Aria for murder, p.4
Aria for Murder, page 4
Instantly, the pit was thrown into pandemonium.
“Terrorist!” a cellist cried.
“Abel’s been shot!” screeched a flutist.
Within seconds, the other musicians had jumped up from their chairs and, clutching their instruments, fled the pit.
* * *
No one yet realized that the rifle shot, perfectly timed to coincide with the gunshot onstage, had come from the viewing room. No one knew that the shadowy figure, who had ejected the cartridge manually just in case a second shot was needed, decided there was no time to retrieve it from where it had gotten stuck in a crack in the floor. Nor did anyone see the interloper duck out of the room toward the fire stairs and escape the opera house amidst the chaos.
* * *
Patrons in the audience stood up in bewilderment. One man screamed, “Terrorists!” Another man shouted him down. “Calm down, people. Don’t panic!”
But it wasn’t long before they all ran, screaming, for the exits. Ushers frantically tried to calm them and stop the mad rush.
Unlike her colleagues, most of whom by this time had bolted, Julia just knelt beside Abel, cradling his head in her lap, her clothes and violin pin smeared with his blood. She stared at him in disbelief until a security guard rushed to her side and tugged at her arm.
“Please, Miss. It’s not safe.”
She clung to her mentor, his blood spouting through her fingers, and shouted at the guard. “No! No! I’m not leaving him!”
But the guard, far stronger than Julia, pulled her away. “It’s too dangerous, Miss, you have to come with me. Here…”
He offered her his handkerchief to wipe the bloodstains from her hands. Dazed, she waved him away, beyond reason, looking back at Abel. She knew he was dead.
How could this happen? How?
The house doctor and EMS personnel rushed into the pit just as Julia managed one last fleeting glance at her adored maestro. She later wished she had been able to keep something, anything belonging to him, like his baton, or his musical score.
But his baton had been shattered beyond recognition. His score, which Julia had glimpsed for a moment while the guard was tugging her away from the scene, was still open on the podium, Verdi’s masterful notes now stained with blood.
Her mind was forever imprinted with the image of her beloved Don Carlo, tinged with the crimson blood that had flowed from her cherished fallen maestro and mentor, Abel Trudeau.
Chapter Seven
Mal qual mai s’offre, oh Dei, spettacolo funesto agli occhi miei!…
Ah! l’assassino mel trucidò.
Quel sangue…quella piaga…quel volto…tinto e coperto dei color di morte…
Ei non respira più…fredde ha le membra…
But, oh God, what dreadful sight confronts my eyes!…
Ah! The assassin has struck him down!
This blood…this wound…his face discolored with the pallor of death…
He’s not breathing anymore…his limbs are so cold…
—Mozart, Don Giovanni, Act I
The mass of Radio Motor Patrol cars screeched to a halt on the service drive in front of Lincoln Plaza. NYPD Officers poured out onto the plaza and raced into the opera house to find a theatre erupting in mayhem.
Cops swarmed the lobby, some attempting to prevent patrons from escaping, others forming a barrier against a mob of journalists clamoring to gain entry to the scene.
Meanwhile, a shocked and benumbed group of orchestra members silently congregated in the orchestra lounge. Some musicians lay prostrate on the sofas and cushioned benches positioned around the large, carpeted room. Some paced, while others poured themselves cup after cup of spring water from the cooler near the entrance, slaking their anxiety-driven thirst. They whispered about Abel, and about whomever the next maestro might be.
Julia, paralyzed with grief, huddled in a far-off corner, barely aware of Sidney at her side. She ran through the events of the evening in her mind again and again. Then, as she fidgeted with the zipper pull on her violin case, she realized she had been wrong about not having anything of Abel’s. She still possessed the violin pin and the song, the gifts he had given her before the performance.
I’ll never have his nurturing and caring again. I’ll never know what he meant by “look beyond the notes.” And what if I can never find the missing page…?
