The Mozart Conspiracy

by Phil Swann

  David didn’t take his eyes off of Kathryn. “Henry hated coffee.”

  “Yeah, he did, didn’t he?” Kathryn added.

  David walked over to the desk and sat down. His face was hard and his body rigid. “Kathryn was just informing me she was here to help. I guess my problems are over. Isn’t that great?’”

  Dani didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t. The David she had sat with at the piano was gone. The one from the café was back.

  “David—” Kathryn said.

  “No, really, I didn’t know what to do. Now I don’t have to worry.”

  Kathryn looked away.

  Dani decided that if she was going to be dragged into the middle of something, she might as well get dragged in with both feet. “Ms. Depriest, how can you help?”

  “Please, it's Kathryn. As David knows, I used to work with Henry as a researcher. When I heard Henry was killed and that David was—”

  Dani jumped on Kathryn’s words, “You know what he was working on?”

  “Yes, well, sort of. He contacted me about a month ago. I hadn’t heard from him in years.” Kathryn looked at David to make sure he had heard what she had just said. “He wanted me to do some research for him.”

  “Did it have anything to do with Mozart?” Dani asked.

  “Yes, it did.”

  Dani started to say something else but was interrupted by a shrill whistle from down the hall. “That’s the water. I’ll be right back.”

  After Dani left the room, Kathryn looked back at David. He was leaning back in the chair. His mouth was tight and his jaw locked.

  “I guess it isn’t true what they say, is it?”

  “What’s that?” David responded dryly.

  “That time heals all wounds. You still hate me, don’t you?”

  David looked at the woman standing in front of him. Her hair was blonder, there were some crow’s feet around her eyes, and her face was fuller, but she was still as beautiful as ever. What was he to say? What could he say, and what was the true answer? He honestly didn’t know.

  “How’d you find out about Henry?”

  “Anthony told me. He heard from the musicians in the orchestra. Friends out west informed him about how they suspected you.”

  “He must have loved that.”

  Kathryn took a deep breath and refused to look at him as she spoke. “Listen, David, I should probably just leave now. It's obvious you have no desire to see me, much less take any help from me. But I want you to know I’m not going to stop trying to figure out what happened to Henry because I know you didn’t kill him. And I owe it to Henry to prove you didn’t…that you couldn’t.” Kathryn swallowed hard, holding back the tears. “You know I loved that old man too. I hated what happened between the two of you because of me, but David, it wasn’t his fault, it was mine, mine alone. It was so long ago, and we were both little more than kids—I was a kid, a kid that screwed up. I’m sorry, I’m sorry for you, I’m sorry for me, and most of all, I’m sorry for Henry. Because he didn’t deserve what you gave him—what we gave him. This is my chance to make it up to him. And I’m going to.”

  “How?” Dani asked, appearing in the doorway.

  “Whatever Henry was working on was important, very important. He told me so. I think that’s what got him killed.”

  Dani walked behind the desk and kneeled next to David. She spoke almost in a whisper, “David, if she can help, you owe it to Henry to let her.”

  David looked at Dani, his jaw loosened, and he closed his eyes as he rubbed his hand through his hair and nodded.

  Kathryn spoke without being prompted. “Henry asked me to do a study of Mozart focusing on the year 1778. That’s all he was interested in, that year. I don't know why. Does that year mean anything to you, David?”

  David got up and walked to the bookcase. My God, he thought, Kathryn is here in this room right now. The years of reliving the last time he saw her at the hospital, the anger, the pain, the regret. So much of his life had been affected by this woman, whose memory had held such power over him for so long and now, here she stood.

  “David,” Dani asked, “does that date mean anything to you?"

  David nodded and tried to focus. “Yeah, maybe. It was the year Mozart’s mother died. We need to talk to a man named Sullivan.”

  “Raymond Sullivan?” Dani asked.

  David jerked around. “You know him?”

  “No,” Dani said as she started looking through the papers she'd tossed on the floor, “but just before you started playing the piano, I found something—where did I put—here it is.” Dani held up a message book. “Dr. Raymond Sullivan. It’s in here several times, with a phone number.”

  “Why does that name sound familiar?” Kathryn asked.

