Chicago Suite   Chicago Suite: A Mystery in Six Parts
 by Johinsa 

Author's Note: Due South characters are the property of Alliance. Other
characters are mine. I wish I could make money from writing DS fanfics,
but alas, I can't. There may or may not be a real Hudson Symphony
Orchestra but even if there is I doubt it's anything like the one in this
story. Also, it might help to have some knowledge of musical terms when
reading the story (it isn't essential, but it might help, says my
non-musical friend). Any insults to violas or violists are entirely
intentional. 

This story is rated PG-13. No sex, but some violence. 

Send comments to johinsa@hotmail.com. This is my first Due South fanfic,
so I really want to know what you guys think of it. 

Prologue: Con islancio 

Audrey MacKay tipped the taxi driver and lifted the bulky viola case out
of the back seat. It had started raining again, and she hurried across the
street to the relative shelter of the hotel awning. Even the weather
couldn't dampen her mood. She was having a wonderful day. A new city, a
new audience--and tonight, I'll be seeing David-- 

She and David had been having problems lately, but he'd seemed much
happier today. He'd asked to see her tonight. Maybe they could make things
work, this time. 

"Need some help with that, miss?" a maroon-garbed bellhop asked politely
as Audrey made her way through the lobby. He took her suitcase from her,
leaving her with the viola. "Elevators are this way. Do you have a room
already?" 

Audrey nodded. "Three-eleven, but really, you don't need to go to the
trouble--" 

"No trouble at all, miss." The bellhop led her over to the bank of
elevators along the wall, stepped into an empty one and pressed the button
for the third floor. "You'd be with the orchestra, right?" 

"That's right?" 

"Wow. Hey--" He took a closer look at her face. "You're Audrey MacKay,
aren't you! The famous violist!" 

"I'm Audrey MacKay," she agreed ruefully. "I think famous violist is an
oxymoron, though." 

"You're kidding, right? I mean, everybody knows who you are!" 

He must play the viola himself, Audrey thought cynically. 

"It's so cool to meet you," the bellhop continued eagerly. "I mean, I
heard the orchestra was staying here but I didn't really believe it--I
mean, why would they want to stay at this dump? Uh, I mean, no offense--" 

"None taken," Audrey said with a smile. "It's very simple, really; our
conductor wanted us to stay at a place small enough that we'd use all the
rooms. We're going to be doing a lot of practicing at odd hours and he
didn't want any restrictions placed on us by the other guests." 

"Makes sense." The doors opened, and the bellhop carried Audrey's suitcase
to room 311 and set it carefully on the floor inside once she'd unlocked
the door. "Umm--" The bellhop pulled out a slightly crumpled piece of
paper and a pen from his jacket, and asked, blushing, "Could you sign my
poster?" 

Audrey glanced down at it. It was a poster advertising the Hudson Symphony
Orchestra's upcoming Chicago performance. "Sure, no problem." She was
flattered; it wasn't every day that a fan actually recognized her, let
alone asked for her autograph. She set it on the bedside table and
scribbled her name on an empty space, then handed it back. 

"Thanks, miss!" The bellhop left without asking for a tip, clutching the
precious paper tightly. Audrey smiled, shaking her head as she closed the
door. 

She sat down on the bed and opened her suitcase, taking out a thick black
folder containing all of her sheet music. This she began to sort through,
humming as she did so. After a moment, Audrey took out the first few pages
of Suite in G and laid them out in order. There were a few passages she
wanted to make sure of before the performance. "Tomorrow night," she said
with a smile. "I'd better get these right before then." She picked up the
viola case, which she'd set on the floor, and opened the catches. 

The finger board of the viola was covered with white powder; Audrey
wondered if the resin was coming off her bow. She'd been having problems
with that lately. Absently she rubbed the powder off, brushing off her
fingers on the leg of her jeans, mildly annoyed at the white streaks that
were left on the fabric. 

There was a muffled knock from outside. "Just a second!" Audrey called.
She set the viola aside and stood to unlock the door. 

A man dressed all in black, with a mask over his face, stood there. He
glanced quickly around the room, and his eyes fell on the open viola case.
"What is it?" Audrey demanded, frightened. "What do you want?" 

The man said nothing. He reached into his jacket and drew out a gun.
Audrey screamed and dove behind the bed as a bullet whistled through the
air where her head had been. 

"Please," she whimpered. "Please don't kill me. Take whatever you want--" 

The man came around the edge of the bed. Audrey cowered against the wall,
too terrified to move. The man raised the gun again and fired. 

Part One: Moderato 

Ray Kowalski's cellular phone buzzed. He flipped it open. "Vecchio." 

"Where are you, Ray?" Francesca's voice asked through a crackle of static.


"Umm--" Ray glanced out the window at the street signs on the corner.
"Blake and King." 

"We just got a call from the hotel at 413 Blake. They said someone was
shot--at least that's what I think he said. The guy who called was a
little bit hysterical." 

"Okay, we're on our way." Ray slid the phone back into his pocket, made an
illegal U-turn, and headed back the other way. Fraser, in the passenger
seat, started to comment but restrained himself. 

The hotel looked fairly peaceful on the outside, albeit somewhat seedy.
The grimy brick walls, half-heartedly painted at some long-ago time, were
covered in fluorescent graffiti, and the windows of the lower floors were
barred. "Nice place," Ray commented. "Downtown Chicago at its finest." 

"There's no need to be sarcastic, Ray," Fraser said reprovingly. "I'm sure
the proprietor of this fine establishment is doing his level best, and
deserves our encouragement rather than our rebuke." 

"Yeah, whatever, Fraser."  

Ray parked the Riv in front of the hotel, ignoring the fire hydrant in
plain view. Diefenbaker whined as they got out of the car. Fraser glanced
back at him. "Don't you start." 

"What's wrong with him?" Ray asked. 

"He doesn't think much of your driving abilities," Fraser explained. "You
know how wolves are." 

Ray raised his eyebrows. "He thinks he could do better?" 

Fraser chuckled. "You know, it's funny you should say that, Ray, because I
was reading the most fascinating article the other day--" 

"No." Ray locked the doors and pocketed his keys. "I don't care what
wolves are allowed to do in the Arctic. Here in Chicago I'm fairly sure,
Fraser, that any wolf trying to drive a car would be arrested and I
guarantee you that, if I were the arresting officer, he would be charged
to the full extent of the law--" 

"Now you're just being silly, Ray." 

They climbed the steps to the hotel door. As Ray put his hand on the
handle, the door opened and a short man in a black jacket, carrying a
bulky instrument case, pushed past them, nearly knocking Ray over. "Hey!"
Ray shouted. "Watch where you're going!" The man didn't answer, but merely
hurried around the corner. 

Fraser frowned in the direction the running man had taken. There was
something decidedly odd about him-- 

"Hey, Fraser! You coming or what?" 

Fraser shrugged and followed Ray. It was probably nothing. 

They entered the building. "Police!" Ray called. "Where's the owner of
this dump?" 

"Right here. Right here." A balding, slightly overweight man scurried up
to them. "You're the police?" 

"That's right," Fraser said. "Although, of course, technically I'm not
here in any official capacity. My name is Constable Benton Fraser of the
Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I first came to Chicago--" 

The manager glanced at the Mountie's uniform, apparently just noticing it.
"Oh, you're here because of the orchestra, aren't you," he said, not
sounding especially surprised. "I suppose that makes sense. Them being
Canadians and all, I mean." 

