Breach of Ethics

by Sharon St. George

  “Not going to happen,” Nick said. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. I’m flying Buck to weekend investment meetings in Portland. On the way I’m dropping Harry and Rella off at the airport in Redmond so they can do some skiing on Mt. Bachelor. We’ll all be back home late Sunday afternoon.”

  “Can Rella call us from the ski resort if she hears anything?” I asked.

  “If not, we’ll make it work,” Harry said. “We’re staying overnight in Bend. We can check messages and call you from there when we get down from the slopes.”

  “That’ll work. Cleo and I will be at the symphony tomorrow night, but I’ll keep my phone on and set it to vibrate.”

  Since we had nothing further to discuss, Harry kicked us out, locked up, and headed off to catch up with Rella. Cleo went home to Sig, which left Nick and me walking together toward our cars in the condo’s visitor-parking spaces.

  Nick draped an arm over my shoulders. “I don’t know about you, but biscotti and coffee isn’t what I consider dinner. Want to go somewhere for a quick bite?”

  I smiled. “All that sugar and caffeine will keep me awake if I don’t counteract it with something. I’ll race you to the nearest pizza.”

  He leaned in and planted a kiss on my temple. “You’re on.”

  We pulled into the pizza place in what we agreed was a tie. The cheesy slices worked their soporific magic. Within twenty minutes, we were both yawning.

  In the parking lot, Nick walked me to my car.

  “If I weren’t flying tomorrow, I’d try for another of your mind-blowing good night kisses, but I’ve barely recovered my powers of concentration since that last one three days ago. I hear we might run into a little weather tomorrow, so I need to be sharp.”

  “Then a hug would be safer for both of us,” I said. “My kneecap is still pretty vulnerable.”

  Nick laughed. “A hug, then. But we’d better do it like porcupines. I’ve been taking a lot of cold showers lately.”

  What started as a platonic hug soon had us wrapped in each other’s arms, bodies pressed together as if we were slow dancing to an evocative love song.

  “Too bad we’re in separate cars,” Nick murmured. “I’d really like us to go home together.”

  I stepped back reluctantly. “Define home. I live in a barn and you live in Buck Sawyer’s pool house.”

  “Good point. But I’ll get my apartment back as soon as Rella’s escrow closes. What about you? Do you have a timetable for moving out of the llama barn?”

  “I’m afraid it won’t be soon. I either pay down my school loans, or pay rent, but I can’t do both.” The conversation was drifting toward an unspoken question that hung between us. Would we ever be sharing a home again?

  We agreed to call or text while Nick was in Oregon if we had any new developments to share in the Gavin Lowe murder case or Natasha’s custody situation.

  Chapter 35

  I passed most of a quiet Saturday catching up on back issues of the Journal of the Medical Library Association. After a short nap and a quick bowl of soup, I showered and dressed in a straight black skirt and silver lamé blouse. I anchored my hair in an artfully messy do and chose small silver hoop earrings. Comfy black suede boots were the finishing touch to my symphony attire—they allowed me to walk comfortably without putting stress on my knee. Cleo, fashion maven that she was, would approve. I grabbed a sweater and headed to Timbergate.

  The civic center crowd was pouring into the building when I arrived at quarter to seven. I found Cleo inside, milling around and exchanging greetings with her fellow symphony supporters. We made our way to our seats with five minutes to spare. Several members of the orchestra were already warming up on stage. Strains from woodwinds and violins wafted through the auditorium. I spotted Hector Korba running notes on his bass clarinet. Cleo’s husband, Sig, worked the valves on his tuba.

  “Look. Here it is.” Cleo pointed to a page in her program. “Natasha is going to do a solo. Debussy’s ‘Clair De Lune.’ ”

  “Looks like they’ve saved her for last. I hope she won’t be too tired.”

  “She’ll be fine. It’s only seven o’clock, and it’s a short program. Just a little over an hour, plus a ten-minute intermission. Sig said Korba asked the conductor to arrange it this way in order to get the judge’s permission for Natasha to perform.”