  “Because back when we were in school, he published a theory Mozart had written a requiem mass for his mother that's remained missing. I was preparing to refute it when…" David stopped himself, "well, I lost interest."

  Dani intervened. "David, that could be it. Henry must have learned a requiem for Mozart's mother really did exist. That must be what we have.”

  "You have it?" Kathryn jumped in. "You have the requiem?"

  "No, but we each have a piece of music, the same piece of music from two different sources. David's is from Mozart's actual hand, mine's from…" she stopped herself, "another source."

  Kathryn looked at David open-mouthed. "The sketch Henry gave you—that's what she's talking about, isn't it?”

  David nodded.

  "It's part of a mass for his mother. How did you—”

  "I work for the Smithsonian Institution in DC. I was working on another project when I acquired the piece. David learned of me because Henry had my name and phone number in his possession when he was killed."

  "Why?"

  "We don't know."

  "But you're sure it has something to do with the Mozart?"

  "Yes," Dani acknowledged, "and if what we have is part of a requiem Mozart wrote for his mother, then this would be the most important Mozart work to turn up in decades—certainly the most personal. It’d be worth a fortune."

  "It's not a requiem," a stone-faced David said.

  "Why?" Dani asked.

  "Because for one, the dates don't work. My sketch is from '91. Mozart's mother died in '78. Why would he write a sketch to something he composed thirteen years earlier? Second, if he did compose a mass in '78, he would have had plenty of opportunities to perform it, and there's no record he ever did. We certainly know about every other work that was performed. Hell, we even know the names of the original singers in his operas. And how about the fact that of all the letters Mozart wrote to Leopold, not a single one of them mention anything about a requiem? Don’t you think that would be something a son would share with his father, especially this son and this father? No, I didn't believe it when Sullivan first posed the theory, and I don't believe it now. Mozart never wrote a requiem mass for his mother."

  "Maybe Henry found the proof you say doesn't exist," Dani said.

  David still shook his head defiantly.

  Kathryn spoke up, "But, David, what else could it be? The thing that has baffled me about Henry's request is that 1778 was the least productive year of Mozart's life. Anna-Maria's death was the only significant thing that occurred."

  "Why are we stuck on 1778 all of a sudden?" David yelled. "My sketch is from 1791. Just because Henry gave you an assignment doesn't mean shit. Jesus, Kathryn, you still think the whole fucking world revolves around you.”

  Kathryn didn't respond, and no one spoke.

  After a moment, Dani headed for the door.

  "Where you going?" David asked with a much softer tone.

  "I'm going in the other room to call Paul," Dani said sharply. "Then I'm going to come back in here, and we're going to call Dr. Raymond Sullivan. You may be right, David. Maybe Mozart never wrote a mass for his mother. But Henry had Kathryn researching that specific year for some reason, and I can't believe
it's just a coincidence Sullivan's name and phone number are here on Henry's desk. In the meantime," she added, her tone sounding like a mother scolding her children, "I suggest you two say whatever it is you need to say to each other. It looks like we're going to be working on this thing together, and I refuse to deal with all of this old ex-boyfriend/girlfriend crap. Now grow the hell up and clear the air. I'll be back in a minute."

  Dani stormed out the door and left the room silent. David ambled back behind the desk and fell into the chair. Neither spoke for several moments.

  Kathryn sat down across from David. "How's the hand?"

  David looked up. "It does what it needs to do."

  Kathryn nodded.

  "Does Anthony know what you're doing?"

  Kathryn nodded. "Yes, he's even encouraging it."

  "Admirable. He's a better man than me."

  She leaned forward. David could see that her eyes were filled with pain and pleading. "Are you going to be able to handle this? Because to be honest, I don't know if I can."

  David took a deep breath and closed his eyes before he spoke. "Yeah, I can handle it. Like you said, it was a long time ago, and we were just kids."

  Suddenly from the other room they heard a loud crash and Dani's voice cry out. David was already on his feet and heading for the door when he met Dani stumbling back in. Her face was white, tears were pouring from her eyes, and she was hyperventilating. "P—Paul, oh God, Charlie!"

  "What's wrong?" David asked, steadying Dani by the arm.

