A/N - Here's a story that started wiggling free from my head and started spilling all over my laptop keys... It's quite a mess, that I don't nearly have cleaned up yet.
This is more case-oriented and set in during the latter half of season two, post-Running Man.
"And so the conversation slips
Among velleities and carefully caught regrets
Through attenuated tones of violins
Mingled with remote cornets
And begins."
-Portrait of a Lady, T.S. Eliot
There's moments, maybe in conversation, maybe just waiting at the bus stop, and everything seems beautifully mundane. Then a glance or odor, perhaps a laugh or a flash of color shifts time. Its an illusion, powerful and intoxicating, a sudden rush that reality is somehow very familiar. It's the man stealing the only empty seat on the Metro or the stain a spaghetti noodle leaves after bending toward gravity.
That's the crazy thing about deja vu.
Don Eppes looked up, his pen pausing on the college rule and caught the eye of the man shell shocked in a straight-backed mahogany chair. His eyes were distinctly red, left fingers moving constantly in tune to the mute concerto playing through his mind. There were muttered "My God, the del Gesu..." and "How can this be?" in a soft Vienese accent.
That posture was familiar. The defeat and depression, the tangible abasement flowing off the man in waves.
"They took the Guaneri and replaced it with t-this..." The man stuttered, furious and without words. "This is sacrilege!"
Don's mind drifted back a quarter of a century to when he was ten and his next door neighbor's dog was hit by a car. It was a mixture of labrador and spaniel, an animal innovative long before the labradoodle became vogue. The poor thing whimpered around on the driveway most the afternoon before it passed. Mrs. Koenin, who was a million years old and had long since joined Baxter in the hereafter, had sat with her dog, cane and legs splayed on the pavement, until twilight.
A two hundred and sixty year old violin wasn't the same as a decrepit three legged mutt, yet the disappearance of both left an equally crater like hole.
Like Yogi Berra said, it was like deja vu all over again.
The dressing room was small and dimly lit. The air was heavy with roses and rosin, tension sang through the atmosphere with a fine virbrato. It had been a long several hours since the agents had arrived. The CSI had come and gone, collected evidence, shipping fibers and papers back to the FBI lab. There were a few LAPD officers milling around, some interviewing orchestra members, others blocking entrance from curious reporters and passers-by.
"Mr. Leismuller..." Megan Reeves knelt before the shaken man. "Mr. Leismuller, could you please tell us when you first noticed the violin was replaced..."
The wild graying hair whipped up, a missing fire flashed briefly in his eyes, "It is not merely a violin, Agent Reeves." The man got up and paced in the room, the sudden movement urging Megan back to her seat. His black silk bow tie hung limply around his open collar. The sleeves of his shirt flapped carelessly like a persistent metronome, free of cuff links and propriety.
Don leaned his chair slightly against the wall, until the two front legs hovered a few centimeters off the floor. Megan sat next to him, the door of the room gently bumping against her back. The large mirror across from him amplified the room, doubling the light and the number of people there.
A closet door was opened off to the left, revealing several tuxedos and boxes piled on the floor. There were twin van Goghs competing for attention on either side, clashing with photographs of Isaak Perlman, Yo-Yo Ma and others Don did not recognize. He brought the chair back down soundlessly, and jotted notes, remembering to ask what was still unknown.
"We are talking about a Guaneri del Gesu. One of the finest instruments ever made. It's worth..." Gregor Leismuller slumped atop the dressing table. "...It's worth is almost incalculable," he whispered. "And it is not even mine..."
The two agents exchanged a look. Don could feel his brow wrinkling, silently reminding himself to be patient with the man, "Who does it belong to then?"
Somewhere in the background, a piano could be heard. It was faint at first, soundwaves hardly even registering. The notes picked up both sound and speed as the player drifted from a chromatic scale to an intermezzo then onto a familiar, yet nameless minuet. Don found his mind wandering with the musician as he heard a C chord followed by a D.
The violinist nervously plucked at his sleeve, "It is owned by a trust. I believe you call it conservatorship?" Don nodded for him to continue. "The Guaneri was simply to expensive for me to purchase. When it came up for sale it was bought by a group whose interests lies in fine violins: Amati, Stratavarius, and of course, Guaneri."
The topic seemed to ease the man's apprehension, the frustration softened in the light of a familiar topic. "Those three are the trinity of the finest violins, all from Cremona, Italy." His shoulder brushed against a bouquet of roses behind him, petals falling to the floor. "The group lends out instruments to various musicians depending on skill level and reputation."
Don was surprised as he realized the older gentleman reminded him of his brother, Charlie. Both were exceptionally passionate, and both seemed more comfortable with teaching than when riddled with questions. The man's voice rose and then fell with veneration, "Nicolo Paganini played this instrument. " Liesmuller's face twisted between a grin and a grimace, "He lost it to cover a gambling debt..."
"Sir, how does the group turn a profit?" Megan queried, attempting to get his attention back.
"It's always money, isn't it?" Leismuller shook his head, tugging at the silvery goatee, "There is... most of the members of the board, they are wealthy patrons. Monetary profit is not their concern. They look to turn an artistic one."
The dressing room door closed earlier, yet by now it had slowly crept open. The piano man continued on, tremoloed G to E and then gradually fell into Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. Don could feel his fingers trace out the chords against his leg. Megan noticed the subtle movements and Leismuller watched approvingly, "You are a musician, Agent Eppes. You understand why this is so important then..."
A slight flush stole across his face, "It's been a long time, Mr. Leismuller." Don shifted his feet slightly, rolled his neck against the impending and probable stiffness. It was late, well after two in the morning. The phone call roused him from bed and chased away any traces of sleep. "How much is the del Gesu worth?"
The musician gave a hard look at Don, as if he was offended at the question, "It is more than the money, Agent Eppes. It's an incredible piece of history." He frantically ran his hands through his hair, pausing at the question on the agent's face, "It was assessed... maybe eight years ago now. It's worth has easily doubled since then, perhaps even tripled..."
"How much, Mr. Leismuller?" Megan prompted.
Leismuller kicked out at a stack of sheet music on the floor, the papers slipping across the floor, stopping at Don's feet, "Ten million dollars..."