Played to Death (13 page)

Jamie

Mid-morning Friday, my dad texted me. “I’m here. See you in a bit.”

“Good.” I was only working until 2:30. Pete and Dad would pick up Mel and drive to campus, since the Jeep had a parking sticker that I paid good money for. They’d come to the library and get me - I was the one with the tickets - and we’d walk over to Royce Hall for the ceremony. After graduation, Ali and Mel were having us all over for a celebration. Dad would spend the night with Kevin and head home tomorrow.

At 2:30 on the dot, Lance Scudieri called me. “Your family’s here.”

“Be right there.” I closed up the office and went downstairs. Dad, Pete and Mel were waiting at the circulation desk; they all smiled when they saw me. Mel said, “You guys should have told me what the uniform was.”

Dad, Pete and I were all wearing polo shirts and pressed khakis. Mel was in a silky t-shirt, drapey black dress pants and flats. I said, “You look great, as always.”

Pete glanced at his watch. “Let’s go. I’d like to get a seat where we can see.”

It wasn’t hard to spot Kevin as the graduates walked in - he was one of the tallest. When they were all seated, the speeches began. Thankfully they were short; a few of them by graduates of the extension program were inspiring. The graduates filed across the stage to receive their certificates. When Kevin’s name was called, we applauded wildly. He glanced up and flashed us a grin then went back to his seat.

After the ceremony, we met him outside and took some pictures. I’d missed Kevin’s first graduation, as I was still in classes at Oxford, so I was delighted to be able to attend this one. A couple of people stopped to say hello to him and there was some general milling around before we headed for our car.

When we got to Mel’s, Ali was already home, mixing up a salmon salad. When Mel filled a plate for herself, I said, “I thought you were vegan.”

She made a wry face. “I couldn’t hang with it. I missed fish too much. So now I’m a pescetarian.”

Ali said, “Mealtime is much easier now.”

We took our time eating, relaxing with a beer, enjoying each other’s company. At one point, the discussion veered to weddings; Kevin said, “Oh. That reminds me. Scott arranged a meeting with a guy who might be the Isaacson collector.”

I said, “No kidding. When?”

Kevin glanced at his watch. “About a half hour from now. Jon, Tim and Donna are probably already in place.”

“Where?”

Kevin grimaced. “The Hotel Bel Air bar.”

The site where Kevin had killed Hunter Mitchell. Pete said, “It’s a good thing you had graduation tonight.”

“It is.” Kevin sighed. “I wouldn’t have looked forward to going back in there.”

I said, “Did Scott get an Isaacson score from someone?”

“Yeah, another Philharmonic player.”

Pete asked, “Did the collector seem to be reluctant?”

“No. He freely offered up that he was an Isaacson collector, and he said he was in his late sixties. We’re thinking now that he may not know about the murder or where the score came from.”

I said, “If it was even him that bought it.”

“Yeah. Lots of ifs. But some of our questions might get answered tonight.”

Pete said, “What happened with the Hello Kitty bag?”

Kevin drained his beer. “There was no score in it. Otherwise it seemed intact. Her license and credit cards appeared to be undisturbed, although there wasn’t any cash in her wallet. We lifted prints that weren’t Elena’s but didn’t get any hits.”

I said, “She might not have had cash before she was killed.”

“True. All of her other things were still there - house keys, girl stuff.”

Mel laughed. “Girl stuff. I like that.”

Scott

Jon had told Scott to get to the bar early so he could choose his seat. When Scott walked in at 7:45 and scanned the room, he didn’t see any older men with blue pocket squares. That was a relief.

He ordered a tonic and lime then chose a table away from the entrance, as he’d been instructed, with an open table beside it. Donna Aguilar, Jon and another man - medium height, medium build, Hispanic - casually moved from where they’d been standing at the bar to the table next to Scott. They didn’t acknowledge his presence, but they’d be able to hear everything Scott and the collector said.

Scott laid the clasp envelope on the table in front of him. A waiter brought his drink, and he took a sip. His mouth was dry and his hands were clammy. He ran through some mental relaxation exercises, and began to feel somewhat better.

At 7:58, Scott had nearly finished his drink when a silver-haired man wearing a suit with a blue pocket square walked into the bar. The man stopped and scanned the room, spotted Scott and smiled. He strode to the table and stopped. “Juilliardgrad, I presume?”

Scott stood and held out his hand. “Scott Deering.”

The man shook his hand firmly. “Tristan Oliver. What are you drinking?”

“Tonic and lime.”

“Superb. I’ll be right back.” Oliver went to the bar, placed an order, and returned. He sat across from Scott, smiling broadly, and nodded at the envelope. “Is that the Isaacson duet?”

“Yes.” Scott handed the envelope over.

Oliver removed the score gently and laid it on the table. “Oh my. This is in excellent condition.”

Scott said, “It’s been well taken care of.”

“Indeed.” Oliver flipped through the pages carefully, then sat back and smiled. “How did you come to have it?”

