still don't think he's involved, but I'm not sure what Anthony thinks. Then I want to accelerate the operation—force Depriestiano’s hand."
Greenfield nodded.
"Any word from Woo?" Fowler asked.
"Are you kidding?" Greenfield scoffed. "It's like the guy never existed."
Fowler chuckled. "Oh, he exists, Bob. That little rascal definitely exists."
»»•««
The limo battled its way down Fifth Avenue until crossing Forty-Second Street, where it pulled over to the curb and stopped. Jimmy Depriestiano, wearing ear buds, leaned against one of the two giant stone lion statues keeping watch over the entrance of the New York City Public Library. His eyes were closed, and he was in the middle of a drum solo when the massive car honked its horn. Jimmy pulled out the earpieces, stood, and casually strutted to the vehicle’s rear window, lighting a cigarette.
"Get in, you idiot," the voice yelled from inside. The car door opened, and Jimmy slid into the seat across from Anthony. "How stupid are you, anyway?"
"What the fuck you talking about?"
"I thought I told you to stay out of sight."
"I am. Kathryn’s got no idea I'm scoring her."
"Has she been in there all day?"
"All fuckin' day, man. I'm bored shitless. Can I go home?"
"No, cousin. I'll tell you when you can go home, understand?"
"Yeah, yeah."
"Have you talked to your father?"
"Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. He talked to his friend at the FBI. He don't know nothin’ about Webber except they's got some agents watching him. He said it's all pretty hush-hush."
Anthony grit his teeth. "Did he happen to mention where Webber was?"
"Yeah, he said he heard Webber and some other bitch was on their way up here. Whatta ya think of that?"
Anthony thought for a second and then smiled. "I think things are about to get very interesting, dear cousin. That’s what I think of that."
Chapter Thirty-Three
As David negotiated traffic out of LaGuardia airport and onto the Whitestone Expressway, Dani sat in the passenger seat, engrossed in a report she'd been reading ever since getting on the plane in DC. She’d hardly said anything for an hour, but David didn’t mind, he needed the silence. Returning to New York, to Henry’s, wasn’t something he was sure he was prepared for.
Little time had been wasted after leaving Sugarberry's. While David checked out of the hotel, Paul and Dani swung by the museum's lab and picked up the report on the two pieces of music, returning the original manuscripts to her safe. There was no time to check in at the ProTools studio—Paul would have to see to that after Dani and David made their plane. Twenty minutes later they were at Paul's house dropping off David's belongings, which included Ravel. All in all, it took an hour and a half from the time David made his pronouncement that he had to go to New York to Paul asking Dani at Reagan National to call once they reached Shoewalter's.
"Well, you're right," Dani said, her eyes still on the pages. "Your manuscript is consistent with the paper stock Mozart was using in Vienna in '91. The watermark on the left of the manuscript is a CS over a small c in reverse, and on the right there are three moons over REAL in reverse. The measurement between the staves, highest line of the first stave to the lowest line of the bottom stave, is 182.5 mm to 183 mm, and it looks like they were ruled by hand, not machine. It's from exactly the same stock Mozart used for Così fan tutti, The Magic Flute, and the requiem."
"Yeah," David replied, his hand holding the wheel tighter than usual.
Dani knew returning to New York was not something David was eager to do. Though she didn't know why, she was sure it had to do with why he and Shoewalter hadn’t spoken in years. And more than likely, why a world-class concert pianist had ended up in obscurity playing in Los Angeles piano bars.
"You okay?" Dani asked.
"I'm fine," David answered, giving Dani a quick glance.
"How long has it been since you've been back here?"
"About twelve years. So what does it say about the other piece?"
"Get ready, this is going to blow your mind."
"Why?"
"A couple of reasons. The watermark on Sugarberry's piece made it very easy to date. A Pennsylvania manufacturer named Nathan Sellers created the mold. He was a famous late nineteenth century paper artisan. He was the only person in America to create his watermarks by the wire method. That, along with a chemical analysis of the ink, puts the manuscript around 1810.”
David thought for a second. "If what Wilbur told us about Dr. Cook is true, then Cook would have been just a boy when it was written."
"Right, which makes perfect sense," Dani said with a smile.
"Why are you smiling?"
Dani took a deep breath. "The hand that wrote this piece—”
"Is not Cook’s," David finished.
"No, that's not true, some of it is Cook’s."
"Some of it?"
"The handwriting analysis shows three different hands on this music."
"Three?" David responded.
"Yes, you care to guess who one of the other writers was?"
"You mean they came up with a name?"
"In this case they did," Dani answered.
David thought for a second before letting go his own smile. "Thomas Jefferson."
"None other," Dani giggled.
David was caught up. "So Jefferson did teach Cook to play the violin?"
"It looks that way. When Cook was a boy, he must have lived at Monticello. It's common knowledge Jefferson loved music, so it's not hard to imagine him discovering one of his boy slaves having an ear, and him teaching him the violin and basic music notation. That would explain why the piece contains both their handwritings and why Cook's hand is so similar to Jefferson's. The confirmation over the last few years about Jefferson and his mistress, Sally Hemmings, makes it even more plausible. Jefferson obviously had a very different relationship with his slaves than most masters." Dani smiled and added, "It's elementary, Watson."
"Okay, hang on, Sherlock. That all makes sense, but we still have the same question. How did Jefferson know any of Mozart’s work? We're still talking almost fifty-years before the first Kochel was published."
It was Dani's turn to think for a moment. "Jefferson had to have met Mozart at some point. Maybe when he was in Europe?"
“We need to find out more about Jefferson.”
Dani smiled. "This is what I do. I’m in the finding-out business. When we get back to DC, we'll check Mr. Jefferson's travel schedule around the year 1790 and 91. I also want to go to the National Archives."
>
"Why?"
"That's where they house genealogical records. We need to find out more about Dr. Cook and his family—maybe we can put him and Jefferson together."
David nodded. "You said there were three hands. Who was the other?"
"Unknown. But it’s certain it’s not from the original notation."
"You mean it was added later?"
"Much later." Dani turned several pages in the report. "I'm reading: analysis of the letters C-K and F inscribed in the lower left corner of the artifact, identified as exhibit B, reveal the writing to be from a third, unknown source. Instrument used is a number two leaded pencil. Date of creation, within the last three months."
»»•««
"Attention, the National Museum of American History will be closing in fifteen minutes. Please begin moving toward the exits on the first and second floors. Thank you for visiting the National Museum of American History."
As the recorded voice began repeating its command, the young monsignor tossed his bottle of water into the trash can and stepped onto the down escalators leading to the gift shop and cafés.
"Excuse me, ma’am," the priest said to the young girl behind the register in the gift shop. "I know you're closing, but I was wondering if I could purchase some hats to take back to my boys at the orphanage."
"Sure, Father, they're right over there in the corner," she said, pointing to the hat tree filled with baseball caps, all displaying the Smithsonian logo.
"Yes, I know, but I really need about thirty of them, and it would be nice if they were all yellow—that's the color of our athletic shirts. I was wondering if you might have a box of them in your storage room I could purchase?"
The clerk looked around. The store was almost empty. "I don't know—”
"Oh never mind, I'm sorry, it's too much of an inconvenience. You must be exhausted and ready to get home."
"Well, can you come back tomorrow, I'm sure—”
"No," the priest answered. "I'm leaving tonight to go back to Chicago. It's okay, it was just an afterthought. I thought the boys at the home would enjoy them. God bless you and have a lovely evening."