The Great Conductor

Chapter 12

The phone rang in the middle of the night. Christine grabbed it off the bedside table and listened to a report from a police patrol officer she knew well—a hit-and-run, possibly a homicide, involving a black pickup truck. She had arranged with some friendly officers to let her know if there were any cases similar to her parents’ accident when she became a detective.

As she was getting the details, Christine picked up her notebook and jotted down some information about the case, frowning as she asked about the investigating detective. She thanked the officer for the update, got up, and got dressed. There was no time for breakfast, so she grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and was out the door ten minutes after receiving the call.

By the time Christine arrived at the crime scene, the ambulance had already left with the two victims—a young man (dead) and a young woman (in critical condition). The investigating officer had interviewed several witnesses who happened to be nearby when the incident occurred. A CSI officer was taking pictures of the scene, which was located a few blocks from popular city nightlife areas, right across from a nightclub that looked like it had been closed for a while. The massive wooden front doors needed a fresh coat of paint, and the rather long name of the club—This Is Where I’m At—in neon tubes above the entrance was broken in a few places. The only vehicle parked on the street was a heavily scratched black Chevrolet Traverse, with the driver’s door open. Not wanting to be noticed by the detective investigating the case, Christine went directly to the police officer who had contacted her.

“Hey, David,” she said to Officer McCain, who was busy making sure that no one would get through the police yellow tape to the scene.

“Detective Heart,” David said and smiled.

Christine came closer, gave him a cup of coffee she had bought on the way, and looked around. “Who are the victims?”

“The guy who just bought that shithole.” He pointed to the club. “Apparently, he came to check it out with his girlfriend when a big black pickup slammed into his truck.” He took a sip. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“You bet. They came to check his closed club at 3:00 a.m.?”

David shrugged. “The two dudes who were drinking on the other side of the road”—he pointed to a redbrick apartment building with two lit windows on the second floor—“were having a smoke and saw the Traverse pull over. The man got out and went to see something in the club while his girlfriend was chatting on the phone in the car.”

“They heard her chatting on the phone?”

“One of them saw her face lit by her cell phone. These things are pretty big and bright these days, aren’t they?”

“True. And?”

“And the man came out of the club, went to his car, said something to the girl, then they heard an approaching vehicle. The man ran to the driver’s seat but couldn’t make it. The pickup hit the car, pinning him to the hood, and drove away. The whole thing took seconds.”

Christine nodded. “What was—”

“Well, well. Look who decided to visit us at this ungodly hour,” came a raspy voice from behind Christine.

Christine looked around without enthusiasm. “Hello, Charles.”

Detective Charles Kozminsky was one of Christine’s least favorite detectives, if there was such a thing as favoritism among detectives at all.

More than twenty years in homicide, Detective Kozminsky was not ambitious or sly enough to make it to any respectable rank at this point but had a thick enough skin to seem immune to the side effects of the profession, a quality that he enjoyed enhancing with strong alcohol after work. The latter was killing his liver and had already destroyed his marriage, but it was boosting his presumptuous belief in his superiority in detective skills over any newcomer, especially if that newcomer happened to be a woman. Or was it specifically Christine he had that sort of “affection” for?

Being quite overweight and out of shape, Detective Kozminsky knew better than to parade his skills in front of his seasoned male colleagues, but youngsters and women were fair game to him. Even if he had not been a total jerk, it would have been highly unlikely that Christine could form any rapport with the man—she did not like unshaven slobs who constantly needed a shower.

“Were you asleep when you suddenly had a—I don’t know—a sixth sense or something and decided to check what’s happening on the night streets of Baltimore?” He saw the coffee in David’s hands and added: “I guess they had only one cup left, huh?”

Christine ignored the coffee comment. “Do you need any assistance? I can—”

“The only assistance you could give me is not to interrupt the investigation I’m in charge of. Besides, this ain’t Sherlock—it’s shovelin’ shit.” He gave her a humorless smile.

“It’s all yours,” Christine said, walking away and nodding goodbye to David. She wasn’t a fan of crude remarks and did not have any desire to deal with Kozminsky, who was partly the reason she had to go to her anger management sessions. She tried to concentrate on the positive side, which was the absence of the other asshole from her department, Detective Walter O’Hara, who happened to be the man she had slapped for his obnoxious comments about her and other women.

Christine liked O’Hara even less and often felt that these two wanted her out of the picture. Some macho bullshit certain types of men have when they feel threatened by a woman. Christine felt sorry for the therapists those guys went to, if there were any at all.

It was time to go anyway. She would keep an eye on this case, just like she paid attention to all hit-and-run incidents.

She had a busy day ahead of her: two new cases that needed her immediate attention and her weekly session with Dr. Korpacheff in the afternoon. She did not know what she was looking forward to less: interviewing suspects or being interviewed herself.

