Once they had rejoined Darren, Amos observed, “I smell a few singed feathers, but I don’t see any sign of scorched flesh.”
Marcus said to them both, “Fay Wilbur told me her grandson’s been detained for carrying a gun to school.”
Amos asked his deputy, “This your cousin?”
Darren looked stricken by the news. “ ’Fraid s-so.”
“He as big as you?”
Darren shook his head. “Deacon’s b-build, my b-bad attitude.”
Amos said to Marcus, “Here I thought all you country lawyers did was shoot the dog and walk the breeze. Or maybe it’s the other way around.”
“Fay is worried sick.”
“I expect she is.” Amos said to Darren, “Sounds to me like we ought to pick up this young’un, take him for a ride out to Wendell.”
Wendell was home to the largest state pen, notorious for its boot-camp attitude. Local police departments often took young repeat offenders for a walk down Melody Lane, as the central hall was known. The felons always sang the young boys a very warm welcome.
Marcus said, “There’s a local hardcase by the name of Sephus Jones.”
“You’re mixing with some bad stock there, Marcus.”
“He’s the guy who harassed Kirsten. I’d appreciate it if you could find out where he might be found.”
“I’ll see what I can turn up.” Amos climbed into the passenger seat, rolled down his window, and gave Marcus a little of the heat he had revealed inside. “Show a little intelligence from now on. You got anything you feel has to be done around here, you call for backup.”
CHAPTER
———
8
AS USUAL, REINER KLATZ COMPRESSED his fifty-three-year-old body into clothes designed for sleeker greyhounds doing the Königsallee strut. He called goodbye to his wife, left his apartment on the fashionable Oberkasseler Weg, and drove across the Rhein Knee Bridge. Parking around the opera house was impossible as always. Reiner left his new S-class in the Carsch-Haus underground lot and hoofed it to the Kö, as the place was known to locals.
The Königsallee and its surrounding lanes made up the primo shopping region of all northern Germany. The main drag was about a kilometer long and was split by a moat, useless medieval bridges, a fountain Wagner would have swooned over, and shops selling cashmere socks. Reiner Klatz made it a point to be seen daily somewhere along its length. He flitted about, far too busy to sit down and actually say something. The greyhounds all knew him, of course. The blue-hair set liked to kiss the air by his cheeks. But his chance to really shine, the one occasion when all the Kö’s spotlights swiveled and followed him down the lane, were opening galas at the Düsseldorf opera.
To say the least, the Düsseldorf opera was not Paris. Nor Vienna nor Berlin nor La Scala. But beneath this first rank huddled a second tier, provincial houses and some which pretended to be far more than that. Of all these houses, Reiner considered Düsseldorf tops. Hands down, without qualification. Premier of the second league. And that, as Reiner would tell anyone who cared to listen, was not a bad place to be.
Düsseldorf was unable to retain rank upon rank of opera stars. But those it did engage were counted among the best. Where La Scala might have twenty divas under long-standing contracts, Düsseldorf had three. Yet these three had all starred at La Scala at one time or another. And Glyndbourne. And Berlin, Nice, Paris, Rome, and the Royal Opera House. One had even sung at the Met.
Reiner spotted the duchess in time to wipe the bitter cast from his face. Thinking about the New York Metropolitan Opera House, even for an instant, was enough to ruin a perfectly good day. The duchess seethed through the Königsallee summer crowd like the SS Bismarck through dinghies in some teeming third-world harbor. This week’s pair of personal attendants and her private secretary skittered along behind.
The duchess planted herself in front of Reiner and blared, “I want you to explain to me how it is I cannot have the director’s box!”
“A lovely day, is it not, your highness.”
“Stop with this nonsense. Do I look like a fool to you?”
“Never have I thought—”
“Then do not cloud the air with blather!” The duchess was the real thing—real title, real money, real power. She was built like an aging Wagnerian alto, with a bovine figure that would have caused a rampant steer to blanch. “I spoke with the director again this morning and he informs me that the box is still untaken!”
