A Curtain Falls

by Pintoff, Stefanie

  Nick Scarpetta grunted, then ground the butt of his cigar into the ashtray beside him. He reached a thick hand toward the small black candlestick telephone on the left side of his desk and pulled it to him. “Get me Underwood 342,” he said.

  I waited, listening as the operator connected him.

  That he would help me, I’d had no doubt. Nicky had rescued me from a tough spot on more than one occasion— in fact, probably more often than I even knew. When I was a child, he had been a familiar figure at my mother’s door, overcoming her objections, returning my father’s gambling losses to her in secret. “For you and the children. Make sure he don’t see a cent of it,” he’d mumble before he disappeared yet again— only to resurface during the next crisis. Just months ago, he had used his connections to help me locate Isabella before a killer took her life.

  He had always kept a benevolent eye on me, never too far away, though my role as a police detective had placed some strain on our relationship. Nicky was a pivotal figure within the criminal underworld, but so far, I’d been able to maintain my friendship with him— without entangling myself in his darker dealings. But I also knew that the more I asked of him, the less likely I’d be able to maintain that separation.

  That was why today I asked no favors. I approached Nicky this time as a paying customer, knowing his ser vices did not come cheap.

  The telephone connection was finally made. “This is Louie, right? I need you and Isador. My place. Fifteen minutes.” It was all Nicky said before he returned the receiver to its hook. He had eventually installed a telephone out of necessity, but he never conducted business over it, quite rightly concerned about those eavesdropping. Business was done in person, from the back room of his saloon.

  “Two men for one evening,” he said gruffly.

  I pulled several bills from the envelope. “Five hundred, right?”

  He nodded and tucked the money away almost the moment I produced it.

  “There’s one more thing,” I began delicately. “My father is back in town.”

  Nicky let forth a loud guffaw. “Tell me something I don’t know. Took him what— two weeks?— before he was in debt at every joint downtown.”

  “How much does he owe you?”

  “Too much.” He looked at me with no small mea sure of concern in his drooping, baggy eyes. “Why?”

  “Because I intend to repay his debt to you,” I said. I lifted my chin and looked at him with a calm, steady gaze.

  He opened the large humidor centered on his desk and I breathed in the pungent odor of Spanish cedar, which was so strong that it actually overpowered the scent of tobacco. He chose a cigar with care, then reached for a match and lit it in a motion that was surprisingly fluid for a man with thick stubs for fingers.

  He took several puffs from the cigar before he spoke. “You got no cause to do that.”

  “No,” I smiled ruefully, “but I intend to all the same. How much— one thousand? Or more like two?”

  They were large numbers, but I never underestimated my father’s misplaced faith in a pair of aces.

  He leaned forward across his desk and fixed me with a firm look. “He don’t deserve it. Not the way he treated you— not to mention the fine woman who was your mother.”

  I remained firm. “Agreed. But I’m still paying it.”

  Nicky smoked in silence for some moments, just thinking as he puffed perfect O rings that rose to the ceiling.

  My goal was to square things all around with Nicky. I had done that in part by paying for the ser vices of his henchmen, whose help I needed tonight. But I also needed to repay my father’s debt if I was to clear all obligations. In recent months, I had lived in trepidation that Nicky would call in a favor I’d be loath to grant yet afraid to refuse. And so, in buying my father’s freedom, I also secured my own.

  “Fifteen hundred,” he said at last.

  It represented two years’ salary— and many more years of saving and scrimping.

  For a split second, I hesitated. Do I really want to do this? It would be so easy to walk away. . . .

  But instead, I took a deep breath and paid it, receiving his note in return.

  Then we spoke of happier topics until his men arrived. Louie and Isador, the two henchmen I’d hired to assist me, appeared more than capable of providing the brute strength I feared I would need. Louie, a tall African man with chiseled muscles, had been a boxer before Nicky offered him more profitable employment. And Isador, Nicky’s distant cousin, was short, squat, and reputed to be handy with a knife.

  They were all ears when I explained what I needed from them.

  I met with my father afterward at The Emerald Isle— the same bar where I had first met with Molly Hansen, following Annie Germaine’s murder. After I explained how I needed his help, he regarded me with somber eyes.

  “I heard from Nicky this afternoon. He sent a personal message saying I’m square with him. How can that be?”

  “I took care of it,” I said, my voice even.

  “You paid him off?”

  I nodded.

  “You don’t have that kind of money,” he said darkly. “I owed him over a thousand. Exactly what kind of deal did you make?”

  I smiled at the irony of it. My father had made every kind of deal over the years with far worse than the likes of Nicky Scarpetta. And yet he was incensed to think I might have done the same.

  “I do have that kind of money, actually. I’ve saved up over the years.” I shrugged. “You forget, I once had other goals and plans. . . .”