Getting into her car, she decided not to think about it just yet and went to get some breakfast. There was another thing she could ponder while eating—her possible second date with Victor. She had promised her grandparents she would send a follow-up message to him. He had replied to her text saying that he wanted to meet her again. Maybe she could use her time more productively with the doctor today and find out how she felt about it.

***

“How does it make you feel?” Dr. Korpacheff asked, slowly flipping a Swarovski crystal pen with her fingers, making the little pink crystals inside it sparkle.

Christine had told her about the lack of any confrontations and animosity at work, mentioning her brief interaction with Detective Kozminsky that had not resulted in a fight, and had shared the news of the upcoming date.

“Knowing that someone wants to meet with me?” Christine was sitting in the same chair across from the doctor, playing with her beads and watching the crystals in the pen. They looked beautiful. How much would a pen like that cost?

She had finished a long and unpleasant interview with a forty-seven-year-old unemployed white man who, if she could prove it, would be better off without contact with the outside world for a couple of decades until he rots in prison for what he did to his sixteen-year-old stepdaughter. He claimed he had no memory of what happened in his apartment and found the girl’s body shot in the bathroom after waking up from a night of drinking with “future business associates.” The poor girl’s mother, a forty-three-year-old nurse, worked the night shift at the hospital and was notified of her daughter’s death after treating patients overnight. Christine could not imagine how sorry that woman must feel about the choices she made about men in her life.

What was more important: to have a body to hug in bed or the well-being and safety of one’s own child? The woman could probably have saved her daughter’s life if she had left the man—her third husband—after the first signs of sexual harassment that, according to neighbors and a few remaining friends, had happened on several occasions. Never underestimate the power of denial but be prepared to pay the price for the consequences. The pictures of bruise marks on the girl’s body would definitely be haunting the woman for the rest of her life.

“I feel . . . I want to talk to someone—you know, besides my friends—normal . . . hopefully,” Christine said after giving it some thought.

“Normal?” Dr. Korpacheff looked at her.

“Yeah, you know, someone I don’t meet in my line of work.”

“It sounds like having a connection outside of your professional roles is really important to you.”

Christine gave it some thought. “I think so. Yes.”

For once, it felt nice to be sitting in the doctor’s office, looking at this well-dressed woman, whom Christine wouldn’t mind making friends with outside of the office, and being away from the unspeakably violent people that she had to deal with every day. It was like a glimpse into the life that Christine might have had if she hadn’t decided to become a police officer. Suddenly, she felt a little excitement about the dinner that she was going to have with Victor that night.

“You’re smiling.” Dr. Korpacheff’s voice brought her back from her thoughts.

“Am I? Well . . . I don’t know . . . I guess I’m excited about the date or . . . I’m just too tired to think about it.”

“The desire to be normal is normal, Christine. It’s good to channel your thoughts of normality in such a healthy way. We still need to work on finding the object of your anger, though, but . . .” Dr. Korpacheff put away her notebook, her sparkling pen, and took off her glasses. “We’ll talk about it in our next session.”

Christine got up and suddenly felt like hugging the doctor. It felt like she had just had a nice conversation with a friend. Is that what they call a breakthrough in therapy? she thought. She smiled instead and left the office to deal with yet another case that was waiting for her—a thirty-three-year-old man killed by a gunshot to the head during an attempted robbery. The victim’s family suspected his ex-wife’s boyfriend, who had a serious and unsavory past.

***

“Sorry, I don’t have time to change, and I don’t want to be late.” Christine was driving and recording a voice message to Victor, who was waiting for her at the seafood restaurant they had chosen for their second date. “Will it be terribly rude of me to show up in my work clothes?” She released her finger from the screen, sent the message to her date, and shook her head. She hated being late and wondered if her message was too familiar for a second date.

As she was about to make a turn, she saw an incoming voice message from Victor. She pressed the little triangle to listen to it.

“What a coincidence!” Victor’s voice sounded cheery. “I didn’t have time to change either and was wondering the same thing. So I guess both of us will be in the ‘after work’ mode for this one.”

Christine smiled, deciding that it sounded reassuring. She was two blocks away from the place and started looking for a parking spot.

Ten minutes later, she was seated at a table by the window opposite Victor. He was smiling, and it did not seem like he had just had a long day. His shirt was wrinkle-free, and his suede loafers were spotless, as if he had spent the entire day indoors. In fact, he smelled as if he’d just taken a shower using some herbal oils or something similar. It was a welcoming sight for Christine, who had spent her day with people who could have used a shower (excluding Dr. Korpacheff) and who had just realized what she must have smelled like to Victor.

“I’ll just . . . go to the ladies’ room for a bit and you can . . . order us drinks.” She got up and then remembered something. “Wait, I can’t have anything with alcohol.”

“Will an alcohol-free mojito work for you?”