  The lights in the auditorium flashed, signaling the last of the patrons in the lobby to take their seats. Cleo asked if I’d heard from Nick. I said the only message was a text sent from Portland saying the flight was uneventful and that Rella had not heard from her contacts.

  “Sounds like she struck out.” Cleo closed her program. “It isn’t looking too good for Quinn, is it?”

  “There’s still time,” I said. “Keep your fingers crossed.” I checked my phone for new messages. There were none. I assured myself that it was set on vibrate.

  The remaining musicians entered from the wings, settling into their positions. As a guest soloist, Natasha would remain backstage until it was time for her to perform. Next came the first violinist, who dipped a slight curtsy to acknowledge respectful applause for the concert mistress. She took her chair and signaled the principal oboe to play a pitch while the various sections of the orchestra tuned their instruments.

  The audience hushed then clapped at the entrance of the conductor. He turned to face the orchestra, and with the raising of his baton, the concert began.

  Fifteen minutes into the program, I felt my purse vibrate on my lap. The vibrating went unnoticed by Cleo on my left and the elderly man on my right, both enthralled by the music. Our center orchestra seats were smack in the middle of the third row. No way could I disrupt the auditorium by scooching past a dozen people, especially the bigger ones who would have to stand to let me by. To excuse my racing up the aisle and into the lobby, I’d have to be having a coronary. Still, the timing almost guaranteed the call was from Harry and Rella, who had planned to have dinner in Bend after their day of skiing. Harry had said they’d call from there if they had news.

  I folded my sweater and placed it over my purse so no one would notice if the phone vibrated again. Five minutes later, it did. I nudged Cleo with my elbow. She turned to me, frowning at my breach of etiquette. I pointed to my purse. She shook her head and shrugged. I mouthed, phone, and the light dawned. Her eyes widened. She illuminated the dial on her watch. Another ten minutes until intermission. While we sat through Chopin, Debussy, and Liszt, my phone vibrated twice more. Finally the conductor turned and bowed to enthusiastic applause, ending the first half of the program.

  After inching up the aisle and into the lobby, Cleo and I stepped outside under the shelter of the civic center’s covered entryway. One message was from Harry. The last three were from Nick. I read the first message. Korba signed p.o. for piano hinge call me. I showed it to Cleo.

  “Any idea what this means?”

  “No, but his granddaughter plays piano, so I assume he has a piano and that it has hinges.”

  I read through the messages from Nick. They all said the same thing. Call me.

  I punched in Harry’s cell number first, just as the warning bell sounded from inside the lobby. I followed Cleo back inside, where the crowd was filing back into the auditorium.

  “Is he answering?” Cleo fanned herself with her program.

  “No. Damn. I can’t get through.”

  “Did you try Nick?”

  I was punching in his number as she asked. He answered immediately.

  “Did you get Harry’s message?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t understand it. I tried to call back and couldn’t reach him. What’s this about Korba ordering a piano hinge?”

  “Damn, Harry can explain it better, but there’s a snowstorm screwing up cell service and land lines in Bend. The roads are closed so he and Rella couldn’t drive down the mountain to their hotel. He was afraid you wouldn’t call back until after the concert, so he called me from the ski lodge up on Mt. Bachelor. I got the crux of his
call before we lost our connection.”

  “What did he say?

  “Just before the storm hit, Rella finally heard from her source. It turns out the contractor had an employee working with him. He needed something called a piano hinge in order to install the false door in Quinn’s bathroom and went to Varsha to get a signature on a rush purchase order. I guess it was pricy, and the guy wanted to make sure it was authorized so it wouldn’t come out of his own paycheck. Quinn was out for a few days, and Varsha assumed it was something needed for the bathroom job, so she referred the request to the accounting department. Someone there forwarded it to Hector Korba for a signature.”

  “So Quinn and Varsha never knew Korba signed the purchase order, but what’s that got to do …. Oh, I get it. You think Korba knew something unusual was being installed in the bathroom because of that hinge?”

  “That’s what Harry thought. That makes it likely that Korba knew there was more to the job than installing a bathroom. From what you’ve said, he seems like the kind of guy who might get curious. If I hear anything else, I’ll be in touch.”

