Aria for murder, p.5
Aria for Murder, page 5
“But even with a silencer, couldn’t someone’ve heard the rifle discharge?” asked Buddy.
“Not necessa…sarily.” Sergei tripped over the word. “There is shot on stage, very loud, then fortissimo passage in orchestra right after.”
“Let me get this straight. The perp knew exactly when to shoot, so the noise, I mean, the loud music, would cover it up?”
“It’s beginning to look that way.” Al thought for a moment. “Moving on, Buddy boy. I want you to get names of everyone who isn’t a musician—bartenders, program hawkers, whatever—and start interviewing them.”
“On it. I already asked that, uh, general manager lady for a list of personnel.”
“Good work, kid. Have the crime techs sweep the door for fibers, and for fingerprints. There’s a chance the perp wasn’t wearing gloves.”
Buddy whipped out his notebook. “But with all the other people coming into this room, there’s got to be all kinds of prints.”
“From the looks of it, there hasn’t been anyone else here for a while. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Buddy’s notebook slipped from his hands. As he stooped to pick it up, a violent sneezing fit overcame him. “Man, it’s dusty here. Hard to get prints when it’s so covered with grit. Are opera houses always so dusty?”
“Who are you, the EPA?” Al shook his head. “Find out who has criminal records, too. I’ll start questioning the orchestra. Got that?”
“Right.” Buddy resumed his chewing. “This is gonna be one long night.”
As they made their way out of the room, Al took one last look toward the extreme angle between the viewing room and the distant orchestra pit. “One way or another, it’s hard to believe this could be a random hit.”
“What makes you say that, boss?”
“Someone went to an awful lot of trouble. Those VAL rifles are not easy to get, and that ammo has to be special ordered. This took some planning.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Mark my words, Buddy boy. This wasn’t the work of some nut loaf out to get his fifteen minutes. It was done by a pro, someone who wanted the maestro dead.” Al accepted Buddy’s offer of a stick of gum, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth. “No, this wasn’t random. This was personal.”
Chapter Nine
Fia lunga tal notte!
It’s going to be a long night!
—Verdi, Rigoletto, Act III
After Al sent Buddy to interview stagehands, choristers, and soloists and called for backup to cover the multitude of other Met employees, he set his sights on the orchestra members. Tony installed the detective at a table in the orchestra lounge with a list of personnel. Whipping out his notebook, Al began to question the musicians one by one.
What he discovered was fascinating. In asking the orchestra members to describe their duties, he might have concluded that they had the least interesting jobs in the opera house. They came across like factory workers, grinding out the notes, day after day and night after night.
“I just play the trombone.”
“I just saw away at the cello.”
“Think of me as a plumber. I bring in my tools and do my work, then I go home.”
Al knew better, but not one of them had anything of interest to say. Until Harold.
As soon as Harold sat down, Al sensed the musician, a violist of indeterminate advanced age, was extremely nervous and uncooperative. Al began his inquiry by commenting on the musician’s habit of gnawing on the metal clip of his pencil.
“Aren’t you afraid of breaking a tooth like that?”
“Beats getting TMJ, like our tight-ass concertmaster.”
It had never occurred to Al that string players, who spent countless hours with their instruments squeezed under their chins, would encounter teeth-clenching problems. But it made perfect sense that musicians, especially ones working in the Met’s high-pressure atmosphere, would be prone to gritting and grinding their teeth until it became painful.
“Do you know anyone who might have had it in for the maestro?”
Harold grimaced. “Well, if you’re looking for clues, go talk to that drug pusher, Sidney.”
“You mean…” Al peered down his list and spotted the name. “Sidney Richter?”
“Yeah. He was always fighting with Abel, too. Hated Trudeau’s guts, in fact. Everyone knew about it.”
“Was the feeling mutual?”
“Yeah. I guess so.” Harold lowered his voice. “They almost threw it down once in the men’s locker room.”