"Canadians?" Ray repeated. 

"Sure. The Hudson Symphony Orchestra. I told that lady on the phone. One
of my staff found a dead Canadian in one of the rooms. I called the police
as soon as I heard--" 

Canadians. That was just great. "We'd better go take a look." Ray glanced
around. "Where're the elevators?" 

"Right this way." The manager led them to an elevator and up to the third
floor. "She's in here. I didn't touch anything inside." 

The room was reasonably tidy, with that unlived-in feel that hotel rooms
always have. Several sheets of music were scattered across the bed, and a
suitcase lay open on the floor with a coat draped carelessly across it. 

The victim lay on the far side of the bed, very obviously dead; her body
was soaked with blood from two bullet wounds in her chest and another in
her forehead. Ray grimaced. "Who was she?" 

"The room's registered to an Audrey MacKay," the manager answered. "I
suppose this must be her. Such a tragedy." A thought suddenly occurred to
him. "The orchestra conductor--someone's going to have to tell him about
this. Probably me." 

There was a sudden loud knocking on the door. "Open up!" 

"Speak of the devil," the manager said ruefully. "That's him now." 

Ray opened the door and a short man with unkempt hair burst into the room.
"Where's Audrey?" he demanded in a thick Slavic accent. "David said the
police were here--" His gaze fell on the corpse. "What's going on here? I
demand an explanation!" 

"She's dead," Ray explained helpfully. 

"That's an explanation? I don't know who you are, young man, but--" 

Ray pulled out his badge. "Detective Ray Vecchio, Chicago PD. Who are
you?" 

"Albert Mikityanskaya," the man answered. 

Ray frowned. "You wanna spell that? No, actually, don't bother. You knew
this woman?" 

"She's my star violist! What happened to her?" 

"She was murdered," Fraser said. "If you don't mind, we'd like you to come
down to the police station to give your statement." He turned to the
manager. "You too, and the member of your staff who found the body." He
looked back at the conductor, who was visibly trembling. "Don't worry.
We'll find out who did this." 

 "Audrey's been with the orchestra for almost three years now,"
Mikityanskaya said. He, Ray and Fraser were in one of the interrogation
rooms, back at the station. "She's been our star violist almost that long;
she was one of the best. Most of the really excellent string players
switch over to violin, but not Audrey. She loved the viola. Said she'd
never play anything else." 

"Can you think of anyone who might have had a reason to kill her?" Ray
asked. "Did she have any enemies?" 

"Enemies? Not Audrey. She was the sweetest person I ever met." He frowned.
"Unless, maybe David--" 

"David?" Fraser asked. 

"David Cooke, one of the second chair violists. He and Audrey were seeing
each other for awhile, but they broke off their relationship a few weeks
ago." The conductor shrugged. "Maybe he did it. I can't think of anyone
else." 

Ray snapped his fingers. "Hey, maybe this is one of those obsessed fans
sort of things. You know, like, a stalker or something." 

Mikityanskaya looked skeptical. "The viola isn't exactly the sort of
instrument that draws a fanatical following, Detective. Although if anyone
could inspire that sort of thing, it'd be Audrey. She was an incredible
player. She had perfect pitch, you know, and the most delicate hands-- " 

"That's it," Fraser said abruptly. 

"What?" Ray asked. 

"His hands." 

"Huh?" 

"The man who pushed past us when we went into the hotel," Fraser said
intently. "He was carrying a viola." 

"So?" 

"His hands were too small to play the viola, Ray. I don't think it was
his. And given that he was obviously agitated and in a hurry--" 

"You think he was the killer!" Ray exclaimed triumphantly. "Way to go,
Fraser!" 

"What do you mean?" Mikityanskaya demanded. "You know who did it?" 

"No, but Fraser can draw a picture of the guy he saw. It's a place to
start, anyway." 

Fraser shook his head. "I only saw him from the back, unfortunately. I
doubt that'll be much help." 

"Damn," Ray said, annoyed. "Well, we'll see if we get any prints from the
room. Maybe we'll get lucky." 

"Maybe you could arrange to have a police officer stationed at the hotel,
Ray," Fraser suggested, "in case this wasn't a one-time incident." 

"You think Welsh'd go for that?" Ray asked sardonically. "You know what
he'd say. "They're Canadians; if Fraser wants somebody on guard duty, let
the Consulate take care of it." You really want Turnbull on this case?" 

Fraser nodded thoughtfully. "That's a good point, Ray." 

"Besides, it wouldn't be a good idea," Mikityanskaya said firmly. "My
performers are very sensitive people. This incident is bad enough to begin
with; I think it would be very upsetting for there to be police officers
all over the place." 

"On the contrary," Fraser said, "I'd think they'd be comforted by the idea
that we're looking out for them." 

"I don't think so, Constable. It would probably be best if we just tried
to put this tragedy behind us." 

"Hmm." Fraser thought for a moment. "Perhaps a subtler approach would be
in order, then." 

"What are you thinking, Fraser?" Ray asked curiously. 

"If a police officer were to go undercover with the orchestra--perhaps
posing as a replacement for Ms. MacKay, for instance--he could keep an eye
on things without unduly disturbing your performers." 

Mikityanskaya smiled patronizingly. "I don't mean to sound condescending,
Constable, but what do you think are the odds that one of your officers is
a symphony-class violist?" 

Ray rolled his eyes. He knew what was coming. 

"You know, it's funny you should say that," Fraser said. "In my youth, I
used to play the viola somewhat--although, admittedly, we couldn't always
get proper strings up in the Territories, so we had to improvise
sometimes. I recall an amusing incident once when I was living in Inuvik--
" 

Mikityanskaya was looking baffled. "I'm sorry, Constable, but does this
story have a point?" 

"Well, simply that I think I could make a credible replacement for Ms.
MacKay." 

"Really," Mikityanskaya said skeptically. "Perhaps we should go back to
the hotel and you can demonstrate for me?" 

Fraser opened the door, and the three of them headed outside to Ray's car.
"You know," Ray said as they got in, "sometimes you scare me, Fraser." 

"Oh? How so?" 

"When did you ever find the time to learn all this stuff? Don't you
Canadians have anything better to do?" 

"I resent that!" Mikityanskaya protested. 

"Shut up." 

"Besides," the conductor continued, "anyone can learn to play a few
scales." 

 Fraser put down the viola. "I realize I'm a little out of practice," he
said into the stunned silence, "but I'm sure I can improve--" 

Mikityanskaya seemed to be having some difficulty finding his voice. "That
was--definitely adequate," he assured Fraser at last. "I'd say you're
hired." 

Part Two: Largamente 

The downstairs conference room of the hotel was crowded with instrument
cases, music stands and nervous musicians. Built to accomodate small
meetings, it was far too small for an orchestra, even one of such modest
size as the Hudson Symphony. 

Fraser pushed the door open and looked around. He was dressed in a flannel
shirt and jeans, so as not to attract undue attention, and carried a viola
case in one hand. "Excuse me?" he said to one of the players in the back
row. "Where do the violists sit?" 

"Over there," the man answered, pointing. 

"Ah. Thank you kindly." Fraser made his way to a vacant seat in the first
row next to a bassoon player, laid his viola case across his knees and
lifted the instrument out. 