  "Some—someone broke into my office. Oh God, David, Charlie's dead and Paul, he’s—he’s—” Dani laid her head on David's chest and sobbed.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  David crouched in front of Dani as Kathryn handed her a glass of water. Dani took a small sip. She was still shaking but breathing easier.

  "We have to get back to DC. Paul was stabbed and is still in surgery. David, they've removed a kidney and…” she started crying again, “…they don't know if he's going to make it. David, what’s going on?" She sobbed, letting her head fall on his shoulder.

  "I don’t know,” David muttered. “I don’t know.”

  "Charlie was shot four times. He was dead before anyone got to him—oh God, I can’t believe this is happening."

  Kathryn kneeled beside David. "Who did you talk to, honey?”

  "DC police. I called Paul's cell, and they answered. They were looking for me.”

  “Do they know what happened or who it was?”

  Dani shook her head as she wiped her nose with a tissue. “All they said was someone broke into my office and Paul walked in on them."

  David took Dani’s trembling hands. Then he turned his head. “What was that?”

  “What?” Kathryn responded.

  “I heard the back door—someone’s here.”

  David jumped up and went to close the door to the office. As he put his hand on the doorknob, two men in dark suits appeared from the hallway. David fell back into the room. The men entered and surveyed the scene. One withdrew a cell phone from his inside jacket. “We’ve got them, sir.”

  “Who are you?” David demanded.

  The man put the phone back in his pocket. "Mr. Webber, Ms. Parsons, Mrs. Depriest—I'm Agent Grimes, this is Agent Burns, we're with the FBI. Would you three come with us, please?"

  "Why? Where are you taking us?" David asked.

  "We've been instructed to escort the three of you back to DC."

  "DC?" Kathryn half yelled, "I can't go to DC."

  "You don't have a choice, ma’am.”

  »»•««

  The federal agents hustled Dani, Kathryn, and David to Westchester County Airport where a private jet was waiting. Forty-five minutes later, they were met on the tarmac at Reagan National by a black SUV that transported them directly to Dani's office.

  Dani’s knees buckled when they stepped off the elevator onto the fifth floor. David grabbed her under one arm and Agent Burns took the other. Kathryn stood back and closed her eyes, unable to look at the gruesome scene.

  The wall opposite the elevator was painted black-red with dried blood, and the floor below was a puddle of ooze. Men in suits dodged men in white lab coats, and photographers were taking pictures of the crime scene.

  “Watch your step,” Agent Grimes instructed as they walked around tiny yellow cones bearing numbers marking the placement of used shell casings. There was ten feet or so of clean flooring before they came upon another puddle of blood. This one had not yet coagulated and was still bright red—the pool was at least a quarter of an inch deep. A gurney was being rolled out of Dani’s office—the body was covered.

  “Oh, Charlie, no,” Dani cried out.

  “No, ma’am,” the man following the body said, “this isn’t Charlie.”

  “Who is it?” David asked, also in a state of shock.

  “Her name is Christine Foster. She worked in the gift shop downstairs. We think the perp used her to get into a restricted area and ultimately up here.”

  They all watched in silence as the corpse was taken down the corridor, and then the man spoke again, this time almost to himself, “She was eighteen. He got what he wanted and killed her. He didn’t have to, he just wanted to.” The man pulled his attention back to the people in front of him. “Mr. Webber, Ms. Parsons, Mrs. Depriest, I’m Agent Tom Fowler with the FBI. Would you please step into the office, we need to talk.”

  Agent Grimes and Burns nodded to the senior agent and departed. The three entered the office, and Fowler closed the door behind them.

  “Everyone, have a seat.”

  Dani looked around the office.

  “It’s okay,” Fowler said, seeing Dani’s apprehension, “there’s nothing else in here. Most of it happened in the hallway.”

  Dani sat down in the chair across from her desk, and Kathryn took the one beside her. David remained standing between the two until Fowler rolled out the chair from behind the desk. “Here, son, have a seat.” Fowler sat on the corner of the desk. “First, let me say, Dr. Parsons, I’m sorry about Mr. Cheevers—Charlie. I understand he was a friend. He was a good man. If it’s of any comfort, he died a hero. He’s the only reason Dr. Rogers is still alive.”

  Dani looked straight ahead, her eyes drenched with tears. "Paul?"