“And how do you know Sidney’s a drug pusher?”
“I’ve seen him with sleazy guys. You know, shifty types that hang out in bars.”
“But did you ever actually see him selling or buying or using drugs?”
“Well, uh, no. But it was kinda common knowledge. In certain circles.”
Al frowned and penciled a note in his book, then looked again at the list. “And Richter’s, um…” He fumbled over the odd pairing of words. “Stand partner, Julia Kogan?”
“Yeah, he’s real thick with her.” Al was not surprised when Harold got so uneasy that he broke the end of his pencil. “But she’s a straight shooter. Just does her job, all business-like, ya’ know? If there was one person who wasn’t aware of Sid’s ‘activities,’ it would ‘a been her.”
Al raised his eyebrows. “Oh?” He jotted down the info and waited for Harold to continue.
“She was Trudeau’s protégée. Whenever anyone criticized him, she took it personally. She knew all about the problems between him and Sidney.” He paused. “But mostly, she just keeps to herself, doesn’t trust, or rely on anybody. Don’t know why. I guess I wouldn’t trust anyone either if I had been raised in foster homes.”
“I see.” Al decided it was more important to keep the dialogue focused on Sidney than do a character study of Julia Kogan. “Anybody else who might have had it in for Trudeau?”
“Well, there’s a lot of back biting around this place, but…I’d talk to Sidney.”
“Okay.” Al looked up from his writing. “Thanks for your time.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Harold got up and sauntered away. The next to sit opposite Al was Tony, who fidgeted with his baton.
Al asked, “Can you show me the closest pit stop?”
Al saw Tony’s face flood with relief. “Follow me.”
* * *
In the men’s room, Tony stood by as Al leaned over a sink, splashed water on his face, and toweled himself dry.
“It’s gonna be a long night. Mind if I ask you some questions while we’re here, Tony?”
“Shoot. Oh, sorry. Bad choice of words.”
Al overlooked the gaffe. “Did you see all the musicians before the show tonight?”
“It’s my job to make sure they’re all here.”
“And where did you first see Sidney Richter?”
“He was coming out of Abel’s dressing room before the show. Hopping mad.”
Al reached for his notebook. “Oh? About what?”
“Looked like they were having an argument. No surprise. Sid and Abel had a major personality conflict. Always arguing, those two.”
“Do you know why?”
Tony shrugged. “They just rubbed each other the wrong way.”
“Did you hear their conversation?”
“Not really, behind the dressing room door, it just sounded like shouting. But I definitely made out the word ‘son-of-a-bitch.’”
Al paused to write. “Anyone else in the orchestra have problems with Abel?”
“Nah, are you kidding? They were all in awe of Trudeau, me included. The man was a genius. Had the whole music world in the palm of his hand.” Tony watched as Al wrote with a vengeance. “Am I done?”
“Oh…Yes, thanks for cooperating.” Al paused. “By the way, where were you when Abel was shot?”
Tony swallowed hard. “If you must know, I was in Abel’s dressing room.”
Al’s sharp look demanded an explanation.
“He had some custom-made batons. I liked to practice conducting with them. It made me feel like…” His face reddened. “A real conductor.”
Al scrutinized Tony’s humiliated expression and felt badly for him. It couldn’t have been easy for the personnel manager to admit such an intimate detail. But then, criminals sometimes confessed to petty crimes to cover up larger ones.
“I’ll take that under advisement for now.”
Chapter Ten
Se udir brami il resto,
discaccia i sospetti, che torto mi fan.
If you want to hear the rest,
drop those suspicions that do me such wrong.
—Mozart, le nozze di Figaro, Act I
Al headed for the door. Then, realizing he would never find his own way back through the maze of hallways, he looked to Tony for help. Nodding his understanding, Tony led Al out of the locker room and back down the hallway. Just as they had reached the orchestra lounge, Buddy appeared at the entrance and leaned toward Al. They entered the room, speaking softly.
