Rick Blechta - Orchestrated Murder

But there was a cello inside. Pratt crouched to look at it. The second-thickest string was missing.

“You said the stiff upstairs had been choked by a string from one of these.”

Pratt got to his feet. “So how did the trombonist explain this?”

“He claims it’s not his instrument. He’s only keeping it in here as a favor for someone else.”

“Whose cello is it?”

The detective flipped his notebook back a page. “An orchestra member who died last year.”

Pratt felt his heart beat faster. “Annabelle Lee?”

“You know about that?”

“Why does this guy have her cello?” Pratt shot back.

“Like I said: someone in the orchestra asked him to keep it in here.”

“Who?”

The detective consulted his notes. “Someone named Daniel Harvey.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Not yet. That’s why I called you.”

Pratt’s mind was racing. He felt like a bloodhound that had suddenly picked up the scent. A real smile split his face for the first time that day.

He pointed to the other open locker farther down the room. “What about that?”

“That belongs to one of the percussionists.” “Let me guess: he’s missing a pair of his sticks.”

The other detective grinned. “Got it in one. Special ones too.”

Pratt already had his walkie-talkie out. “Johnson! You still here?”

It took nearly twenty seconds, but the walkie-talkie eventually crackled and the Scene of Crime tech’s voice said clearly, “Yeah. We’re still working over the room.”

“The evidence bag with the murder weapon, is that still here?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to send someone up for it, okay?”

“Just make sure I get it back promptly.”

“Sure, sure. I also need someone down here to work over the instrument storage room. There’s some evidence that needs collecting.” Pratt turned back to the detective with him. “Get one of the uniforms to go up two floors to the offices and fetch an evidence bag. In the meantime, bring that Harvey character in here. I want to hear what he has to say.”

While the detective was out of the room, Pratt found Ellis via the walkie-talkie. “So what do you need to tell me?” he asked.

“Well, based on stuff I found on news sites on the Internet, our boy seems to have been a regular Don Juan. The ladies all seemed to go gaga over him. There’s a fan page on Facebook, for pity’s sake. Anyway, he lost a chance at conducting one of the big European orchestras because of his habits with the females.”

“Anything else?”

“There’s not a peep anywhere about Spadafini possibly jumping ship.”

“I need you to do something else for me. Find out what phone numbers belong to James Norris. I-”

“The chairman of the orchestra’s board?” Ellis interrupted.

Pratt shouldn’t have been surprised that the kid knew. He was proving to be pretty sharp.

“Yes. Get his home and cell phone numbers, then cross-check it with any numbers that Spadafini has called recently.”

“I’ll also check his text messages. I may have missed something when I glanced at it earlier. Most of what is there is soft-core porn chatter with his current girlfriend.”

“That little thing? She seemed so darn innocent when I was talking to her earlier.”

“They’re the worst ones.” Ellis laughed.

“Whatever. Find me what I want and then meet me down here. We’re finally making some progress-I hope.”

“Right. I’ll be down ASAP.”

A tall, slender man with graying hair appeared in the doorway. Pratt looked at him for a long moment just to make the musician a bit more apprehensive. Satisfyingly, he glanced twice at the open locker.

“Are you Daniel Harvey?” Pratt asked.

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Could I ask you to look at something for me?”

The man licked his lips nervously. “Of course. I’m happy to assist the police.”

He doesn’t look it, Pratt thought. “That’s good. Step this way please.”

Pratt led Harvey to the locker where the cello was. They both crouched down.

“Can you identify this instrument?” he asked.

Harvey started to reach for it, and Pratt grabbed his arm.

“Don’t touch that, sir. It’s evidence in our murder investigation.”

Perhaps that was laying it on a bit thick, but Pratt felt making the musician nervous would get the best-and quickest-results.

“It’s, ah, it’s…” Harvey was struggling to keep himself together. “It belonged to Annabelle Lee, who used to play in this orchestra.”

“I know. She committed suicide last year.”

“Yes. Yes, she did.”

“And why do you have her cello?”

Harvey looked at Pratt with very frightened eyes.

“She was my cousin.”

Without a word, Pratt stood, and the musician collapsed to his knees.

“I did not kill Spadafini! You have to believe me. Much as I wanted to, I didn’t do it!”

“I’d like to believe that.”

“You have to. I…I was with someone during the entire break. I didn’t leave this floor.”

“Who?” the detective asked.

“Leanne Shapiro. I was with her the entire time. Other people saw me too.”

Now they had something to run with. “Ellis!” he barked into the walkie-talkie. “Where are you?”

“On my way down the stairs. What’s happening?”

“Just double-time it, okay? I need you.”

Pratt walked over to Detective Cooper, who was standing in the doorway, and said in low voice, “This Shapiro woman, if she’s already been questioned, find out what she said. If she hasn’t, do it now. Don’t tell her anything about what’s going down. Maybe, just maybe, we’ve gotten lucky.”

“Got it.” The detective angled his head. “What about this guy?”

“Move him to an empty room. I think I’ll let Ellis have a shot at him.”

Ellis arrived, breathless and looking eager. “I’ve got some news.”

“Not now. Things are moving a bit fast at the moment.”

“There’s a break?”

Pratt couldn’t help smiling. “I hope so. It’s too soon to know.” He filled the young man in on what had been happening. “You question Harvey more thoroughly. I didn’t have time to go into why he has his cousin’s cello. It may have something to do with the case, it may not, but we need to know.”

Ellis hustled Harvey out. Pratt closed the door and leaned against it to catch his breath-and think.

In his twenty-eight years as a detective, he’d never had a case like this. In one way, it was a dream. Unless there was something he was missing completely, the murderer was still here. Any evidence was still here.

The silliness of the orchestra’s massconfession aside, the big problem was that any one of them could have done it. That meant questioning a really huge pool of suspects.

Spadafini had obviously been a bastard of the first water. His womanizing alone was outrageous, but his treatment of the people he worked with was contemptible. Pratt felt sure that was the reason for his death.

So, who did it? Pratt was looking for a crowbar, that bit of information he could use to pry the truth loose. The real issue was being able to pick out the important clues from the mass of information they were collecting.

His biggest enemy was time. All these people couldn’t be kept here forever. Getting them fed and watered was only buying him a bit more time. Would the murderer give it up under questioning? He doubted it. For the moment he or she could hide in plain sight.

The tired detective shook his head. And that indeed was the problem: how to smoke out the murderer.

Pulling out his cell phone, he dialed the captain.