She held back a sob, refusing to give in to the emotions threatening to make her break down in tears.
“Next time,” he said. But now there won’t be a next time, nothing but memories.
It was all gone, lost to her, disintegrated into nothingness as surely as the breath had departed from Abel’s body.
Meanwhile, Sidney was trying to comfort her. Considering Julia was completely desolate, and he couldn’t squeeze her shoulder or give her a supportive hug, he could only gaze at her with sympathy, and use his most soothing voice.
“I know you loved him, kid.”
Julia nodded. She tried to speak, but her sobs caught in her throat.
“Shh, don’t talk. Just let it all out if that’s what you feel like.”
She shook her head, choosing instead to grit her teeth and dig her thumbnail into her palm.
* * *
Patricia appeared at the doorway of the lounge, followed by Tony.
“How are the musicians reacting to the events of the evening?”
“How do you think, Patricia? They’re in shock.” Tony noticed Patricia’s look of annoyance. “Unlike you, who seem to be taking all of this in stride.”
“Oh?” Patricia flashed him an irritated look. “Well, I’m not. Not at all. Reporters are demanding to be let inside the house. And those two obnoxious detectives from the Twentieth Precinct are already making my life miserable. They want a list of all the personnel in the opera house, more than a thousand employees. Musicians, choristers, stagehands, wardrobe people, dancers and more. It’s unconscionable.”
“It’s their job. How hard could it be to get a computerized list?”
“Even so, it’s still a royal pain in the ass. Computers notwithstanding, who has time for such things? Impossible.” She sniffed. “As if I didn’t already have my hands full, trying to calm down my stars and placate the board members. Did you know they’re on the verge of canceling the entire week’s performances?”
Tony shrugged. “That’s no surprise.”
“Well, it’s not acceptable, and I am determined to block them. The Met has only cancelled twice. The blizzard of ‘96 doesn’t count.”
“Whatever you say, Patricia.”
The only times in the history of the Met that shows had been canceled were when legendary baritone Leonard Warren had collapsed and died onstage back in the sixties, and in 1996, when a little-known tenor had keeled over from a heart attack during the first act of The Makropoulos Affair. During the blizzard of that year, the mayor had closed off the entire city of New York, but it wasn’t the Met that canceled.
Even when a patron had committed suicide by throwing himself off the top of the Family Circle in the middle of a performance of Macbeth (though he had been thoughtful enough to wait until the intermission), the show had gone on to its finish, albeit after an extended interval.
Patricia shook her head. “And as for the reporters, I suppose I’ll have to allow them in.”
She cleared her throat to get the musicians’ attention. “The detectives will be here to interview each of you personally in a few minutes.” Then she glanced around, taking note of who was showing interest and who was not. “They may want to come back later during rehearsals and re-question some of you as well.”
She stationed herself at the exit, sighing in exasperation. Her fingers clutched the small cylindrical pill container in her pocket. But she knew she would have to wait until she was alone to avail herself of its contents.
* * *
Julia turned her face up to Sid and winced. He returned the look.
“Rotten luck. I really could use a drink right about now. You look like you could, too.”
She found her voice and replied haltingly. “Yes, but…if we have to stay here…”
“Not to worry. Once we’re done, we can hightail it to The Smith. I’ll buy.”
Nodding gratefully, Julia contemplated getting up but thought better of it. She still felt shaky, torn between grief and her determination not to let this disastrous turn of events undermine her usual rock-solid exterior.
Now is not the time to let any chinks show in my armor, even to Sid.
She spoke hesitantly. “Sid, I meant to ask you, where were you when…when you got up and left the pit?”
“My diverticulitis. You know how bad it gets when it kicks up.”
“Yes, but—”
He grimaced, his face darkening. “What? Suddenly you’re suspicious of me? You know me better than that, Julia.”
“Of course I do, don’t be ridiculous. I’m just worried that, well…the police don’t know you like I do. If they find out you and Abel were arguing before the performance—”
“That’s not your problem. It’s between them and me.”