Scraps of conversation drifted through the room. Trying to look as though
he was absorbed in tuning the viola, Fraser listened. 

"--don't think that's your mute, Sarah--" 

"Can I borrow--" 

"--bassoonists does it take to change a lightbulb?" 

"--seen Audrey today?" 

Fraser concentrated on that conversation, singling it out from the other
voices. 

"No, I haven't seen her since last night. Why?" 

"David said there were cops all over the place this morning. He said he
heard them mention Audrey." 

"I heard she got arrested," a third voice volunteered. 

"Audrey? You're kidding." 

"No, it's true. I heard somebody got killed and the cops think she did it.
There was even a Mountie here." 

"A Mountie? Get outta here." 

"You're in the wrong seat." 

Fraser glanced up, surprised; that last had been directed at him. A tall,
broad-shouldered man with dark hair was standing in front of him. "Ah,"
Fraser said. "And who might you be?" 

"Christof Carlisle. And that's Audrey's seat. Move it." 

"Ah," Fraser said, understanding. "I see where the confusion lies. Mr.
Mikityanskaya has asked me to replace Ms. MacKay." 

"Replace Audrey? What happened?" Christof looked concerned. "Hey, is it
true she's dead?" 

"Where did you hear that?" Fraser asked, surprised. 

"You mean it is true?" 

Fraser hesitated. "Yes," he said finally. "She was murdered. At least,
that's what I was told when I applied for this position," he added
quickly. 

"Oh." Christof appeared to think about this for a moment. He didn't seem
terribly upset. "Well, in that case you're in my seat. Move." 

"I beg your pardon, but I think--" 

"Look, who the hell are you anyway?" Christof demanded. 

"I'm C--I'm Benton Fraser," Fraser answered, keeping himself from his
automatic response with some difficulty. "I first came to Chicago--well,
that's not really important." 

"Well, you're new, so you're second chair. If Audrey's really--dead, then
I'm the first violist now, I guess." 

Fraser decided it was easiest not to argue the point. He picked up his
case and the music he'd been given and moved back to the second row. 

"Don't worry about him," whispered the woman now sitting next to Fraser.
"Christof's an idiot and always has been. I'm Rosalie Verdi, by the way." 

"Benton Fraser. Pleased to meet you, ma'am." They shook hands. 

"Just call me Rosalie," the woman said with a warm smile. 

"Ah. All right." Fraser glanced around. "I--see you play the violin," he
commented, for lack of anything better to say. "Second?" 

Rosalie nodded. "This month. We always switch the parts around, and I
played first in Toronto. I'll be playing third on the next tour." 

"Then why is Christof so adamant about playing first right now?" Fraser
wanted to know. 

"Because he's an opportunist, that's all. Audrey never lets--never let him
get away with that sort of nonsense." 

"Were you two friends?" Fraser asked. 

Rosalie nodded. "Audrey was friends with everybody. Well, not David, but
everybody else." 

"David?" Fraser asked. "The other second violist?" 

"That's him," agreed Rosalie. She pointed with her bow at a dark-skinned
man sitting on the other side of Fraser. The man appeared to be off in a
world of his own, oblivious to the controlled chaos around him. "David and
Audrey--well, it isn't really any of my business, I guess, but everyone
knows they've been having problems--" 

"Attention, please!" The conductor's voice cut through the chatter. "If
everyone would like to pay attention up here now? Thank you. Now,
undoubtedly some of you have heard the rumours about our star violist,
Audrey MacKay. It is my sad duty to inform you that Audrey was killed in
her room this morning--" 

There was a clatter from Fraser's left. David had dropped his viola and
was staring at the conductor in disbelief. "Audrey's dead?" he whispered. 


"I'm sorry," Mikityanskaya said with sympathy. "I know what a shock this
must be to you--to all of you," he continued. "If anyone wants to be
excused from tomorrow's performance, I'll understand." No-one said
anything. "Now, I've had to hire a replacement for Audrey--the show must
go on, after all. This is Benton Fraser. Stand up, Ben." 

Fraser stood obligingly. There was silence; he could tell they resented
his being there. Awkwardly, he sat down again. 

"You know, we really don't need you here," Christof said to Fraser,
probably voicing what the rest of the orchestra was thinking. "Two
violists is enough for the performance. And it'd probably be easier for
everybody if you weren't around." 

"He's just scared of competition," Rosalie told Fraser quietly after
Christof had turned around and was studying his music. "He resents anybody
who's better than him." 

"Did he resent Audrey?" Fraser asked. 

"You think he might have killed her?" Rosalie sounded surprised. She shook
her head. "I can't see why." 

"To advance his career, perhaps?" 

Rosalie smiled. "If Chris had wanted to advance his career he'd have taken
up the violin. No, Chris is an asshole but he's not a murderer." 

Mikityanskaya waved his hands for attention. "I'd like to start today with
Clarinet Concerto in F. We'll begin at the pickup to bar 98." He raised
his baton. 

Fraser found the music difficult but not unduly so. He was out of
practice, as he'd told Mikityanskaya, and he made several mistakes, but he
was sure that he'd be able to learn it. It helped that the viola part was
comparatively simple to begin with; this piece featured the woodwinds of
the orchestra, obviously, the clarinets in particular. 

As Mikityanskaya made the clarinets repeat their cadenza over again,
Christof turned around to look at Fraser. "That was pretty bad," he said
bluntly. "You really think you can learn this by tomorrow night?" 

"I can try," answered Fraser honestly. 

"Give him a break, Chris," Rosalie said good-naturedly. "This is the first
time he's seen this music." 

"I don't want him messing up the performance is all. He'd just better be a
quick learner." 

 Ray looked up from his desk as Fraser approached. "Anything yet?" Ray
asked. 

Fraser shook his head. "I must admit, it's somewhat frustrating. I've
practiced all afternoon, but there's one scale passage I still can't quite
master--" 

"I meant the case, Fraser." 

"Oh. Yes, of course." Fraser switched mental tracks. "No. That is, there
are two people who may have had reason to kill Ms. MacKay, but I've found
no evidence implicating either, and neither matches the appearance of the
man who pushed past us at the hotel." 

"Too bad," Ray said. "Nothing much at this end either. We found the
gun--the killer'd thrown it down a laundry chute. Ballistics says it
matches the bullets found in the body, but there's no usable prints on
it." 

"I see." 

Ray picked up a sheaf of papers on his desk and thumbed through them.
"There was one weird thing, though; the crime scene guys found the gun
inside an empty violin case. No prints on that either." 

"That is odd," Fraser agreed. "Do we know who owned the violin case? Did
it belong to one of the members of the orchestra?" 

"Don't think so." He glanced down at the reports again. "No, the guy who
found it said it was a different brand than most of those guys
use--Miamoto, he said. Some Japanese company that makes cheap,
student-quality instruments. Not the kind of thing a symphony violinist
would play." 

Francesca approached them. "Hi Fraser," she said with a sultry smile.
"How're you doing?" 

"Ah--just fine, thank you kindly."  

"We're busy, Frannie," Ray said, annoyed. "Did you just come to make
calf-eyes at Fraser or do you have some actual work to do?" 

"Well, fine, Mister Impatient," Francesca retorted. "Maybe I won't give
you this then." She waved a piece of paper in front of him. Ray grabbed
for it and missed. 