  The final bell rang in the lobby. The warning lights flashed. We needed to get to our seats or we’d miss the second half of the program.

  “Nick, I have to go.”

  “Wait. Is Korba performing?”

  “Yes. And Natasha has the final number on the program. Her piano solo.”

  “Don’t tangle with Korba. We don’t know if this means anything, but you and Cleo need to keep your distance, just in case.”

  “Okay, we won’t let on if we come across him.”

  “Is the little girl’s mother there?”

  “If she is, she’s backstage. We haven’t spotted her in the audience.”

  “Call me back as soon as that concert ends. And steer clear of Korba.”

  I filled Cleo in as we hurried back into the auditorium. Everyone in our row was already seated, so we made a series of awkward apologies as we scooted to our mid-row seats.

  I couldn’t keep my eyes off Korba during the remainder of the program. Did he know about the secret passageway to Quinn’s office? On the last day of his life, Lowe had mouthed off about going to Korba to get Quinn and me fired. If he did, had the subject of Natasha’s custody come up? Was it a case of you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours? But Quinn and I weren’t fired and Lowe had not sided with Korba in the custody case. What had taken place during that meeting? Or had it even happened?

  Puzzling questions and conflicting thoughts about Korba kept me distracted throughout the remainder of the symphony until it came time for Natasha’s solo performance of Debussy’s Clair De Lune, the final piece on the program. The conductor announced her as guest artist of the evening but did not mention the relationship between Natasha and Hector Korba. I noticed Korba’s frown and suspected that he felt slighted by the omission.

  Natasha made her entrance in a pink satin dress decorated with lace and ribbons. It shimmered in the glow of a spotlight. Her blond curls were tied back with a matching pink ribbon. She walked to center stage, executed a solemn but graceful curtsy, and then walked to the baby grand and took her place.

  I glanced at Korba throughout Natasha’s performance. He sat there beaming, then wiping his eyes several times, obviously overcome with pride and love. The sight of him was at odds with Nick’s warnings about Korba as a suspect in Lowe’s death. Thinking him capable of murder seemed completely out of the question.

  Natasha played her piece elegantly, with a sensitivity beyond her years. Her little fingers seemed to caress the keyboard with a mystical quality, evoking tender images of lovers embracing in a flowering garden on a still, moonlit evening. As the last note died away, the audience erupted in a standing ovation. When the conductor motioned for her to take a bow, Korba left his chair and walked to her side to take her hand and share her spotlight. Cleo glanced at me with raised eyebrows. I wondered if that moment was rehearsed, or whether Korba was unable to resist the urge to lay claim to his granddaughter in her moment of triumph.

  Natasha exited the stage and Korba returned to his chair. Although the fervent applause was for the soloist, which would usually result in an encore from her, the orchestra would finish out the evening because of Natasha’s still delicate health.

  Seeing Korba close his lips around the mouthpiece of his bass clarinet, I wondered if he had been asked to volunteer a sample of his DNA. I recalled being in the greenroom the week before when he discarded his reed into a wastebasket. I knew that any evidence I collected could not be used to convict Korba, but it could be used to compare his DNA with whatever the police had taken from Lowe’s body. Based on that comparison, Detective Kass might be motivated to ask Korba to volunteer a cheek swab.

  Nick had said to steer clear of Korba, but picking up a discarded reed, once the man had left the greenroom, was virtually risk-free.

  Chapter 36

  “Want to come backstage with me?” Cleo asked.

  “Definitely.” I told Cleo what I had in mind as we made our way to the greenroom.

  Sig was packing his tuba into its case while he and the other musicians chatted among themselves in easy camaraderie. I caught a glimpse of Natasha leaving with her mother and her temporary guardian from CPS. I noticed Korba watching them go from where he sat, off to himself. He looked pensive, then seemed to mentally shake himself and began tending to his instrument. Would he discard his reed this time? And if he did, would it end up in a wastebasket, indistinguishable from a dozen others?