“Too many people in this opera house, boss. I’ve called for backup. You got anything yet?”
“Not much. How ‘bout sitting in on this next one?”
He pointed to Sidney’s name on the list. Buddy pulled up a chair next to Al.
“Send Sidney Richter over, please, Tony.”
Tony motioned to Sidney. Al noticed Sidney was in no hurry to come in and sit in front of the two detectives.
Out of the corner of his eye, Al also saw a young woman, a violin case sitting on the floor next to her, lingering by the water cooler, acting nervous and on edge. Noticing her hand was shaking when she filled a paper cup with water, he was willing to bet she was Julia Kogan, even though he hadn’t been introduced to her yet. By her attentive expression, he guessed she was trying to listen to the exchange between him and Sidney.
“You were heard arguing with Abel before the show, Sidney. What was that about?”
“We had our differences.”
Al eyed Sidney with suspicion. “What kind of differences?”
“Artistic ones.” Sidney peered at Al, eyes narrowed. “Like, I personally don’t think we should be playing Wagner on the Jewish high holidays, especially Yom Kippur. I wasn’t shy about letting him know.”
Buddy rolled his eyes. “What’s so bad about that?” he asked.
“Wagner was an anti-Semite. It was his music they played when the Jews marched into the concentration camps.” Sid scowled. “Want more detail, Mr. Detective?”
“Was that the only thing you and Trudeau were fighting about?” asked Al.
“Nope. You want a laundry list?”
Buddy eyed Sid’s defiant expression. “Were you the only one in the orchestra who had that kind of disagreement with him?”
“I was the one who told him to his face. You got a problem with that?”
Al ignored Sidney’s confrontational tone. “You and Trudeau had personality conflicts?”
“Yeah, so what? It happens. A lot of musicians do battle with the conductor. It doesn’t mean they’re going to kill him.”
“I didn’t say anything about that.”
“You didn’t have to. Your attitude is obvious. Can I go now?”
Al knew his questioning was going nowhere. “Yeah. But stick around, just in case. And maybe you could point out your stand partner, Julia.”
Sidney did what he was asked to do. “Okay. But she doesn’t know anything.”
“Oh? How do you know?”
“She’s just a kid. Why don’t you ask Tony-the-wunderkind wannabe Toscanini where he was during the murder?”
Before Al could reply, Sidney pushed back his chair, got up, and walked over to Julia. Sid gently plucked the paper cup from her trembling hand.
“You’re next, kid,” Al heard Sidney say. “Don’t let them get you down. I’ll wait for you in the hallway, and we can blow this joint, okay?”
Julia nodded. Al motioned her toward the chair opposite him and cleared his throat.
“Was there anything special about your relationship with Abel Trudeau?”
“He was my mentor. I wouldn’t be at the Met if not for him.”
“Did he ever talk about any enemies, any threats to his life?”
She shook her head. Al regarded her shrewdly. He could see her frayed nerves already starting to show.
“What about Sidney? How close are you with him?”
“Close enough to know he would never harm Abel.”
“Who said anything about that, Julia?”
“I could tell from his expression you were giving him a hard time.”
Are you close with Sidney in any other way?”
Julia bristled. “If you mean physically, it’s none of your business.”
“I wasn’t implying that.”
“Oh, weren’t you?” Julia’s face reddened. “If you must know, Sid’s like a big brother to me. He took me under his wing when I first got here. That’s all I have to say.”
There was an uncomfortable silence as they locked stares. Buddy got up and leaned over Al. “I gotta go back upstairs. Whaddya’ think so far?”
Al murmured in Buddy’s ear. “Not much to go on here, except maybe Richter. Didn’t believe a word he said.”
They exchanged glances of understanding. Then Buddy walked off.
From Julia’s anxious look, and the way she was clutching her violin case, Al could tell she was worried, even if she hadn’t been able to hear what he and Buddy had said. Whether that worry was about Sidney remained to be seen.