"What is it, Francesca?" Fraser asked. 

Francesca handed it to him with another smile. "Autopsy report on that
Canadian." 

Fraser scanned the paper quickly. "Hmm," he said thoughtfully. 

"You know I hate it when you do that, Fraser," Ray said crossly. "What is
it?" 

"According to this, traces of cocaine were found under Ms. MacKay's
fingernails." Fraser handed Ray the report. 

Ray read it over, interested. "So that's probably it, then," he decided.
"It was a drug deal that went sour or something. Open and shut." 

"That doesn't make sense, Ray," Fraser insisted. "From what I gathered,
Audrey was the last person who would have been taking drugs." 

"Yeah, well, people can surprise you sometimes." 

"Well, that's true, but I'd like to continue investigating anyway. I
believe there may be more going on here than is currently obvious." 

Ray shrugged. "Have it your way, Fraser." 

Part Three: Dolce 

"That was better," Christof admitted grudgingly. "Not good enough, but
better." It was the end of evening rehearsal. Fraser had indeed visibly
improved, though he would be the first to admit that he was still far from
perfect. 

"Better? I thought it was excellent," Rosalie said with a smile. She was
just as chirpy at this rehearsal than she had been at the last one. Fraser
was starting to see why she and Christof didn't get along; Rosalie was
perennially cheerful, and someone more taciturn like Christof might well
find that annoying. "You're really good, Benton. You should be first
violist." 

"That's stupid," Christof protested. "He's been here less than a day.
Besides, what do you know, Rosalie? You play the violin." 

"So? They're practically the same. I could learn to play the viola if I
wanted to." 

"Yeah, come back when you can read in alto clef." 

Fraser put away his viola in its case, carefully loosened the strings on
his bow and stacked his music neatly in its folder. The rest of the
musicians had left by now. Fraser stood up and put on his jacket. 

Rosalie yelped suddenly, jumping up from her seat. "Are you all right?"
Fraser asked, concerned. 

Rosalie nodded, her finger in her mouth. "I'm fine," she said
indistinctly. "This stupid cheap case snapped shut on my hand. It's always
doing that, ever since the catch broke awhile ago." 

"Perhaps you should get a new one," Fraser suggested. 

"I keep planning to, but I never seem to get around to it." 

"Well, maybe I can fix it. May I?" Rosalie nodded, and Fraser picked up
the case. The catch was bent back, he noticed, so that it didn't quite
attach properly. Carefully he twisted it back into place. 

As he handed it back to Rosalie, the brand name stamped on the case caught
his eye. 

Miamoto. 

"Where did you get this case?" Fraser asked, trying to sound casual about
it. 

Rosalie shrugged. "I don't remember. Is it that important?" 

"It might be, yes." 

"I can't see why it matters, but okay. Umm, it would have been before we
came to Chicago, I know that, because I had this one with me when we
crossed the border." She giggled. "Now that was funny. We got to Customs
at about eleven at night, and I guess the customs guys were pretty bored,
because they decided to search our bus. You should've seen Albert's face.
He was practically purple." She dropped her voice an octave and affected a
Russian accent; the effect was somewhat spoiled by her barely suppressed
laughter. "Zhis is intolerable! Ve are professional musicians! Do you
people zhink ve are common criminals?" 

Rosalie stopped laughing suddenly. "I guess that's not funny, is it?
Because someone here is. A criminal, I mean. Someone in the orchestra
killed Audrey, didn't they? And you're investigating it? Like, undercover,
sort of thing." 

"You're very perceptive," Fraser said, surprised. 

"Not really. But the way you keep asking people questions about her--Well,
most people would be tactful enough not to mention it, so I figured you
must have some reason to want to know. So you must be with either the
police or the press, I thought, and you don't look like a reporter." She
grinned. "I guess you might as well ask me your questions. I knew her as
well as anybody did. Except David, of course." 

Fraser glanced around the room; it was empty. "You mentioned earlier that
she and David were having problems?" 

"Yeah. They had a big fight a few weeks ago, when we were performing in
Toronto, and Audrey told him she never wanted to see him again. They
didn't even talk to each other for days." She stopped and stared at him.
"You don't think David did it, do you?" 

"He does have a motive," Fraser admitted. 

"Yeah, I guess, but David--I mean, he's not the kind of guy who'd ever
kill somebody. He wouldn't ever have hurt Audrey; he loved her. I'm sure
about that." 

"And you can't think of anyone at all who might have had a reason to hate
Ms. MacKay?" Fraser pressed. 

"I told you, I can't." Rosalie turned away, busied herself with
straightening the music in her folder. "Look, maybe you'd better leave. I
don't--I'm sorry. I don't know anything about this, I really don't." 

Fraser nodded, picked up his viola and left. 

Ray was waiting for him outside in the Riv. "Anything?" the detective
asked. 

"Nothing useful," Fraser answered. "So far, we have two suspects. Both
have valid motives for murder; Christof Carlisle may have killed Ms.
MacKay in order to advance his own career, or David Cooke may have killed
her for more--personal reasons." 

"Such as?" 

"Apparently they were involved in a relationship, and Ms. MacKay broke it
off--rather abruptly, as I was told." 

Ray nodded slowly. "Okay, so we've got two suspects. That's good. That's
progress." 

Fraser shook his head. "The problem is, I don't think either of them did
it." 

"That's not good." 

"No. You see, Christof's motive isn't logical; although Ms. MacKay was
apparently a better player than Mr. Carlisle, the violists took turns
being first chair. It wouldn't really advance Mr. Carlisle's career at all
to kill his fellow violist." 

"Oh," Ray said. "Okay, what about this Cooke guy?" 

"I don't think he did it either. Although he does have a motive, he seemed
genuinely shocked to hear that Ms. MacKay was dead." 

"Maybe he's just a good actor," Ray suggested.	

"I don't think so, Ray." 

Ray threw up his hands. "Fine, so where does that leave us, Fraser? We've
got one guy who might have done it but doesn't have a motive. We've got
another guy who does have a motive but probably didn't do it. We've got an
empty violin case and an untraceable gun. And we've got a dead Canadian
with cocaine on her fingers but no other physical signs of being an
addict." 

"And we have a time limit as well," Fraser added. "Mr. Mikityanskaya has
decided to cut the Chicago tour short. After tomorrow night's performance,
they're going back to Hudson. We will have no chance of finding the killer
once the orchestra is back across the border." 

Ray sighed. "Fraser?" 

"Yes, Ray?" 

"Sometimes I really hate this job." 

Part Four: Allegro con brio 

Ray pulled up outside Fraser's apartment. The Mountie was already waiting
outside. "Good morning, Ray!" he said with a cheerful smile. 

"It's seven-thirty, Fraser," Ray said blearily. "Don't tell me it's a good
morning. Any morning when I have to be up before noon is by definition not
a good morning." 

"Ah." Fraser got into the car. He glanced at a sheaf of papers on the
dashboard, picked them up and flipped through them. "These are the crime
scene reports?" 

"Yeah. There's nothing useful in there, I've read 'em forwards and
backwards already." 

Fraser nodded but didn't stop reading. "Hmm." 

"What hmm? What does that mean?" 

"Well, this is interesting." 

"What's interesting? Fraser, do you know how annoying that is?" 