  "He's in recovery—too soon to tell."

  Dani closed her eyes and nodded.

  Fowler continued, “It’s time all of you know what you're involved in.”

  “I didn’t kill Henry or J.P.,” David blurted out.

  Fowler didn’t respond. Instead he addressed Kathryn.

  “I guess the best place to start is with you, Mrs. Depriest. This might be harder on you than anyone.”

  “I didn’t know any of these poor people,” Kathryn said.

  “I’m talking about your husband, Mrs. Depriest.”

  “Anthony? Is he—”

  “Anthony is fine. He’s not a part of this, but he is in a lot of trouble.”

  “I don’t understand,” Kathryn responded.

  “I know you don’t. And that’s why you’re here.”

  Fowler took a beat then began. “Several months ago the IRS and Federal Trade Commission were involved in a joint investigation of a man named Thurman Winfield. Winfield is the founder of a rap music record label called Electric Chair Records. I won’t bore you with the details of what Winfield was being investigated for, but tax evasion and the bribing of an IRS auditor topped the list. They’d had Winfield under surveillance for some time and were prepared to make an arrest when Winfield was contacted by Bernie Freeman.”

  “Uncle Bernie?” Kathryn muttered.

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s that?” David asked, looking at Kathryn.

  “The Depriestiano’s family attorney,” Fowler answered. “Mrs. Depriest, are you aware of…let’s say the colorful reputation of your husband's family?”

  Kathryn looked at David and then back at Fowler. “I’m not sure I should answer tha
t, Mr. Fowler, without my attorney present.”

  Fowler raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He continued, “When it was brought to the bureau’s attention Freeman had contacted Winfield about a quote, ‘lucrative business venture,’ we saw an opportunity.”

  “What does this have to do with what happened here?” David asked.

  “To be honest, Mr. Webber, probably nothing.”

  “Then why the hell—”

  “Just listen,” Fowler ordered. “Mr. Webber, the night Henry Shoewalter was killed, you had been arrested earlier that evening, correct?”

  David’s face turned pale. “How…how do you know—”

  “Because we were watching.”

  Fowler got up and walked around the desk. “The business venture that Bernie Freeman came to Winfield with was conceived by Anthony Depriest.”

  “What?” Kathryn exclaimed under her breath.

  “It involves Winfield turning Electric Chair Records into a record company dedicated to classical music.”

  “Why would Anthony want to do that?” Kathryn asked.

  Fowler paused and then looked at Dani and David as he spoke. “Because he wants to release a very rare and never before heard work by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and he plans to own it. Lock, stock, and barrel.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  It was as if someone had punched all three in the stomach at the same time. Dani audibly gasped, Kathryn just hung her head, and David lost his mind.

  “That son of a bitch!” David yelled, leaping toward Kathryn. “He killed Henry. Your fucking husband killed Henry.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Webber,” Fowler said without raising his voice. “Anthony Depriest hasn’t killed anybody.”

  “But he—”

  “Sit down,” Fowler ordered.

  David sat down. Kathryn couldn’t look at him, and it wouldn’t have mattered if she did because David fixed his stare forward.

  The door opened, and Robert Greenfield entered with another man. Fowler nodded but didn’t introduce them. He went on, “Now nothing about Anthony’s little enterprise would necessarily be illegal, except to pull it off, Anthony needed his uncle’s machine. And Old Nick being Old Nick wasn’t satisfied with just owning and publishing a rare piece of music, even if it is worth a small fortune. See, Old Nick’s nothing if not greedy. So, Ms. Depriest, your husband’s plan got bigger and more illegal. Here’s the deal. Renaissance Records, through its international distribution networks, will launder money for every criminal organization in the world. Here's how it'll work. Pick a criminal organization. Let's say the Mexican drug cartel. Let's say they need to launder some money. Let's say for the sake of easy math it’s one hundred dollars. Renaissance Records will sell to the cartel, or more likely a phony cartel company, CD's. They will charge them the one hundred dollars the cartel needs laundered. Then Old Nick, through another company, probably retail, and most assuredly doing business in another country, will purchase that product from the cartel for fifty dollars. Bang, money's clean. Old Nick makes a hefty little profit that either goes into another business or an off-shore account."