Murder at the Opera (32 page)

“We’ll be anxious to hear them,” said Annabel.

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Lee-Smith. We appreciate the cooperation. We’ll be back tomorrow morning and probably spend most of the day here.”

“Will I be needed?” she asked.

“Not the whole time, but we will want to speak with you from time to time. May I have your cell number?”

She gave him the number and watched the agents walk away, stopping every few feet on their way out to Massachusetts Avenue, making notes as they went; one wielded a small video camera with which he taped the entrance to the embassy grounds.

Nice young men, she thought as she awaited the arrival of the next security detail. She was aware of the enormity of their job, protecting the free world’s most powerful leader from harm. She was certain they weren’t pleased at the president’s decision to make an appearance. Leaving the secured confines of the White House compounded their problems, she knew. That there were nuts out there, either acting alone or in concert with others, who would take pleasure in assassinating a president of the United States was an unfortunate reality.

Following his lunch with Pawkins, Mac Smith went to the computer in the apartment and Googled the Musinski murder. He and Annabel had pulled up only a fraction of the hundreds of articles that appeared, and Mac quickly accessed many others, until finding a few that mentioned Marc Josephson, from newspapers and magazines in Great Britain. Josephson had been interviewed in the months following the murder. In these pieces he talked of how he and Musinski had discovered the Mozart-Haydn string quartets after years of searching. The scores had been, he claimed, in the attic of a home on London’s outskirts. The home’s owner, a doddering old man, had died, and his daughter had held a tag sale to dispose of the house’s contents.

“At first,” Josephson said in one of the articles, “I didn’t realize what I’d come across. Aaron (Musinski) and I had come to this suburb of London that weekend to spend a few days with an old, dear friend, and we did what we often did, stopped in at private house sales with the whimsical notion that we might find something of great value among the junk being offered. I’d chatted with the daughter upon arriving and learned that her father had been an inveterate collector of memorabilia on his many travels, which included frequent trips to Vienna. I was strolling through the front yard, where tables had been set up, and spotted a stack of scores, yellowed with age and curled at the corners, sitting on a table with piles of old magazines and newspapers. I called Aaron over and we perused them.

“I could literally feel Aaron begin to tremble as he picked up each score and examined it. ‘I don’t believe what I’m seeing,’ he said to me. There were no names on the music, but the dates of composition were there, along with a numbering system that was unmistakably Mozart.”

“Numbering system?” the interviewer said. “Please explain.”

“Mozart’s compositions are often identified by the letter ‘K,’ followed by a number. The ‘K’ stands for ‘Ludwig von Köchel.’ He created a catalog of Mozart’s works in 1862, listing them in the order he thought they had been written. Remarkably, the scores Aaron and I found that day in the front yard of the home contained the ‘K,’ but had handwritten next to it the letter ‘H.’”

“For Haydn.”

“Yes. Of course, the date was significant, too. Mozart met Haydn in 1781 in Vienna. Haydn was somewhat older than the young maestro and was Mozart’s idol. The string quartets were written during that period.”

“And you and Professor Musinski knew what you had come upon?”

“Oh, yes. I was convinced of it because of my lifelong immersion in rare manuscripts, including musical scores. Aaron was the acknowledged expert on Mozart and his compositions. Between us, we were sure we had the string quartets.”

“You must have been ecstatic.”

“An understatement.”

“What happened next?”

“We quietly debated whether to inform the daughter that the scores were worth considerably more than what she was asking for them.”

“Which was?”

“Thirty pounds.”

“And you judged their worth to be?”

“A million pounds, perhaps more.”

“What did you pay her?”

“We decided to not reveal what we were convinced we’d found, but to be more generous than her asking price. We bought some other items to mask our intentions and paid her two hundred pounds, explaining that the scores, as ragged as they were, were perfect for framing and decorating my study. She seemed quite pleased.”

“But you weren’t being honest with her. Did you feel any guilt?”

“Oh, yes, and I still do on occasion.”

“The Mozart-Haydn scores have disappeared, as you’ve announced. Professor Musinski took them back to the States?”

“Yes. He’d developed a highly sophisticated computer program into which most of Mozart’s compositions had been inputted. His intention was to compare these compositions with the vast array of other Mozart works in style and technique, using the powerful program he’d developed. He never had the opportunity to do that, I’m afraid. He was killed shortly after arriving back in the United States. The scores haven’t been seen since.”