“It was a gift.”

Oliver steepled his fingers and raised an eyebrow. “How badly do you want to be rid of it?”

Scott laughed. “Not badly enough to give it away.”

Oliver’s smile widened. “Wise young man.”

Scott decided to quit beating around the bush. “Do you have other Isaacson originals?”

“Yes. I have all of his string quartets and just recently acquired his only cello solo. If our transaction is successful, I’ll have all of his duets as well.”

Scott could see Jon and the other cops from the corner of his eye; none of them had twitched yet. He said, “Are you a cellist?”

“Strictly amateur. I played in high school, but in college I was pre-med. Not much time for formal music since then, although I’ve continued to play for my own amazement.”

Scott chuckled at the older man’s little joke. “So you’re a physician.”

Something flickered in Oliver’s gaze - an unpleasant memory, Scott thought. “Yes. I retired three years ago.” His smile returned. “Now I have time to indulge in my hobbies.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Yes.” Oliver leaned forward, suddenly all business. “I’m willing to pay you $1,000 for this.”

“
Oh
.” Scott tried to look disappointed. “I was hoping to get $1,500. As you’ve seen, it’s in pristine condition.”

“So it is.” Oliver considered for a moment. “I paid $1,500 for the solo piece I bought. I’d be willing to go as high as $1,200.”

“Hm. Can I think about that for a few minutes?”

“Of course.”

“Did you find the solo you bought through the chat site?”

“Not our chat site, a different one. A fellow there asked if anyone was in the market for Isaacson originals. I told him I’d be interested in the solo and gave him my email address. A week later, he contacted me and told me he had it.”

“Wow. Did he own it already?”

Oliver looked surprised. “I assume so. How else would he have procured it so quickly?”

Jon turned in his seat so that he was facing Scott’s table and said casually, “He might have stolen it.”

Oliver was shocked. “
Excuse
me?”

Jon flipped his badge out. “Detective Eckhoff, LAPD Homicide. This is my partner, Detective Garcia, and Detective Aguilar, LAPD Art Theft Unit. Two weeks ago, the original Isaacson solo was stolen from UCLA’s music library.”

Oliver gasped. “
Stolen?
But - mine wasn’t
stolen
.”

Garcia spoke. “How do you know?”

Oliver’s stupefied state appeared to Scott to be real. “Well, I -” He stopped, staring at the police as Jon’s identification hit him. “Wait a minute. You’re
homicide
detectives?”

Jon said, “The young woman who stole the piece was strangled to death the next day.”

Oliver clapped his hand over his mouth. He looked stricken. He turned to Scott. “Are you a detective as well?”

“No. I really am a cellist with the Philharmonic. They needed someone who spoke the language.” Scott reached across the table and lifted the score. “This belongs to a friend.”

Donna said, “We’d like to take a look at that solo score you bought.”

“Yes. Of course. I -” Oliver shook his head in disbelief. “This is so -
unexpected
.”

Donna was radiating skepticism. “Did you not notice the university barcode on the cover?”

That confused Oliver. “Cover? There was no cover.”

Garcia said, “Do you live nearby?”

“Yes. Just a mile up Stone Canyon, at the end of Fontenelle.”

Jon stood. “We’d like to follow you up there, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Oliver stood as well. “Believe me, detectives. If the score I purchased was stolen - I had
no
idea. And it wasn’t a young woman who sold it to me.”

Donna asked, “Who did sell it to you?”

“A man named Chance Percival.”

Garcia raised his eyebrows. The name sounded fake even to Scott. Jon said, “Can you describe him?”

“Yes - although he was rather nondescript. Mid-forties, I’d guess, thick-framed glasses, medium height, wearing a severely tacky toupee.”

Donna and Garcia looked unhappy. Jon said, “May we follow you to your house?”

“Of course.” Oliver took his keys from his pocket and headed for the exit.

Scott trailed after Jon. The adrenalin was draining from him, and he was exhausted. “I don’t have to come, do I?”

“You’re not allowed to come.” Jon grinned and thumped Scott’s shoulder. “You did a great job. Completely cool.”

Scott snorted. “Not really. Will you let me know if the score is the stolen one?”

“Sure. I’ll text you.”

“Okay, thanks.” Scott turned away from Jon, then turned back. “Where’s Kevin?”

“Graduation.” Jon opened the driver’s door of an exceptionally ugly sedan. “Later.”

Scott watched both cars pull out, thinking,
Graduation from what?

Jamie

We were still at Ali and Mel’s when Kevin’s phone rang. He checked the screen and said, “Ah. It’s Jon. The sting must be over.” He answered, “Tell me something good. No kidding. Who’d he buy it from? Huh. You know, that name sounds familiar. No, Tristan Oliver.”

We’d all been listening politely. When Kevin said Tristan Oliver, Pete and I gasped. Kevin gave us a funny look. “Hang on, Jon.” He said, “You two know Tristan Oliver?”