Feeling the sudden need to throw some water over her face, Julia turned to Sid.
“Watch my fiddle case?”
Sidney nodded. Julia rose with some effort, moved toward the doorway, and faced Patricia with a weary expression. The general manager feigned concern.
“Anything I can do, Julia?”
“Actually, I need to go to the ladies’ room.”
Patricia nodded her agreement and watched the young violinist move slowly past her and through the door, her eyes never leaving Julia’s shapely, velvet-clad behind.
Chapter Eight
Il duolo estremo la meschinella uccide…
Her great sorrow has killed the poor girl!
—Mozart, Don Giovanni, Act I
NYPD detectives Al Cummings and Buddy Cruse snaked their way through the swarm of officers who held back the mob of patrons squeezed into the Met lobby. They followed the medical examiner, along with a plainclothes officer with his camera and two uniformed officers, into the orchestra pit. Abel’s body lay on the floor by the podium, where the police photographer began his task. The medical examiner studied the gunshot wound.
“Shot from behind, high angle. Can’t be sure yet, but I’d check the balconies.”
Al whistled. “Whew. Perp must ‘a been one helluva shot.”
“If the perp was actually aiming at Trudeau,” Buddy said.
“Who else could he have been aiming at?” asked the M.E.
Al shrugged. “You never know.”
* * *
Backstage, traumatized company members wandered about, speaking in anxious whispers, or chattering nervously. Charles Tremaine, Giuseppe’s understudy, was the only one with a calm demeanor.
When the gaggle of reporters found him, Charles was huddled with Frank. This wasn’t unusual, since the two often were seen together, sometimes gabbing in full view of others but usually whispering off in a corner of an out-of-the-way hallway or corridor.
Having just consoled a shell-shocked soprano, Charles took it upon himself to be the self-possessed representative, fielding the questions of the press, who had been allowed inside the opera house and were demanding information.
“Were you backstage when it happened, Mr. Tremaine?” asked one.
“Would you care to make a statement?” queried another.
“Yes, I would.” Charles drew upon his theatrical training to give the impression of being poised and self-assured. “The Met has suffered an incalculable loss in Abel Trudeau. This event has saddened all of us deeply. Its shockwaves will reverberate in New York’s cultural community for years to come.”
Charles presumed the reporters must have been impressed with his unruffled exterior, since they continued to compete for his attention. He smiled sadly and carried on, like the trooper he was. He’d been waiting month after frustrating month as an understudy for his chance, his moment in the limelight. Now it had finally come, and he was going to revel in it, no matter what horrific event had provided the catalyst.
* * *
After leaving the M.E. to his work, detectives Al and Buddy pushed their way through the masses of NYPD cops who clogged the hallways and into the lobby. Officers were having a difficult time managing impatient crowds of frightened and irate patrons and ushers who were milling about in mass confusion. The officers formed a barricade against the glass exit doors leading outside to Lincoln Center Plaza, preventing the patrons—their prime witnesses—from jumping ship.
Al found out who the head usher was, approached him, and identified himself. “What time did people start to arrive this evening?” the detective shouted above the din.
William, the usher, shouted back. “These doors open a half-hour before curtain. But people enter from the stage door at all hours.”
Al grimaced. “That’s a load of help.”
A red-faced matronly woman rushed up to Al and Buddy. “This is an outrage. When are we going to be allowed to leave? My chauffeur is waiting.”
“Then you might have to give him a raise, Ma’am. This may be the longest opening night in Met history,” Al informed her.
“Not as long as the last act of Die Meistersinger, if you know what I mean,” added William.
“Huh?” Al glared at him, waiting for an explanation.
William sighed. “I was referring to the lengthy Wagner opera with a third act as long as the first two acts combined. Almost six hours total.”
“Six hours? Man, I feel sorry for the musicians,” said Buddy. “People love opera that much?”
“If you have to ask, then you know nothing about opera,” the woman huffed.