“Please excuse me, highness. I have sought twice to alter matters with Frau Brandt. But with the chancellor coming …”
The duchess balked. Although the chancellor’s power was far younger than her own, it was of a realm she could not safely attack. Which was of course why Reiner had mentioned him. But in truth the chancellor had been refused the box as well. Which had almost given Reiner a stroke. But Erin had insisted. And when Erin insisted, particularly the day before a gala opening, there was nothing Reiner could do. When she had returned from the United States and agreed to start back at Düsseldorf, Erin had written into her new contract that the director’s box was hers by right for every gala event in which she starred.
For now, however, the box remained strangely empty. Which was baffling. Erin had personally written the chancellor and explained in her precise convent-taught script that this was an event of national importance. The Düsseldorf opera was going on an international tour, in which Erin was singing just twice—tonight at their sole performance in Germany, followed by the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden three nights hence. It was the first time the Düsseldorf opera had been invited en masse to Covent Garden, and there she would be singing before the Prince of Wales. To Reiner’s delight, the chancellor had accepted. Yet not even he would be seated in the director’s box.
Reiner extricated himself from the duchess and scuttled along the Kö. As he passed a news kiosk his eye was caught by the local rag, which naturally had Erin’s photograph on the front page. Reiner had almost come to blows with the managing editor over the coverage they had given Erin in her moment of direst need. At least, that was how Reiner had put it, standing over the woman’s desk and screaming so loud he had drawn people from two floors below. Erin Brandt could sing anywhere she wanted. The paper had publicly lamented the fact when Erin had departed for America two years earlier.
Anywhere, that is, save the Met.
Standing over the managing editor’s desk, Reiner had shrieked and wailed and torn his Seelbach cashmere jacket over how Erin had been treated upon her return. The same paper that had wept poignant tears over her departure had spread tales of a bitter divorce and an abandoned baby. Was it true, the managing editor had dared ask. True? Who cares what was the truth? Erin Brandt was a star! Stars were expected to misbehave!
To an opera diva, the Met was the ultimate prize. Yet Erin had never been granted the starring role she truly deserved. Not even when she moved to America with this as her goal. Not even when she paid her dues singing to rave reviews in Chicago and San Francisco and even before the President at Washington’s Kennedy Center. Not to mention a variety of more mediocre stages—Atlanta and Miami and Phoenix and Dallas. Dallas! But nothing had done any good. Seven long months she had bowed and scraped and licked their societal boots. To no avail.
No wonder she got herself pregnant and let that horrid man drag her down to Wilmington, North Carolina. Reiner shuddered as he took the backstage stairs two at a time, recalling his one visit to Swampville, as Erin now called it. When Erin announced she was returning to Europe and singing and him, Reiner could have wept from sheer joy. He should have. Really.
When he entered the star’s dressing room, Erin was the calm at the center of a force nine gale. That was one of her greatest gifts, facing the horrendous pressures of a major live performance and remaining the ice queen. Reiner inserted himself into the crowd, and waited.
The dresser was busy with yet another final fitting. During the previous day’s dress rehearsal, the stays had snagged and b
itten until Erin had bled quite profusely. Yet Erin had seemed not to notice the blood oozing from beneath her left arm, until Reiner had pointed it out and almost fainted in the process. Afterward she had claimed she was too involved with the music to notice anything so minor. Now the conductor and the makeup man and the wig mistress all gaped in horror at the stain. Even after a frantic dry cleaning the bloody shadow remained. By this evening it would become another component of the lady’s legend.
He waited while the conductor discussed two minor changes to her opening aria. When Reiner’s chance came, he gave it to her hard and fast. At such times there was no alternative. And Erin had insisted upon knowing immediately.
“Marcus Glenwood,” he announced.
Erin tilted her chin in his direction. After all these years, he still could be awed by the intensity of her concentration. “Yes?”
“He could not be worse news.”