"Look at this." Fraser handed him the page he'd been reading. 

Ray scanned it quickly. "This is just the evidence log, Fraser. There's
nothing in here." He read aloud from the paper. "Hair clips, three,
plastic. Music folder. Music. One pen, blue. What use is this?" 

"You have to read what isn't there, Ray," Fraser insisted. "Think about
it. What's one thing you'd expect a symphony violist to have in her room."


"I dunno," Ray said with a shrug. 

"Her viola, Ray! Why doesn't the report say anything about it? She must
have had it with her." 

"Why?" Ray wanted to know. "She might not have kept it in her room. She
could've had it stored someplace." 

Fraser shook his head. "That's not likely. A viola can cost upwards of two
thousand dollars--she would have been extremely careful with it." 

"So, what, then? The killer stole it?" 

"Well, he did have a viola with him when he left the building. We should
assume it was hers." 

"This makes no sense. This makes no sense, Fraser. Why would anybody kill
somebody just to steal a viola?" 

"We don't know that that was the motive," Fraser pointed out. "Maybe he
killed her for some other reason and just took the viola on impulse." 

"You think so?" 

"I don't have a clear hypothesis yet--" Fraser glanced at his watch. "Oh,
dear. It would appear that I'm late for practice." 

"It's okay," Ray assured him. "We're in plenty of time." 

 "Ray, didn't you say we were in plenty of time?" Fraser asked. 

"Yes, Fraser, yes I did, and we would have been if you hadn't insisted I
drive at the speed limit!" Ray answered crossly. 

"That's a good point." Fraser got out of the car. "Thanks for the ride,
Ray. Can you pick me up at around noon?" 

"Yeah, sure." 

Fraser headed inside and hurried down the stairs to the rehearsal room.
The orchestra had already finished warming up and was partway through the
Suite in G. Trying to make himself as unobtrusive as possible, Fraser
quietly sat down and took out his viola.  

The conductor dropped his arms, halting the orchestra. "How good of you to
join us, Benton," he said sardonically. 

"Ah," Fraser said, flustered, "well, I'm sorry, I was just--" 

"I'm sure you were. Kindly try to be on time. I don't appreciate
disturbances in my practice schedule." 

"Yes, sir." 

"Now, I want to hear the clarinets from bar 136--" 

The rest of the rehearsal went well. Afterwards, as the rest of the
musicians were putting their instruments away, Fraser went up to
Mikityanskaya. "Excuse me, sir," he said deferentially. 

"What is it, Benton?" the conductor asked. He lowered his voice. "Is this
about the investigation?" 

"Ah--yes, sir, peripherally. I was wondering if you could tell me about
Ms. MacKay's viola." 

"Audrey's viola?" The conductor looked surprised. "What--what about it?" 

"I was just wondering if you knew where it was. You see, when the police
searched Ms. MacKay's room, it wasn't there, and I thought it might be
important." 

"Oh. Of course, you're right, that could be important. You believe it was
stolen?" 

"It's certainly a theory," Fraser agreed. 

"Hmm. Well, I'm afraid I can't help you, Benton. I know where Audrey's
viola is, mind you-- it's back in Hudson, being repaired. It was damaged
just before we left for Chicago and I lent her one of my spares." 

"Your spares, sir?" 

"Yes, I keep several extra instruments in the event that one of my
musicians' instruments is broken just before a performance. Three extra
trumpets, two extra violas, three spare violins, and so on. This trip
we've had some bad luck with instruments, so I have several of my spares
lent out. As far as I know, Audrey had one of my spare violas with her. It
really wasn't in her room?" 

"No, sir," Fraser agreed. 

Mikityanskaya nodded. "If you find it, Benton, could you see that it's
returned to me? Those are expensive instruments. Not as expensive as the
better ones my musicians own, admittedly, but they're still worth a fair
amount of money." 

"I'll do my best," Fraser promised. He started to turn away, then stopped.
"Oh, by the way, sir, what brand are your spare instruments?" 

"Miamoto. It's a Japanese company that makes pretty inexpensive
instruments." 

Fraser nodded; he'd thought as much. That was something to go on, at
least. "Do you suppose I could take a look at your spare instruments,
sir?" It might be useful, he thought, to compare the spare instruments
with the violin case found with the gun, to confirm that it had indeed
been one of the spare instruments. If he found out who the violin in that
case had been lent to, it might provide another suspect. 

Mikityanskaya shook his head. "Not at the moment. I have to make the
arrangements for tonight's performance this afternoon. Tell you what. Come
see me after the performance tonight and you can look at them then.
That'll still be plenty of time; we aren't leaving Chicago until tomorrow
morning." 

"Thank you, sir," Fraser said. "I'll see you at evening rehearsal, then." 

"See you then, Benton." 

 Ray struggled through the half-open window, tearing his jacket on the
window frame and cursing under his breath. "This is stupid, Fraser!" he
stated. "I've done a lot of stupid things since I started working with
you, but this is definitely near the top of the list. Why can't we just
wait until after the performance to look around in here?" 

"Because the killer is a professional musician," Fraser explained. "It
would look suspicious if he left during the day; he has to stay until
after tonight's concert to avoid drawing the attention of the police.
After the concert, though, if he decided to head home early, or to go and
visit friends while he's in Chicago or some other excuse, it wouldn't
raise suspicion, or at least not enough for him to be detained. Several
members of the orchestra aren't leaving on the bus with the main group
tomorrow. So, while I'm sure Mr. Mikityanskaya means well, the usefulness
of his suggestion is somewhat limited." 

"And that's an excuse to break into his hotel room?" Ray asked as he
somewhat gingerly extricated himself from the window. 

"Well, under normal circumstances, no." Fraser followed Ray into the room
and glanced around the room. "But if it helps us find Ms. MacKay's killer,
I'm sure he'll be understanding about it." 

"Yeah." Ray glanced around. The hotel room looked exactly the same as
Audrey MacKay's, minus the corpse; clothes were draped across the
furniture, music scattered on the bed and two suitcases stacked on the
floor. Several instrument cases of various shapes were piled along the
walls. 

Fraser scanned the room, identifying the instruments quickly by the shapes
of the cases. "This is odd," he said. "Mr. Mikityanskaya told me he had
three spare violins. I know Rosalie has one, or at least the case--" 

"Rosalie?" Ray asked. 

"One of the violinists. She has one Miamoto violin case, and there are two
more here." 

Ray nodded, seeing Fraser's point. "So that case they found with the gun
inside wasn't one of the orchestra spares?" 

"Maybe it was," Fraser said. "What if it wasn't a violin case? If it was a
viola case instead, perhaps misidentified by the officer who found it--and
violin and viola cases look almost identical- -" 

"You think it was the victim's viola case?" Ray asked. 

"That was what I was thinking, yes." 

Ray paced the room, thinking aloud. "Okay, so there's this guy. He comes
up to MacKay's room and shoots her. Then he steals her viola, puts the gun
in the case and throws it down the--no, that doesn't work cause he had it
with him when he pushed past us. Okay, he shoots MacKay, steals the viola,
leaves the hotel, puts the viola someplace and then comes back and puts
the case and the gun in the laundry chute." 

"An admirable summation," Fraser agreed. 

"Right. So now what?" 

There was a sudden click, and both of them turned to look at the door. A
key was turning in the lock. "Now we leave," Fraser whispered.	

