Played to Death (12 page)

Jamie

A couple of days passed without word from Kevin, Donna Aguilar or anyone else about the case. I wondered how Scott was doing in the chat rooms, but I didn’t want to know badly enough to call him. I figured I’d hear when something happened.

Pete had spent the afternoon at Kevin’s waiting for a furniture delivery, and I was meeting him there to help assemble some of it. After work, I took my life in my hands crossing Wilshire to get to Kevin’s condo. I found Pete in the living room, pieces of desk scattered around him. There was a new leather sofa against the long living room wall.

“I brought you clothes to change into. They’re on the kitchen bar.”

“Okay, thanks.” I went into the guest bedroom to change and found a new queen-sized bed with two end tables. When I went back to the living room I said, “Did you put those end tables together?”

“Yeah. The stuff came about three hours ago. You can start on the bookshelves.”

I opened the box containing the components of the bookshelves, which weighed a ton. “Jeez, this is heavy. I’m glad he didn’t get the compressed wood crap.”

“I know. This stuff is Made in USA. It’ll last forever. He said he found it online.”

About an hour later, Kevin walked in the door. I’d just finished assembling the bookcase, and Pete and I had hauled it and the desk into the office. I said, “This is good furniture. It’s heavy as hell.”

“It should be, for what I paid.” But he was smiling. “I like them. You all done good.”

Kevin ordered pizza and changed clothes while Pete and I washed up. When the pizza came, we dug in. I said, “How much of your $38 million have you spent on all this?”

“On furniture and both Abby’s and my mortgages? About one point five.”

Pete said, “That’s not bad.”

“No. This place had been on the market for a while, so I was able to offer less than they asked.” Kevin took another slice of pizza. “Have you guys closed on your land yet?”

Pete and I were buying a lot in Alamogordo, New Mexico, with plans to build in another year or so. I said, “Not yet. This coming weekend.”

“Mm. So.” Kevin waved his slice of pizza at me. “Let’s talk bachelor parties.”

Pete and I both groaned. Pete said, “Can’t we do without?”

“What fun is that?”

I said, “Seriously. I don’t think gay guys have bachelor parties.”

“Of course they don’t, not like straight bachelor parties. I was just thinking that we should go out somewhere after the rehearsal.”

“Like where?”

“Wherever you two want. It’s your party.”

Pete and I looked at each other. He said, “Let us think about that. Who’s staying with you for the wedding?”

“Jeff, Val and the boys.”

“Where’s everyone else staying?”

I said, “Dad, Barb, Doug and Linda are staying at Neil’s. Carly, Mike and Tyler and his boyfriend are staying at Ali and Mel’s. Uncle Denny and Aunt Whoever are staying at a hotel.”

Kevin said, “What
is
her name?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

Pete said, “My family’s staying at a hotel, too. Oh, and Steve said he’s bringing Meredith.”

Meredith was Steve’s ex-wife; they’d remained friends. I said, “Are they seeing each other?”

“I don’t think so. She was my sister-in-law for several years, and I always liked her. She wanted to come.”

“Good. I’ll be glad to meet her.” I picked up another slice of pizza and waved it at Kevin. “Ready for graduation?”

Kevin’s graduation ceremony for his paralegal program was tomorrow. “Yeah. It’s weird, since I’ve been out of school for six months. But there’s only one extension graduation every year. Oh, and Mel’s coming.”

“Good.” Kevin had bought the maximum four tickets earlier in the year, thinking to have Dad, Abby, Pete and me. With Abby out of the picture, he’d had an extra ticket.

“I figured she was mainly responsible for the events that culminated in this certificate, so she deserved to be there. She’s very excited.”

I said, “As she should be.”

“I’m excited too. I found my old cap and gown so I didn’t have to buy another one.”

Pete laughed. “You could afford one.”

“Yeah, but why waste the money? The old one still looks fine. I just had to iron it.”