Al cleared his throat again. “Did you hear Abel and Sidney arguing before the performance?”
Julia nodded.
“Were you aware of their personality conflicts?”
“Yes. But if you think Sidney—”
“Forget Sidney for the moment. Is there any reason why you might want Abel Trudeau dead?”
“Are you accusing me? For God’s sake, Abel got me this job. He’s been like a father to me since my own father died when I was a kid. Why would I want to harm him?” She became more agitated. “Look, I know where this is going. First my mentor is murdered, and then you want to accuse my best friend of being involved, and now me.”
Julia stood up abruptly, spilling the contents of her water cup all over her sweater. She burst into tears. Al studied Julia’s distraught face. He felt sudden sympathy for her. “We can finish this later, Julia. You can go.”
Julia rose and fled the lounge. At that moment, Patricia strode in, scowling, and gave Al the evil eye.
“Are you quite finished, detective?”
Al looked up at Patricia. “And you are…?”
“Patricia Wells, general manager of the Met.”
Al scanned his list. “I don’t see your name here.”
“Of course not. I’m not a musician.”
“Got something against musicians?”
“Look, detective,” Patricia said, “I’d appreciate your letting my players go. Can’t you see they’re exhausted and upset?”
“Sorry, Ms. Wells, but these few will need further questioning.”
“Couldn’t you continue tomorrow?”
“I can’t risk them skipping town overnight.”
“If they want to keep their jobs, they’re not going anywhere.”
“Okay, Ms. Wells, you win. For now.”
“Thank you, detective.” Patricia addressed the remaining musicians. “You may go.”
Al watched the musicians’ exodus, then scooped up his papers and left without uttering another word.
* * *
Julia was devastated. The detective’s questioning had shaken her to the core. She had escaped the lounge, shoving the violin case under her arm, fighting off tears as Abel’s last words again echoed in her ears.
“Just think about it. We’ll talk more about it next time.”
Rather than console her, the after-effects of Abel’s promise had only made her feel more hopeless.
But there won’t be a next time. And this is turning out to be the worst night of my life.
Chapter Eleven
Vissi d’arte, vissi d’amore, non feci mai male ad anima viva!…
Nell’ora del dolore, Perchè Signore, me ne rimuneri così?
I lived for art, I lived for love, I’ve never harmed a living soul!…
In this hour of suffering, why, oh Lord, do you repay me this way?
—Puccini, Tosca, Act II
At two a.m., Julia and Sidney were still sitting at the bar in The Smith, a restaurant on Broadway directly across Lincoln Plaza from the Met. The bistro/ bar was a favorite haunt of Lincoln Center musicians; though Julia, who was compulsive about her work and made a point of staying away from booze and late-night carousing, was not a regular patron there.
Sidney, however, certainly was, and his frequent hits from his glass of Scotch reminded Julia of a needy baby with its comforting bottle. She nursed her own glass, not saying much, then turned to her colleague and spoke with slow deliberation to keep herself from breaking down.
“It’s my fault he was killed.”
“How do you figure that?”
Julia gazed at Sid, her lip quivering. She began fidgeting with the zipper on the violin case, which was positioned upright next to her bar stool. “He was supposed to go on sabbatical to Vienna. I asked him to stay for my first season. He changed his plans for me. I’m responsible for his…his…”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Jul.”
But Julia wasn’t listening. “Here I am worrying about myself, when Abel—”
A loud booming coming from the TV screen on the wall above the bar interrupted Julia’s self-recriminations. She sat bolt upright and looked up at the screen to see a newscaster positioned in front of the Met.
“Tragic opening night at the Metropolitan Opera,” the journalist declared. “Musical Director Abel Trudeau was gunned down…”
Distraught, Julia sank back on her barstool. Then suddenly she sat straight up, crying out.
“Oh no! Sid! It just came back to me. I saw—”
