Played to Death by Meg Perry Page A

about it at dinner that night. Then when you ended up in the hospital, I just…”
    I said, “You needed to get it over with.”
    “Yeah. And I convinced myself that it would be better for you to get it over with too.” He shook his head. “I am so sorry. I should have waited. I should have -”
    I held up my hand. “It was a long time ago. And it left me free to start dating Pete when he asked me out, so it’s worked out for me. Apology accepted.”
    Scott slumped in his chair a little, picking at a thread on a shirt button - his tell for embarrassment. “I never wanted to be that kind of person.”
    “You’d never do that again, would you?”
    He looked up, surprised. “ No .”
    “Then you’re not that kind of person anymore.” I gave him a wry smile. “Are you seeing anyone now?”
    “I just broke up with the latest. It was no great loss.”
    “Who was he?”
    “Brent Fogerty. Worked in the men’s department at Neiman-Marcus. I met him when he sold me a suit.”
    “Ah.”
    Scott shrugged. “I've dated four different guys since I broke up with you. I think I'm taking a sabbatical.”
    “That might be a good idea. Clear your head, think about what you're really looking for.”
    Scott drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair for a minute, another gesture I recognized, then waved his hand in dismissal. “Anyway. I can’t imagine what I can help you with, but you’re right, I’d rather talk to you than the cops.”
    “Okay, here’s the story. There’s been a theft of a score from our music library. The UCLA police and LAPD’s Art Theft unit are investigating, but the University Librarian has asked me to help from the inside. The score is a cello solo.”
    Scott’s interest was piqued. “Which one?”
    “The only cello solo by a composer named Jeremy Isaacson. Written in 1987.”
    “I know that one. The Adagio and Allegro .” Scott gave me a pointed look. “Isaacson died in 1989 of AIDS. He was 38.”
    “ Oh . Was he a cellist?”
    “He was. Not a particularly renowned one. His forte was composition. He wrote several other pieces, for cello and piano and for string ensembles.”
    “Our music library director estimated the value of the piece at $1,500.”
    “If it’s the original, that’s probably true. Don’t they lock stuff like that up?”
    “That surprised me too. Why would anyone steal it, though?”
    Scott shook his head thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Unless there’s a collector out there.”
    “A collector?”
    “Yeah. People collect original music scores like they do old books. Serious collectors usually limit themselves to a particular composer, genre, or period. There may be someone out there who collects Isaacson and didn’t have this piece.”
    “Would there be any reason for a cellist to want the piece to play from?”
    “No. If all you want to do is play it, you don’t want a valuable copy because you’re going to write on it. Make notes to yourself.”
    “Is it possible to find out if there’s a collector out there? Are there, like - chat rooms or online groups for collectors?”
    Scott shrugged. “I suppose. There are online groups for everything, aren’t there? That’s more your area than mine.”
    “Yeah.” I had some research to do. “Could you ask around to your Philharmonic pals? See if anyone knows of an Isaacson collector?”
    “We’re on break for the next five weeks. I won’t see anyone for a while.”
    “Oh. That’s right.” I grinned. “We’ll leave that to the cops, then.”
    Scott said, “Besides, if the collector is a cellist and stole the piece, they’re hardly likely to tell me about it, are they?”
    “No. They won’t tell the police either, but at least the cops have a better idea of when someone is lying to them.”
     
    I walked Scott out of the library into the sunshine and said, “Thanks. I appreciate the help.”
    Scott said, “I have to admit, this is interesting. Will you let me know what the cops find out? Um -