They climbed out the window and onto the fire escape just as the door
opened and Mikityanskaya entered the room. He sat down at the room's small
table and began sorting through a sheaf of paper. Carefully, Fraser and
Ray tiptoed down the fire escape, unnoticed. 

Part Five: Prestissimo 

In another part of Chicago, later that evening, two men met in a dark
alley, their faces shadowed by the falling night. "You wanted to see me?"
one asked. 

The other nodded. "We've got problems. The cops are on to us." 

"Yeah?" 

"I think so." 

"You're not sure?" 

"There's a Canadian cop snooping around the orchestra. I'm not sure how
much he knows, but you know how Mounties are--he's probably figured it all
out by now." 

"I'll take care of it." 

"Listen, I didn't think it would go this far. You have to do something
about this. You have to fix this." 

"I said I'll take care of it. You just get out of there. Tomorrow morning,
tonight if you can make it. Get out of the city, meet me back at my place
in Montreal. Can you do that?" 

"Yeah." 

Then they turned away and went their separate ways. 

 "You nervous?" Rosalie asked Fraser as they packed up their instruments
after evening rehearsal. "About tonight, I mean." 

"Ah--no." In point of fact, Fraser hadn't even been thinking about the
performance that night; he'd been turning over the facts of the murder in
his head, trying to make them fit together. So far, he had had little
success. There were still pieces missing.  

"I am. I always get butterflies in my stomach before a performance. Once
we get on stage I'm fine, but right now--" She shrugged. "Oh, well. We'll
do fine, eh? We always do." 

"I'm looking forward to it," Fraser said.  

"Right, this is your first concert, isn't it? Professionally, I mean?" 

"Well, yes." 

Rosalie smiled. "Say, do you want to go get a coffee or something? It's
only--" she glanced at the clock on the wall, "--seven o'clock, and we're
not supposed to be at the concert hall until nine- thirty." 

"I'd like that," Fraser agreed. Maybe it would help him think; his mind
seemed to be going in circles. 

They found a little coffee shop a few blocks down the street. At this time
of the evening, too late for the after-work customers and too early for
the night crowd, it was nearly deserted. They ordered coffee and donuts
and sat down at a corner table. 

For several moments, neither of them spoke. "Have you--have you found out
anything about Audrey?" Rosalie asked finally.	

Fraser shook his head. "Nothing conclusive yet." He took a sip of his
coffee. "The evidence seems to indicate that drugs were involved in some
way--" 

"That's ridiculous," Rosalie said. "Audrey never took drugs, I'm sure of
that. She was a fanatic about her health; she didn't even drink." 

"This is starting to make less and less sense," Fraser muttered, almost to
himself. "And the deadline's almost up." 

"Deadline?" Rosalie asked. 

"I have to find out who it was before the concert tonight," Fraser
explained. "Logically, the killer will try to make his escape as soon
after the concert as he can." 

Rosalie started to say something, but was interrupted as one of the coffee
shop employees came over to refill the napkin dispenser on their table.
They waited until he was gone. "What were you saying?" Fraser asked. 

"I forget," Rosalie said, a little annoyed with herself. She shrugged.
"Oh, well, it was probably nothing. Why don't we go back to the hotel and
practice a bit before the concert? Maybe it'll help you think of what to
do. Music always helps me think when I've got a problem I can't solve." 

"The rehearsal room will be locked," Fraser pointed out. 

"No problem. We'll go to my room." 

"Uh--your room? I--" 

"Fraser? Is something wrong?" 

"No--" Fraser cleared his throat. "No, I just, uh--" 

"Benton," Rosalie said mock-reprovingly, "what did you think I was
suggesting? You have a dirty mind, Mountie." She giggled. "Well, I suppose
I should have expected a reaction like that, though; you're a very
attractive man, you must get a lot of--well, that sort of invitation. But
I don't have any designs on you. I said I wanted to practice, and that's
really all I meant. You can call this a date if you want, but I promise
I'll be a perfect lady." 

"Ah," Fraser said, at once disappointed and relieved. "Well, in that case,
I'd be delighted." 

They left the coffee shop and headed back toward the hotel. The streets in
this part of the city were deserted after dark, lit only by flickering
streetlights and neon advertisements. Rosalie shivered nervously. "I don't
like being outside at night," she admitted. "Not in the city, anyway." 

There was a sudden sharp crack of sound, and then another. "Gunfire,"
Fraser said sharply. "Run!" 

They ran down the street toward the hotel. Fraser caught Rosalie's arm
just as they were about to cross the street. "What's wrong?" she asked,
sounding frightened. 

"There's more of them coming. Follow me." They turned a corner. Ahead of
them was a small park, empty at this time of night. "In here." 

"Fraser, what's going on?" Rosalie demanded. "Tell me what's happening!" 

"Shh." Fraser and Rosalie hid in the shadows just beside the gate as
several black-clothed figures followed them into the park. 

"They came this way!" one of them shouted. "Where are they?" 

Another pulled out a flashlight, sweeping it in wide arcs. "There!" he
called. The beam pinned down Fraser and Rosalie like a searchlight,
illuminating the two of them crouched beside the fence. "Get them!" 

One of the men raised a gun. Fraser jumped at him, knocking it out of his
hand. "Run!" he ordered Rosalie. Casting a frightened glance at him, she
fled. 

Fraser's fist connected with the gunman's jaw and the man flew backwards.
Fraser counted four others, spread out around him. There was the sound of
a gunshot, and a bullet whizzed past Fraser's ear. He dove toward the gate
and ran back out into the street. Rosalie was nowhere to be seen; he hoped
she'd gotten away safely.  

Something heavy struck Fraser's legs and he stumbled and fell. One of the
men loomed over him, swinging a baseball bat. Fraser rolled out of the way
and the bat hit the pavement. Fraser caught the man's legs in a scissor
hold and pulled him down. Looking around quickly, Fraser realized that he
didn't have much of a chance against three armed attackers, not in this
situation. Limping, he turned and ran. 

More gunshots sounded, but none came near him. He rounded a corner and saw
a dim figure ahead of him-- 

"Stay the hell away from me!" she shouted. 

"Rosalie!" Fraser exclaimed with relief. 

"Benton. Thank god, I thought you--" 

"Let's get out of here," Fraser said. "We've lost them for now but they'll
be after us in a minute." 

"Where do we go?" Rosalie asked. 

"Back to the hotel. We'll take an indirect route." 

Fraser led Rosalie through the streets, detouring wide around the area
where the men had been. They seemed to have dispersed now, but he didn't
want to take any chances.  

The hotel lobby was deserted aside from the night clerk at the desk and
some of the orchestra players killing time before the concert. A few of
them waved to Rosalie as she and Fraser headed for the elevators. 

They got off at the fourth floor and Fraser escorted Rosalie to her door.
She fumbled with the key in the lock, nearly dropping it twice before she
managed to get the door open. They entered the room and Rosalie sat down
on the bed, her head in her hands. "Are you all right?" Fraser asked,
concerned. 

Rosalie glared up at him. "They tried to kill us! How the hell can you be
so calm?" 

"You're safe now," Fraser assured her. "It's all right." 

"How do you know that? Explain to me how the hell you know that, because I
would really like to know! For all you know they could be following us
right now, they could be after us--God, Benton, maybe for you this is part
of a normal day but I am not used to people trying to kill me!" 