  While feigning interest in the chat involving Cleo, Sig, and other nearby members of the orchestra, I kept my eye on Korba, watching as he broke down his instrument. Just as he detached the reed from the mouthpiece, Dr. Leroy Droz approached him. Korba set the mouthpiece and reed on a small table next to his chair. Droz was the pianist who had played Natasha’s composition at the symphony’s performance the previous week. I recalled Korba asking him for a curbside consult about some kind of rash on his neck. Curious, I strained to hear their conversation.

  “How’s that ointment working, Hector?”

  “Good. The rash is almost gone.” Korba reached his hand up to his neck in a gesture I’d noticed several times before.

  “Well, continue with it for another week, just to be sure. Since you don’t remember how you got the scratch, we want to make sure we have the problem under control. Cellulitis can become worrisome if it gets away from us.”

  Korba uttered a clipped reply. “Thank you, Leroy.” He looked uncomfortable with the topic, and I thought I knew why.

  Cellulitis can begin with something as simple as a fingernail scratch. Connecting the dots, I knew that forensic techs bagged the hands of murder victims to keep them from being contaminated before their fingernails could be examined for evidence. For a breathless moment, I imagined a scene in Quinn’s office: Lowe and Korba in a physical altercation that resulted in Korba’s neck being scratched by Lowe’s fingernails. Were Sybil Snyder’s secret lovers having it out? Coming to blows over a woman? That might explain part of it, but why would they be in Quinn’s office? And how would one of them end up being fatally shot?

  Dr. Droz went on his way, along with most of the musicians. Sig and Cleo were almost ready to leave. Cleo knew what I was up to, but she tossed me a glance that told me she couldn’t stall much longer. I had no excuse for staying in the greenroom once they were gone. Did I dare approach Korba and try to sneak away with the reed? Nick’s warning held me back. Steer clear of Korba.

  I watched Korba pack away his bass clarinet, seemingly distracted and acting on autopilot. The mouthpiece and reed were still on the table next to him. Think, think. I hadn’t seen any of the other musicians toss reeds in the wastebasket near Korba, but the only way to be sure was to take a look. To get close enough, I decided to chance saying a polite Hello. It was the courteous thing to do, since Korba and I were colleagues in the broad sense of the word.

  I closed the few feet between us, glancing at the waste
basket as I reached Korba. Candy wrappers and makeup sponges, crumpled facial tissues, but no reeds. Korba reached toward the table, picked up his mouthpiece and placed it in his instrument case. While his back was turned, I scooped the reed off the table into the wastebasket. As he closed his case, he turned back to glance at the table top. A slight frown crossed his face. Then he noticed me.

  “Miss Machado, did you enjoy the program?”

  “Very much. I wanted to tell you how happy I am to see Natasha playing again. Her performance tonight was beautiful.”

  “Of course.” He stood and lifted his instrument case, apparently forgetting about the reed. “She will go on to great things. It’s in her blood.” He nodded toward Cleo and Sig, saying “Good evening” on his way out of the greenroom. As soon as the door closed behind him, I scrambled to pick the reed out of the wastebasket, holding it by its edges as I wrapped it in a tissue.

  “Got it,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  We made our way to the stage door exit, the last people to leave except for the auditorium staff, who were still inside cleaning up and handling other details that needed post-performance attention. I parted company with Cleo and Sig in the parking lot. They had been able to park close to the building, but my car was on the far end of the large and nearly vacant lot. The lighting had already dimmed, apparently in energy-saving mode. I hadn’t been able to park directly under a light standard, but I managed to spot the dark outline of my old Buick in the distance.

  I hovered near the building exit for a moment to check my phone for messages. One text from Nick, nothing from Harry. I read Nick’s message:

  Concert over? Pls ck in. No contact with Harry. Home tomorrow 5 pm weather permitting

  I texted back, saying the concert was over and I was heading home. The deserted parking lot brought to mind my purse snatcher. I wouldn’t let that happen again. Rain began to fall as I crossed the asphalt. I picked up my pace, but kept it at a brisk walk, keys in my hand, ready to use as a weapon.