Erin brushed the seamstress’ fingers aside and announced to the room, “Give us a moment alone, please.”
When the door swung shut, Reiner went on, “By all accounts, Marcus Glenwood is a stealth bomber. Quiet and Southern and polite. So mild-mannered it would be easy to dismiss him out of hand. But the man single-handedly took on the world’s largest sports apparel company and the Chinese government.” He tried to keep the alarm from his voice, for the last thing he needed was to stoke Erin’s fires. “And he won.”
Erin surprised him once again, however. Most things about this entire episode managed to shred her calm as nothing else, transforming her into a feral vixen with the powers to turn any assailant to stone. But today she simply gave him a cool smile.
“Give me the phone, Liebchen.”
“Who are you calling?”
“The man who promised to occupy the director’s box and I fear is not coming after all. Go stand guard outside my door, that’s a dear.”
Reiner did as he was told. He bestowed a smile on all who passed, as though all was right with this abnormal cosmos called opera. He knew Erin as the most consummate actress he had ever met, stage or screen. Even so, her calm left him wondering if perhaps, this time, things might actually work out.
CHAPTER
———
9
MARCUS TOOK THE INNER BELTWAY around Raleigh, then headed east on what had formerly been a simple country lane. The new four-lane was presently farmed by tracts of new houses that sprouted with the speed of high-velocity weeds. Six miles farther out, carefully shielded by acres of elm and holly and scrub pine, stood the city’s last remaining quarry. Marcus made his way past a string of idling dump trucks and halted where a crew of roughnecks had toned down their speech because of the deputy sheriff standing nearby.
Darren Wilbur offered Marcus a hand like a flat-blade shovel. “H-how you doing, sir?”
“Pressed for time. I’m due in Wilmington to meet a new client. Appreciate your doing this.”
“M-mind stepping t-this way?”
The offices said all there was to know about the quarry business. The exterior walls were slatted shingles of tree bark, stripped off trees used as supports for the original shafts. That was back in the thirties, before the dozers came equipped with diamond-tipped blades which carved up the surface rock like hot wax. Just crossing the yard and climbing the back stairs turned Marcus’ black loafers a wintry shade of pale.
Outside the closed door, Darren handed Marcus a bulky file. Marcus read the name on the jacket. “Sephus Jones.”
“Amos t-tracked him down through h-his parole officer.”
Marcus opened the folder, scanned the first page. “This man’s been charged with grievous bodily harm, armed robbery, abduction of a minor, assault with intent, and extortion?”
“A-assault and abduction’re the only ones that s-stuck.”
He slapped the file shut. “You sure we don’t need some backup here?”
Darren showed a very rare smile. “I believe we’re c-covered.”
“There anything I could use as a lever?”
“M-man was picked up again l-last week.”
The quarry’s blast whistle sounded as Marcus reached for the door. Then the air concussed about him and the dusty road shivered as if a school of predatory creatures foraged beneath the surface. When the subsequent silence was broken by a bird’s tentative all-clear, Marcus pushed open the door and walked inside.
The man seated at the table leaned back so that sunlight through the door struck his body but not his face. The backs of his hands bore prison tattoos. More artistic bands of blue and purple dye wrapped aboriginal designs about his wrists and drew daggers up both forearms. Dancing upon his right arm was a snake-haired Medusa. A sunburst with a warrior’s face protruded from his shirt’s open front. “Ain’t right, you bothering me here where the whole world’s gonna know.”
The deputy merely shut the door and leaned against it. Almost instantly Marcus had to fight off the urge to gag. The smell emanating from the man coated Marcus’ tongue and the back of his throat like putrid enamel. A year’s worth of body odor was mingled with a drenching scent so overwhelming Marcus required a moment to identify it as English Leather. The man must have bathed in the stuff.
Marcus gave the room a careful sweep. A wall calendar advertising either thong bikinis or tires counted days off the previous April. The walls were rough-hewn and pegged with overdue bills and yellowed call sheets.