“Stolen by whomever killed him.”

“I would say that is a logical conclusion.”

Smith read other articles in which Josephson was quoted. In one, he was asked about what he thought of the job the Washington, D.C., police were doing searching for Musinski’s murderer and recovering the Mozart-Haydn scores.

“I suppose they are doing what they can, but with so many murders in that city, it would be unreasonable to expect them to devote all their energies to this. I’m afraid that neither the murderer nor the scores will ever be found.”

A hell of a reputation to have,
Mac thought as he exited Google and read the printouts he’d made of the articles. He called Annabel on her cell.

“I’m still at the Brazilian Embassy,” she said, “and I’ll probably be here quite a while longer. Why don’t we meet up at the Kennedy Center.”

“Okay.”

“Are we still on for dinner with Mr. Josephson?”

“I haven’t actually made dinner plans with him. I’m supposed to call. He should be arriving here at the Watergate about now. I’ll give him a try. Have you checked in at the gallery?”

“Many times. Margo has everything under control. She sold that small Aztec incense burner.”

“Good. We get to eat again.”

“I have to go, Mac.” She puckered a kiss into the phone and was gone.

“Mr. Josephson?” Mac said when the hotel operator put him through to the room occupied by Josephson.

“Yes. Mac Smith?”

“Right. If we’re to meet for dinner, it will have to be a late one, say nine? I have a rehearsal earlier in the evening.”

“A rehearsal. Are you a thespian as well as a professor of law?”

“No. It’s a long story. Actually, it’s a short story. Sorry it will have to be so late.”

“It’s fine with me,” Josephson said. “I’ll nap till then.”

“A preference in food?” Smith asked.

“Anything not too spicy, please.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. I will be bringing my wife. I trust that’s all right with you. As you might remember, she’s a former attorney, too.”

“It will be a pleasure seeing her again.”

“One question before we get together.”

“Yes?”

“Is this about those missing musical scores that were allegedly in Professor Musinski’s hands when he was murdered?”

“You’ve been doing your homework,” Josephson said. “As a matter of fact, my trip here is precisely about that.”

“I’m at a loss as to how I might be of help in that regard.”

“That, I believe, is a topic better reserved for over a dinner table. Let me just say that if you can assist me in this matter, I can make it worth your while. You see, Mac, the scores are no longer missing.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

D
espite Sylvia Johnson’s mild protest, Willie Portelain insisted upon stopping for a slice on their way to Georgetown University. She’d decided that her nagging about his eating habits only put her in the position of sounding like a wife, a role she wasn’t anxious to play. Besides, it didn’t seem to do any good. Maybe not mentioning it would be more effective. Her not wanting to stop this time had more to do with schedule than concern over Willie’s health. She had a date that night with a handsome young lawyer from the Department of Homeland Security and wanted time to get ready before he picked her up.

She stayed in the car while Willie gobbled his slice of pizza and washed it down with a Mug root beer. She checked her watch every few minutes. He was back in the car in seven minutes. Not bad.

“Good?” she asked as she backed out of the parking space and headed for 37th and O Street, the main entrance to the university.

“I’ve had better. Not enough cheese. Should have asked them to put on some extra.”

“How have you been feeling?” she asked.

“Good. Real good.”

“Taking your medication?”

“When I remember. Maybe I ought to buy one of those little pill boxes—you know, with the days on it. That’d help me.”

She made a mental note to buy him one. He wouldn’t.

Sylvia wasn’t Catholic, but she had a special fondness for the Jesuit university, founded in 1789, making it the oldest Catholic university in the country, although approximately half of its student population was not of the Catholic faith. The first black person to earn a doctorate in the United States, Reverend Patrick Healy, had once been its president, making him the first black president of a predominantly white university in America. Sylvia took pride in the accomplishments of African Americans and had read a number of books about those who’d left their mark on American society. She’d spent an occasional Saturday or Sunday strolling Georgetown University’s shady cobblestone streets, stopping now and then to rest on a bench and read whatever book she was into at the moment, soaking in not only the sun and fresh air, but the aura of the place, as though absorbing an education through her pores.

They bypassed the Visitor Information Center and went directly to the building in which Edward Grimes’ office was located. The young woman who’d been at the receptionist desk when they’d taken Grimes away looked positively panic-stricken when they walked through the door.