"It's all right," Fraser repeated. "Just try to calm down." He realized
she was trembling. "Rosalie. Calm down. They're not after you. I'm certain
they came after me because whoever they are thought I was getting close
with my investigation." 

"Are you?" Rosalie asked. "Getting close, I mean?" 

Fraser shook his head. "I don't have any idea. It would appear that they
believe I am, but I must admit I'm still in the dark on this." 

"Oh." Rosalie nodded shakily. She glanced at the clock on the wall: nine
o'clock exactly. "What about the performance tonight? I mean--are you
still going to be there?" 

"Of course," Fraser said. "Why do you ask?" 

"I was just--I mean, could you walk me over there? I don't want to be
outside by myself. Just in case, I mean." 

"I'd be glad to," Fraser said. "I'll just go get changed and meet you back
here in twenty minutes." 

He was halfway out the door when Rosalie suddenly snapped her fingers. "I
remember what I was going to tell you!" she exclaimed. "You said the
killer's going to try and get out of the city as quickly as possible?"
Fraser nodded. "I thought I should tell you, at practice David said he was
too upset to perform. Albert said that was okay and he's leaving tonight."


"Mikityanskaya is leaving?" Fraser asked, confused. 

"No, David's leaving. Haven't you been listening? I'll bet Christof's
going to be happy. Of course I don't know--hey, Benton! Where are you
going?" 

The pieces had abruptly fallen into place. Without conscious volition,
Fraser had already opened the door and was heading down the hall. Rosalie
ran to catch up. "Benton! Slow down! What's going on?" 

"Call Detective Vecchio," Fraser said over his shoulder. "The front desk
will have his number. Tell him to meet me at the concert hall as quickly
as possible." 

"What's happening?" Rosalie demanded. "What's the hurry?" 

"I know who the killer is," Fraser answered without breaking stride. "And
I have less than half an hour to catch him." 

Part Six: Risoluto 

Ray drove up to the steps of the concert hall just as Fraser arrived
there. He rolled down the window, looked at Fraser and burst into
laughter. "What's with the penguin suit?" 

"Well, a performance of this level requires a certain formality, Ray,"
Fraser said defensively. He pulled at the collar of his tuxedo. "Although
I must admit, the tailoring of this outfit leaves much to be desired." 

"Right," Ray said with a grin. He climbed out of the Riv. "Are you okay?
The girl I talked to on the phone sounded pretty shaken up." 

"Rosalie? She's just a little high-strung. You know how musicians are. In
point of fact, we're both fine." 

"Good. So Rosalie said we'd solved this case?" 

Fraser nodded. "I think so." 

"Well, don't keep me in suspense," Ray said, annoyed. "Who is it?" 

"Albert Mikityanskaya," Fraser answered.  

"The conductor? Why?" 

"Since Ms. MacKay wasn't an addict, the traces of cocaine on her fingers,"
Fraser explained, "had to have come from the spare viola she had borrowed,
since that was the last thing she had touched--she had obviously been
practicing when she was shot and the viola stolen. I believe Mr.
Mikityanskaya was smuggling cocaine across the border inside the spare
instruments--an almost foolproof plan, since as Rosalie told me earlier,
Customs would hardly search the Hudson Symphony Orchestra. Undoubtedly Mr.
Mikityanskaya kept one instrument of each type as a real spare, but he
accidentally gave Ms. MacKay the wrong one just before they left. When he
realized his mistake, he went to take the viola back, but seeing that she
had already opened the case, he panicked and shot her. Then he took the
viola--presumably to his contact in Chicago-- and brought back the case
and the gun to dispose of them in the hotel, so as not to bring suspicion
on himself." 

Ray nodded, seeing where this was going. "And, uh, the attack on you and
Rosalie? You think Mikita--Mitska--you think our buddy Albert called
that?" 

"That was my theory," Fraser agreed. "They must have thought I'd already
uncovered evidence to incriminate the two of them." 

"Well, great, so what're we waiting for? Let's go kick some heads in." 

"We can't arrest Mikityanskaya without any evidence, Ray," Fraser pointed
out, "and undoubtedly he'll have already delivered the cocaine to his
contact already." 

"So what? We go in and lean on Mitsky a little. He'll talk to us if he
thinks it's the only way to save his skin." Ray grinned. "C'mon." 

They went into the concert hall, but were stopped at the door of the
auditorium by a teenaged girl with a nametag. "You can't go in," she said
in an officiously bored voice, blocking the door. "They've started the
concert already." 

Ray pulled out his badge and waved it in her face. "You see this?" he
demanded. "You know what it is? Open the door." 

The girl shook her head. "Sorry," she said. "They told me not to let
anybody in. I could lose this job if I make exceptions." 

"I'm Detective Ray Vecchio of the Chicago Police!" Ray snapped. 

The girl glanced at his badge. "Yeah, my brother has one of those. He
found it in a cereal box. You try to get in there and I'll call security."
She pointed to a red button on the far side of the ticket table. "Why
don't you two just leave now before I have to do that?" 

"I don't have time for this," Ray said, annoyed. He pulled out his
handcuffs, snapped one on her wrist and the other to the leg of the table.
"Now stay." 

"Hey!" the girl squawked. "Lemme out of here!" 

"Don't worry," Ray assured her. "Someone'll probably come by in a minute
and get you out. We just need to get in there. Got it?" 

"I'm sorry about this," Fraser whispered to her as they entered the
auditorium. 

"Fraser! C'mon!" 

The hall was dark and as silent as a crowd can be. Murmured whispers of
annoyance followed the two officers as they made their way carefully down
the aisle toward the stage. With difficulty, Fraser refrained from
apologizing; they were supposed to be sneaking, after all. 

Fraser and Ray reached the front of the auditorium and opened the stage
door. A flight of stairs led backstage, which the two of them climbed.
They found themselves in an open space just behind the side curtains,
where assorted instrument cases, music folders, coats and miscellaneous
musical items were stacked haphazardly on the floor and on various pieces
of furniture and stage equipment. From just to the left of them, hidden by
the thick purple curtains, they could hear the orchestra tuning up. Fraser
frowned, listening. "Hmm. It appears the tuba is playing quite flat
tonight. I was sure we'd fixed that problem." 

"Keep your mind on what we're doing, Fraser!" Ray hissed. "In case you
haven't noticed--" 

What he was about to say was lost as two men stepped out of the shadows.
"Sorry, nobody can go onstage once the concert's started," one of them
said. "You guys had better come with us." 

"He's a violinist," Ray said quickly, pointing to Fraser. 

"That's violist, Ray. There's a significant difference. You see--" 

"Fraser, this isn't the best time." 

"Understood." 

The two stagehands watched this exchange in silent bemusement. The one who
had spoken scrutinised Fraser, taking in his tuxedo and the viola case he
carried. "Okay, I'll buy that," he said at last. "Go ahead." He turned to
Ray, glancing at his rumpled t-shirt and jeans. "You're not gonna tell me
you're in the orchestra too, are you?" 

"Why not?" Ray demanded. 

"You don't look like one of them. I don't think you're even Canadian." 

"Sure I am," Ray improvised. "I play the triangle. Uh--thank you kindly.
Maple syrup. Eh." 