Sephus Jones planted his boots on the corner of the empty desk. “And just who exactly do we have here?”
Marcus pulled a straight-backed chair up close. “You should know. You were in such a powerful hurry to meet me yesterday.”
“Marcus. My man.” Sephus Jones had eyes so pale they fed upon the shadows, glimmering with a beast’s fervor. His hair was dyed a cheap reddish orange that almost matched his dime-sized freckles. “Nice little dolly you got yourself there.”
Marcus set the file on the desk between them and flipped to the last page. “Says here you’re a two-time loser, Sephus.”
“You decide you’re done with the dolly, how’s about I have a taste?”
“From what I understand, you’ve been recently brought in on something new.” Marcus lifted his gaze. “Don’t tell me that hasn’t got you sweating.”
“Chump change. I was holding a bag for a buddy.”
Marcus looked over to where Darren stood by the wall. Just crossing his arms was enough to stretch the uniform’s shoulder seams. “Hundred c-caps of ecstasy. Arrested in f-front of a j-junior high.”
The dust-matted window emitted a light like a fading lantern’s glow. A bare bulb glowed from a wire dangling off the ceiling. Neither was enough to press the shadows back very far. “Why don’t I shoot a couple of guesses your way,” Marcus suggested. “The earlier arrest has resulted in court orders to stay well away from schools, parks, the works. Which means you’re now facing a double-barrel charge.”
Sephus Jones unsnapped the leather holder hanging from his belt and plucked out a bone-handled knife. He pried open the largest blade and began paring his fingernails, reflecting what light he could muster into Marcus’ face. “There mighta been some mention made a while back. I don’t rightly recall.”
“Jailers in these parts don’t take kindly to convicts who’ve messed with children. They know better than to lay a hand on a prisoner. But they’re going to take great care in selecting your dance partners. One night awaiting arraignment should be enough to remind you of that fact.” Marcus leaned his hands on the desk. “How am I doing so far?”
“If you came looking for new business, I’m just sorry as I can be.” His grin was empty of all save the stretching of skin. “I already got me all the lawyers I can use.”
“This is what you call a carrot and stick meeting. You help me, I talk shop with the DA. You don’t, the deputy here is going to arrest you on charges of assaulting my girlfriend.”
“Just another helping of chump change, bub.” He flicked whatever he had on the knife’s tip in Mar
cus’ direction. “I didn’t touch the dolly.”
“All I want,” Marcus replied, “is a name.”
“What, you grown dissatisfied with the one your own daddy offered you?” He returned to his knife and his fingernails. “Now that’s a pure shame.”
“New Horizons didn’t send you over to my place. And the check you brought was a forgery.” He took strength from the slight check in the knife’s motions. “Just tell me who set you off against me.”
“That’s the trouble with you lawyers. You see conspiracy behind the simplest deal. I did a favor for a friend. That’s all there is to it.”
“Who is the friend?”
“Always did have a terrible head for names.” He closed the knife, stowed it away, slammed his boots to the floor. “We done here?”
“You’re really so concerned about protecting somebody that you’d risk further indictments?”
“Ain’t concerned about it at all.”
Marcus rose to his feet, eager now for a breath of untainted air. “I’ll give you a day to think about this.”
“Five seconds’ll do, bub.” He rose to his feet, offered a final grin. “But you feel welcome to come visiting anytime you like.”
Marcus left the office and stomped down the stairs. Back in the parking lot, he propped one foot on his front tire and used his handkerchief to smear around the dust. “All he’s given me is a load of questions I don’t need.”
“Y-you want me t-to arrest him?”
“No. He’s right. We won’t be able to make an assault charge stick.” Marcus started on his other shoe. “The man’s too confident to be sitting in there on his own.”
Darren waited until Marcus slid behind the wheel to say, “T-that’s what they pay you for, to p-put together the p-puzzles.”
CHAPTER
Winner Take All Page 8