I said, “We sure do. Fertility Research, Inc? The business partner of the woman who killed my friend Dan Christensen? Who tried to kill Pete and me?”

Kevin’s jaw dropped. “
Damn
. That’s right.” He said to Jon, “The guy was an innocent bystander in a scam involving his practice three years ago. It’s a long story. Tell Tim he’s the Fertility Research guy.”

There was a pause while Kevin listened. “Okay. If you get prints off the music, check them against the unknowns on our vic’s wallet. Right. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He hung up.

Pete said, “Tristan Oliver. I’ll be damned.”

I said, “Did he know he’d bought stolen property?”

“Jon and Tim don’t think so. He was completely cooperative.”

“Who’d he buy the score from?”

“A middle-aged man in a bad toupee who gave his name as Chance Percival.”

Pete snorted. “If you’re going to make up a name, at least make it something believable.”

Kevin said, “Yeah, well, Oliver bought it.”

I said, “Based on his history, I don’t think he’s a very good judge of character.”

Saturday, June 20

Jamie

We got up early the next morning, packed overnight bags and headed for the airport and our flight to El Paso. It was a two-hour flight and, in the summer, not expensive at all. I figured that was a good thing. We’d probably be making this trip frequently in the months to come.

We picked up our rental without hassle, found U.S. 54 and headed north. An hour and a half later, we pulled into Steve’s driveway. He came to the door as we unfolded ourselves out of the car. “Hot enough for you?”

Pete said, “Yeah, but it’s a
dry
heat.”

Desert humor. I snickered, and Steve grinned at me. “Hey, brother-in-law.”

“In thirteen days.” I took our bags to the guest room then went to the kitchen. Steve waved a pitcher at me. “Iced tea?”

“Yep.” I took the glass he handed me. “What’s for lunch?”

“Pasta primavera. Chilled and ready. You guys hungry?”

Pete said, “Breakfast was a long time ago.”

“Okie dokie.” Steve took a large ceramic bowl out of the fridge and began gathering plates and forks.

I said, “You’re eating heart-healthy, too.”

“Yeah. Chris and Meredith have both been nagging me, and I finally gave in.”

Pete said, “They’re right.”

“Of course they are.”

I said, “Have they met?”

“Oh, yes. They’re getting along beautifully.”

Pete said, “So, what’s up with you and Meredith?”

“Nothing, except she’s moving here in September.”

“You’re kidding. Why?”

“Her law firm is establishing an office here to serve the Mescalero Reservation.”

Meredith was Steve’s ex-wife, an attorney specializing in Native American issues. My understanding was that they’d divorced because her job had kept her in Albuquerque all the time. I said, “Is that good news?”

Steve shrugged, then grinned. “Too soon to tell.”

Our lot was one acre of dry earth and scrub at the end of a cul-de-sac, with a broad expanse of federal land between us and spectacular mountain views from what would be the back of the house. The front of the house faced west, with a few buildings at the south end of Alamogordo barely visible. It felt isolated, yet we were within easy walking distance of Steve’s house and downtown Alamogordo.

I stood with my hands on my hips, looking around and smiling. I couldn’t wait to get started. As soon as we got back to Steve’s I was going to begin looking at floor plans.

The realtor was a pleasant woman in jeans and a polo shirt with the logo of her company on it. She said, “Is it like you remembered?”

Kind of a silly question - we’d just seen it four weeks before - but I smiled at her. “Yes, ma’am. Maybe even better.”

“Well then. Why don’t we get out of this heat and go sign some papers?”

The only bank that Alamogordo had in common with Los Angeles seemed to be Wells Fargo. As a result, we’d opened an account there and moved the money for the land into that account. We’d picked up the cashier’s check on the way to the lot.

We followed the realtor to the title office, handed over our check and signed a bunch of papers.

We were landowners.

The realtor beamed. She had good reason; she’d made a tidy sum on the sale. “Congratulations, gentlemen. How soon do you plan to build?”

Pete said, “Not for a while. We have to decide exactly what we want.”

“Well, if there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.” She shook our hands and we parted ways.

We drove back to the lot to meet the architect Steve had found, a local guy with experience building geothermal and solar homes. His name was Mitch. Same as my old VW mechanic in LA. I figured that was a good omen.

He walked around the lot, making notes and nodding. When he came back, he said, “This lot is perfect for what you want to do, in terms of infrastructure. You want one story?”

I said, “Yes. We want it to blend into the landscape as much as possible.”

“We can do that. How many bedrooms?”

We went over the specs for the interior of the house. Mitch wrote it all down and said, “Okay. Let me get to work on some ideas. Give me your email address, and I’ll send you some drawings.”

Pete asked, “Do we need to give you a retainer or something?”

Mitch laughed. “Nah. You don’t have to pay me anything until we’ve got a plan finalized.” He tapped Steve on the shoulder with his legal pad. “Besides, I know where this guy lives.”

We chuckled and Steve groaned.