The stagehands glanced nervously at each other. "Does he sound Canadian to
you?" one whispered. 

"How should I know?" the other answered as quietly.  

"The concert is about to start," Fraser interposed. "If you gentlemen
would be so kind as to let us pass--?" 

"Well, he's Canadian, anyway," the first stagehand commented. "Sure, you
guys go ahead." They stepped aside. 

Ray pushed aside the heavy curtains and came out of the wings onto the
brightly lit stage. The conductor glanced up, irritated by the
interruption. His irritation turned to shock when he saw Fraser emerge,
dressed in a tuxedo but now improbably wearing his Stetson. "You!"
Mikityanskaya gasped. "They said you were dead--" He clapped his hands
over his mouth, horrified, realized what he'd just admitted. 

"You're under arrest!" Ray snapped. "Hands behind your back!" He took hold
of the conductor's arm, automatically reaching for his handcuffs. A
half-second later, he remembered they were outside the auditorium,
restraining the ticket girl.  

Taking advantage of the cop's momentary distraction, Mikityanskaya twisted
out of Ray's grip and punched him in the face as hard as he could. Ray
staggered back, blood trickling from his mouth, and Mikityanskaya darted
offstage in the opposite direction. Fraser pursued him, leaping over part
of the surprised flute section in his haste. Ray, recovering from his
momentary shock, followed, although taking the long way around. 

The area backstage was just as cluttered on this side, if not more so, as
it had been on the other. Fraser, following the conductor by ear in the
near-complete darkness, accidentally kicked over a stack of what felt like
spare saxophone parts. By the time they had clattered to the floor, he had
lost the sound of his prey.  

Ray appeared behind him. "Fraser?" 

"I'm here." 

"Where'd he go?" 

Fraser shook his head, though he doubted Ray could see him. "I lost track
of him. There don't appear to be any exits back here, though; he must have
left through one of the stage doors." 

"Well, let's get a move on, then!" 

"Right." They hurried down the stage stairs and out into the auditorium.
As yet the overhead lights had not come on, but it was brighter here due
to the light from the stage. The audience was stirring, restless and
worried. Although most of them undoubtedly didn't have the faintest idea
what was happening, they knew something was going on that they didn't want
to be a part of. People were getting up from their seats, milling
uncertainly in the aisles, moving hesitantly toward the doors. 

"Police! Let us through!" Ray ordered, pushing his way past the thickening
crowd. Fraser followed in his wake, apologizing left and right. 

They reached the doors. The ticket girl was nowhere to be seen; apparently
someone, a security guard probably, had come along and freed her, judging
by the mangled handcuffs still clipped to the table leg. 

Fraser caught a glimpse of furtive movement by the main ticket booth.
"There!" he shouted. Mikityanskaya, startled, saw them and leapt over the
counter into the booth. Fraser followed, but by then Mikityanskaya had
already gone through an "Employees Only" door and was headed back out into
the auditorium. 

"I'll go left!" Ray shouted. Fraser nodded and ran after the conductor,
down the right side of the auditorium. They both had to fight their way
through the crowd of people, but Fraser was slowly gaining on
Mikityanskaya. By the time they reached the stage, Fraser was only a few
metres behind him.  

Fraser burst out from one side of the stage as Ray simultaneously appeared
on the other, and then they both stopped dead. Mikityanskaya had drawn a
gun and was holding it to one of the musicians' heads. She looked up at
Fraser, frightened, and he saw that it was Rosalie. "Stay back!"
Mikityanskaya warned. "Take one more step and I'll kill her like I should
have before." There was a metallic crash as the tuba player fainted,
falling backward out of his chair, but no- one paid him much attention. 

"Don't hurt her," Fraser said in a calming tone. "What do you want?" 

"What do I want?" Mikityanskaya laughed. The sound was frightening. Fraser
wondered if the man was completely sane. "What the hell do you think I
want, Constable? I'm going to leave now, with Rosalie, and you aren't
going to interfere. Once I'm safely away, I'll let her go." 

"Why should I believe you?" Fraser asked. 

"You think you have a choice?" 

Fraser nodded thoughtfully. "You may have a point." 

Rosalie looked up at him, frightened, but didn't say anything.
Mikityanskaya smiled. "All right, Rosalie, stand up. Slowly. No sudden
moves." Rosalie obeyed. "Good girl. Let's go. Walk slowly, keep your hands
where I can see them. You, Benton, stay over to the side." 

Rosalie started to stand up; then everything seemed to happen at once.
There was the sound of a gunshot; Rosalie screamed; Mikityanskaya, an
almost comically surprised expression on his face, looked down in shock at
the red stain blossoming on his immaculate white shirt; the tuba player,
who had just come to, fainted again; Fraser and Ray rushed forward, Ray,
already calling for help on his cellular phone, to catch Mikityanskaya as
he collapsed, Fraser toward the back of the stage where the unknown gunman
must be hiding. 

The back curtain parted before Fraser reached it, and David Cooke came
out. "Is he dead?" the violist demanded, his voice edged with hysteria. 

Fraser gently took the gun from his shaking hand. "Is he dead?" the
Mountie asked. 

"The paramedics are on their way," Ray reported. "He's alive for now." 

"No--" David shook his head violently. "No, he killed Audrey--he has to--"


"David." Fraser righted the tuba player's vacated chair and maneuvred
David into the seat. "Calm down. Trying to kill Mr. Mikityanskaya isn't
the answer." 

"He killed Audrey!" David wailed. "He deserves it!" 

"Well, you might say so," Fraser admitted, "but I'm afraid the law doesn't
allow that sort of vigilante justice. You know, the Inuit have a saying--"


"Fraser!" Ray said, exasperated. 

"Sorry, Ray." 

 "So what happens now?" Rosalie asked. She and Fraser were in his office
at the Canadian Consulate the following evening, where Rosalie was
finishing making out her statement. "To David, I mean." 

"He isn't being charged, if that's what you mean; his lawyers are calling
for a ruling of "diminished mental capacity". He'll probably be remanded
to a Canadian psychiatric hospital." 

"Oh." Rosalie nodded. "And Albert?" 

"Mr. Mikityanskaya will be tried in Canada as soon as he's recovered
enough to be transported. He's given us the names of his criminal contacts
in Chicago, and they are being brought in as we speak and will be
prosecuted for drug trafficking under Illinois law." 

"That wraps up almost everything, then," Rosalie said. 

"Almost everything?" Fraser repeated. 

Rosalie grinned impishly. "We never did get to finish our date. Before I
go back to Canada, I insist you let me take you out for dinner." 

Fraser smiled back. "I'd be delighted." He took off his hat, thumbed
through the bills inside. "Hmm. Well, perhaps we can find an inexpensive
restaurant--" 

"Now don't be unfair. I told you, I'm taking you out. The payroll might
have ended up a little scrambled on this trip, but I have some pocket
money with me." 

"How much?" Fraser asked. 

"Umm--maybe fifty dollars?" 

"Ah. Well, you see, the exchange rate here in Chicago--" 

Rosalie nodded. "McDonald's it is." Fraser started to laugh, and after a
moment Rosalie joined in. Fraser inserted Rosalie's signed statement into
the appropriate file folder and put it away neatly in its place. Still
chuckling, he offered her his arm, and the two Canadians headed outside. 

The End. Send comments to: johinsa@hotmail.com