“Perfect,” she said and hurried to the bathroom, wondering if they had some fancy hand cream inside she could use as a deodorant and remembering that one could use baking soda and coconut oil to make a pretty decent deodorant as well. Under the circumstances, it was a pretty useless piece of information, but it made her smile. She had a feeling that this was already shaping up to be a good evening.

Chapter 13

Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, Op. 43 was playing in the back of his mind. Sebastian was making breakfast: organic turkey sausages, pieces of broccoli, carrots, an omelet made from free-range eggs, toasted whole-grain rye bread with a thin layer of honey, and a cup of organic, dark-roasted coffee. He was particular about what he ate, just like his father. Martha had bought everything he needed in advance. She told him she could still come and help until he adjusted to life without Lydia—the organization she worked for had allowed her to do this because, technically speaking, Sebastian was also a musician, though not yet retired.

As he was checking the color of the omelet—the French style had to be very pale yellow and just barely cooked on the inside—he caught himself thinking that he didn’t really need to eat healthily anymore. He could go get a McMuffin and hash browns at McDonald’s; it was something he had dreamed about when he was little. When he had an “unhealthy” craving as a boy, his dad would secretly take him for a burger and a milkshake. Stephen understood that kids would always be kids and allowed these occasional outings when Lydia wasn’t around. He would sit across from Sebastian at Wendy’s and ask with a smile, “How can you possibly like that?” Sebastian did not know why he enjoyed those trips. Was it the greasy food, or the time spent with his father? Perhaps a combination of both?

After Stephen’s death, eating fast food—or anything from street vendors—was considered a treacherous and punishable act. But . . . Lydia wasn’t around anymore, and Paul, who was also a health foodie, couldn’t tell him what to eat.

Sebastian paused for a second, considering a rather rebellious plan to throw away all this fancy stuff and run to a fast-food restaurant just because he could do what he wanted. He shook his head and continued checking the omelet. After all, it was a silly idea, and there was no point wasting perfectly good food when some people couldn’t afford to buy it. Perhaps he would go out for a burger and a shake when his piece was ready and well-rehearsed—a celebration where he would imagine his father sitting next to him and smiling. That would be nice.

Sebastian was in a good mood. This morning was rather special, and it called for a nice breakfast.

The first rehearsal with the violinist that took place yesterday could not have gone any better, and the Great Conductor was very pleased to hear about the results of their collaboration. He had called Sebastian late last night. The new colleague had been properly initiated into the shrine of music and had become a part of the future little orchestra that would perform Sebastian’s piece. Her instrument fit nicely into the fabric of the piece.

Sebastian was so elated that he even thought about canceling his student’s class later in the afternoon but decided that it would be too premature to cut off that type of income just yet. Besides, he liked Emily, a teenage girl who worked hard and tried her best to please her parents, who had bought her a very expensive cello. He doubted that she really wanted to become a musician, but she enjoyed playing, which was, according to her mother, “much better than vaping and wasting her life with her friends.” Sebastian agreed with the lady and had made some good money by referring her parents to the music store he knew to buy Emily’s cello. A common practice for many music tutors to get additional income.

Today, however, the only frivolity he decided he could afford was to skip practice this morning, listen to some great music, and take a nice walk. Maybe even buy some ice cream. Heck! He could go and chat with Everett—the old owner of a small store whom Sebastian had known ever since he was a kid—and even buy candy (another formerly forbidden item) from him.

Sebastian sat down and started eating the omelet, alternating the eggs with small bites of sausage and bread—a perfect mixture of tastes and textures. The piece was still playing in his head, adding a rather pleasant sensory sensation to the process of eating. The breakfast would last as long as the opus, which famously ends in a sudden, abrupt whimper, and then he would take that walk.

For fun, he even considered getting one of Lydia’s bottles of bourbon, which was still miraculously half full, and drinking a shot to commemorate the complex Variation 24 of the Rhapsody. Granted, he did not have the sweet, mint-flavored alcoholic beverage that Rachmaninoff was said to drink when performing the piece to steady his nerves, to make it a historically authentic celebration. After trying and finally succeeding in recalling the name of the beverage (crème de menthe), he decided against it as well. Unlike many classical musicians, Sebastian did not care much for alcohol. He had seen too many unfortunate examples of alcohol ruining the careers of musicians who used it “to calm down” before concerts; after a while, they could not live without it. Sebastian always believed that he had the strength and mental power to stay away from artificial sedatives and other “bodily” distractions that were supposed to help him relax.

Sebastian was not against seeing other people. In fact, he did try to date and once even got as far as having some sort of sex with a young woman who played the flute in the chamber orchestra where he played one summer. Of course, he kept it under wraps to make sure no one, especially his brother, who was always more popular with women, would find out about it. Needless to say, it never crossed his mind to share the supposedly groundbreaking news of the end of his virginity with his mother, who was repulsed by any carnal manifestations she happened to watch on TV. Sebastian felt that Lydia was somewhat hypocritical in this regard—he had heard her occasionally entertaining some late-night visitors in her room after his father’s death.