I said, “Years of training in frugality from Dad and Sarge are going to be tough to overcome.”

Kevin pointed a pizza crust at me. “I don’t want to overcome that. And neither should you.”

I saluted him with the remains of my slice. “I don’t, trust me. Have you found your killer and/or thief yet?”

“No to both. Scott’s asked a couple of questions about collecting original scores of some other young composer. We hope someone else will chime in with information we can use.”

I said, “Did you get into the girl’s computer?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t helpful. She must have suspected her parents of snooping because we found nothing that they could have used against her.”

Pete said, “That’s unusual. College girls generally won’t shut up about whomever it is they’re seeing.”

“She must have been so paranoid about her parents finding out that she didn’t even tell her friends. We’ve talked to everyone at PCC that ever crossed her path. Everyone knew she was seeing someone, but no one knew who it was.”

I said, “Even if you do find the guy, you still have the problem of how he got into the wedding.”

“I know. And we can’t find anyone to convince Brian Dalziel’s father to let us interview him. We’re working on a subpoena for Brian’s computer but -” Kevin’s phone rang.

“Brodie.
Yes
. Where?” He listened for a minute. “No, that’s perfect. Don’t touch a thing. We’ll send print techs out, and my partner and I will be down as soon as we can get there. From Westwood. That’d be great. Thanks, Sergeant.” He hung up and made a call of his own.

I said, “
What?
”

“Hello Kitty.” Kevin spoke into his phone, obviously to Jon. “Hey. The Morales girl’s Hello Kitty bag showed up in a donation box at the Culver City Goodwill. Don’t know yet. Her wallet was in it, and they didn’t look beyond that because the Culver City cop remembered the BOLO for the bag. Yeah, I’m home. Pick me up out front. Okay.” He hung up.

Pete asked, “They don’t know yet if the music is in it?”

“No.” He got to his feet and gathered his wallet, keys, badge and gun. “Hate to eat and run.”

I said, “No worries. We’ll clean up.”

Friday, June 19

Scott

Scott had stayed at Ethan’s into the evening then excused himself, saying that he needed to play. Ethan had asked him to dinner for this evening, but Scott had begged off, saying that he had plans, made before he’d met Ethan a week ago. Technically true, since he’d gotten involved in the murder investigation before his trip to the bookstore. He’d softened the blow by inviting Ethan to dinner tomorrow evening; Ethan had gladly accepted.

The truth was he wanted to slow down some. He needed time to think.

He was getting mixed signals. Ethan had made the effort to do something with Scott every day since they’d met - but that was it. It was true that they were still getting to know each other, and they’d only met a few days ago. But in that time Ethan hadn’t said anything that could clearly be interpreted as interest in a relationship. His actions pointed in that direction, but Scott couldn’t verbally pin him down to anything.

Even more strangely, Ethan hadn’t indicated any interest in having sex. They’d been out together for six days in a row and hadn’t even exchanged saliva, much less other body fluids.

The most dates Scott had ever had before having sex with a guy had been three. Six was - absurd.

Come tomorrow, they’d be on Scott’s turf. He’d cook a fantastic dinner, they’d drink some excellent wine, and Scott would make his move. At least in his own house he wouldn’t have to leave in humiliation if Ethan turned him down.

In the meantime, he needed to spend some time on the chat site. He’d noticed in reading old posts that the majority were made on Friday evenings. He was hoping to get lucky so he could get this gig over with.

He logged on and scrolled through the comments that had been left since he’d last checked in. There were quite a few; traffic had picked up some. He read the first few - then stopped cold.

Earlier in the week, at Jon Eckhoff’s suggestion, he’d asked a question to the forum. Did anyone know of a collector of Damien Coffey scores? Coffey was a cellist/composer like Jeremy Isaacson, a few years older, who’d been struck with ALS and had died about ten years ago. Scott had posted that he owned an original Coffey cello duet and would like to find a buyer.