“That’s putting it mildly, Ma’am,” Al said.
The woman strode away. Al turned back to William and noticed Buddy pop a piece of chewing gum in his mouth. Even in the gravity of the situation, Al couldn’t suppress a wisp of a smile. Buddy, the most orally fixated kid Al had ever seen, was always chomping on something. Sometimes this habit irritated Al, but in general, he found it amusing and somewhat endearing.
Buddy proceeded to grill William. “Which usher was stationed in the balcony?”
“It’s called the ‘Family Circle.’” Al couldn’t miss the disdain in William’s expression. “That would be Sergei.”
William pointed out a nervous-looking young man hovering by himself in a corner. Al thought for a moment.
“Sergei. Isn’t that a…Russian name?”
“Yes, he’s our token Russian Mafia member.” Al and Buddy’s collective glare told William his quip was not appreciated. “Just a joke. He’s new, so he gets to deal with the ‘peanut gallery’—the Family Circle.”
Eyes narrowed, Al peered at Sergei. Buddy leaned over and whispered in Al’s ear. “Some sniper rifles are Russian, right?”
“Yeah.”
Al and Buddy walked over to the novice usher and took him by the arm. “How would you like to show us the Family Circle?” Al asked as politely as he could. The police department was getting flak these days for being disrespectful to suspects.
Sergei led them through the lobby to the interior, where they took the elevator up several levels. When the three men had reached the mile-high Family Circle, Al and Buddy noticed that the section was cramped, the seats close together.
“I tell you, this is for me first night,” Since Sergei’s accent was heavy, the detectives had to pay close attention to his words. “I do not notice anyone enter after curtain is up.”
“Get real, how could that be?” Buddy unwrapped another stick of gum.
“Giuseppe Masini, great tenor, when he sing, nothing else important.”
Al smirked. “Any true opera aficionado would agree with that, right?” He looked up toward the ceiling and pointed at a large cubicle, framed by a panel of glass windows, so high up it looked suspended in air. “What’s up there, Sergei?”
“Viewing room, for company officials to watch operas. But is closed for renovation since for several weeks.”
Taking Sergei by the arm again, Al nodded his head in the direction of the viewing room. The usher let out a deep breath and led on.
Once they had reached the viewing room, the first thing Al noticed was that the padlock on the door had been broken. He turned to Sergei.
“So much for renovations. Who has access to this place while it’s closed?”
“Only construction workers and stagehands,” Sergei replied.
“Must have been an inside job,” Al said.
“If it’s an inside job, why wouldn’t they just use a key, boss?” Buddy asked.
“So it wouldn’t look like an inside job, Buddy boy.”
The two detectives donned latex gloves. Buddy inspected the broken lock, while Al motioned to Sergei to wait just outside the door.
Al and Buddy entered the viewing room and examined the floor. Spying a shell casing wedged in a crack, Al knelt down and tried to pry it out. It wouldn’t budge.
Buddy extracted a Swiss Army knife from his pocket. “Here, try this.”
After a good deal of struggling, Al finally dug out the casing and inspected it.
“VAL Silent Sniper.”
Al had been first in his Police Academy class in ammunition identification. Not only was he adept at determining a type of ammunition from the casing or cartridge, he also was well versed in recognizing the more uncommon varieties. “Pretty sophisticated weaponry, very distinctive ammo. Russian, just as I thought.” He eyed Sergei. The usher blanched.
Buddy peered at the casing. “Perp must ‘a been in a real hurry, to leave that behind.”
“I’d be willing to bet this matches the murder bullet.” Al placed his find in a small plastic evidence bag and pocketed it. He assessed the extreme distance between the viewing room and the pit. “This perp knew what they were doing. Military, special ops, maybe. A real pro.”
“Yeah, didn’t leave anything else here, boss, not even foot scuffs,” Buddy said.
Al nodded. “Rubber soles. And they knew their way around this opera house for sure.”