He’d gotten a few negative responses over the first two days. A couple of people had known collectors of other composers - unfortunately, not Isaacson. No one had responded to his question yesterday, and Scott figured no one would.

But here was a response, from username
violoncelle.

“@juilliardgrad: I am unaware of a collector of Coffey scores, but will ask around. Why do you wish to sell?”

Scott checked the time stamp on the post. Ten minutes ago. Could the person still be on the site? Could he get that lucky?

“@violoncelle: I’m moving - it’s a good opportunity to pare down my collection.”

He waited. One minute, then two, then three. He was about to give up when a response appeared.

“@juilliardgrad: I see. Do you have originals from other composers?”

Scott steeled himself. Jon had given him the words to say, but it still made him nervous to type them.

“@violoncelle: I have a Britten and an Isaacson. Not interested in selling the Britten, but might be willing to part with the Isaacson.”

The next response was almost immediate.

“@juilliardgrad: Which Isaacson?”

Scott thought,
Here we go
.

“@violoncelle: A duet,
Andante and Vivace
. Do you know an Isaacson collector?”

“@juilliardgrad: I am a collector. Can we discuss terms?”

Scott thought,
Holy
shit
. He snatched his phone and texted Jon quickly.
On live chat with Isaacson collector. He wants to discuss terms. This evening?

Jon responded immediately.
Yes. After 7:00
.

“@violoncelle: Of course. When are you available?”

“@juilliardgrad: Meet me for a drink at Hotel Bel Air bar this evening. 8:00?”

“@violoncelle: Perfect. I’ll bring the score so you can examine it.”

“@juilliardgrad: Excellent. How will I know you?”

“@violoncelle: Blond, mid-thirties, six feet tall, will wear a blue shirt. You?”

“@juilliardgrad: Gray, late sixties, 5’11”, will wear a blue pocket handkerchief.”

An old guy. Scott wondered if he was gay. If so, the blue shirt might work to his advantage - he’d been told blue went well with his eyes.

“@violoncelle: Wonderful. I’ll see you there.”

“@juilliardgrad: Indeed. Thank you.”

Scott waited a minute to make sure the conversation was over, then logged out and texted Jon.
This evening, 8:00, Hotel Bel Air bar. Meeting for a drink.

There was a pause, then Jon responded.
Cool. I’ll be there ahead of time with Detective Aguilar and my supervisor, Tim Garcia
.

Scott wondered briefly why Kevin wouldn’t be there but figured it was none of his business. He texted back,
Okay
. Then he called Verna Ziegler.

Verna was one of Scott’s fellow Philharmonic cellists, a motherly type who took all the younger players under her wing. She also owned a handful of rare cello scores. Scott - after getting permission from the police - had spoken with her earlier in the week. She owned the original Isaacson duet that Scott had offered violoncelle and had agreed to let Scott borrow it for the purposes of this ruse.

Verna was also a Sherlock Holmes fan. When she answered, Scott said, “Hi, Verna. The game’s afoot.”

“Oh, how exciting! Do you want to pick up the Isaacson score?”

“If you don’t mind. Are you home now?”

“Yes. Come on over.”

Verna lived in Hancock Park. It wasn’t far out of Scott’s way to drive past Ethan’s house on the way to Verna’s, but he resisted the temptation.

Verna met him at her front door with a glass of iced tea. “Someone bit?”

“Yep. A man in his late sixties who wants to meet at the Hotel Bel Air. Know anyone like that?”

She shook her head thoughtfully. “Doesn’t sound familiar. The other collectors I know are all musicians. I don’t personally know any musicians that can afford Bel Air.”

Scott laughed. “No kidding.”

Verna handed Scott a large clasp envelope with the Isaacson score inside. “Don’t spill anything on it.”

“I won’t.”

“Let me know what happens.” Verna grinned. “I’ll never sell this score now. I will cherish it always as the one used to catch a murderer.”

“With any luck. Thanks, Verna.”