  His mouth opened the moment it dawned on him. “It was because you meant to marry the girl, wasn’t it? Now I see.” He set his mouth firmly. “You shouldn’t have done that, Simon. Not for me. I’m not long for this world, and there will be other women—”

  “I did it for me,” I said sharply. “I needed Nicky’s help— or at least that of his henchmen. So do me a favor. If you’ve got to keep playing cards, do it somewhere else. Not at Nicky’s. Not anymore.”

  I found it strange that he had any concerns on this matter. But the money no longer represented my future with Hannah; in fact, it never had. What it represented was security: specifically, the kind I’d never had growing up.

  I’d been harsher than I’d intended. But now that I’d satisfied any obligation I had to Nicky, I didn’t want further trouble from my father. I left him, still nursing his pint of Guinness, with a simple reminder.

  “The Lyceum Theater. Romeo and Juliet. I’ll need you in position with Molly right after the show ends.”

  CHAPTER 32

  The Lyceum Theater, 149 West Forty-fifth Street

  The curtain fell to rapt applause— with a standing ovation for Helen Bell’s performance as Juliet.

  I waited for some twenty minutes, my nerves on end, before I emerged from the crossover behind the set. The theater had emptied.

  I lit a match— held it high— then blew it out.

  Looking up at the catwalk, I saw Louie’s answering signal that he was in position and all was quiet.

  I checked on Isador in person. When I called out to him, he emerged from his hiding area behind the curtain.

  “Everything’s fine?”

  “Good here, boss.”

  I gave him a quick nod. “Keep watch. I’ll be back.”

  Turning the corner toward Helen Bell’s dressing room backstage, I paused. I had the distinct sense that I was being watched. But no one was in sight.

  I was on edge, that was all.

  My father answered my knock, opening the door to Miss Bell’s room. “Just the man I wanted to see,” he said, beaming. “Come in.”

  I entered the room, careful to avoid several bouquets of flowers that obstructed the entry. To night, the tiny space over-flowed with flowers and cards sent by well-wishers.

  Miss Bell sat at her dressing table, biting her lip.

  “See here, I told you my son would come to make things all right.”

  My father smiled. Miss Bell
didn’t.

  “I’m Detective Simon Ziele,” I said, pulling a chair close to her. “My father has already explained to you that you’re in danger tonight. But you’ve no reason to be afraid. I’ve asked him to take you to a safe place.”

  “Do you really believe Charlie means to kill me?” Her voice betrayed her fear.

  Charlie—the false name he’d given her.

  “I do, Miss Bell.” Then I forced myself to sound confident. “But don’t worry, we’re going to stop him. Another actress is going to take your place. She will risk any danger by acting as your decoy.” I turned to my father. “Is Molly ready?”

  “Just next door,” he said. “I’ll get her.”

  I had asked my father— a master of disguise— to help Molly become a believable substitute for Miss Bell. But I wasn’t prepared for the sight of her when she walked through the door— for Molly Hansen had been transformed into Helen Bell’s identical twin. Her curls were gone, replaced by a wig that replicated Helen’s straight brown locks. Her freckles-and-cream coloring, likewise, had been camouflaged by grease-paint to reproduce Helen’s darker olive tones. She already had the same build as Helen’s, and now she wore identical clothes. In short, she made a mirror image of the woman she intended to replace this night.

  Helen’s face turned a ghastly pale. “Is this necessary?” she whispered.

  “I’m afraid it is,” I replied.

  “It’s just a bit of greasepaint and a good wig,” my father said with plenty of bravado.

  “But Charlie will notice she’s not me.” Helen bit her lip.

  “Hopefully not until it’s too late,” I said, adding wryly, “My father has always said that’s the art of the con: people see only what they expect to see.”

  I exchanged glances with my father. It was time.

  “Let’s get you home, Miss Bell,” he said.

  “Can I take my things?” she asked, casting a lingering glance toward the flower bouquets that lined the room.

  “Tomorrow,” I said. “They’ll be here, waiting. But we don’t want to draw extra attention to you tonight.”

  After she had left, I looked down and read the note that was still on her dressing table: “Late dinner after the show? Let’s celebrate.— Charlie”

  The note had come, just as we had expected. I resisted the urge to take it into evidence. Everything needed to appear normal to Jack if we were to foil his plans.

  “You’re all set?” I asked Molly.

  “Absolutely.” And with a toss of her head, she took the dressing-room chair Helen had just vacated. “And you’d best get into position. You wouldn’t want him to see you here,” she warned.

  If she was nervous, she didn’t show it. Maybe it was because of her many years of training as an actress. Still, it was brave of her to assume this role tonight— as I knew she’d done for the sake of my father. She must have loved him even more than I’d suspected. Still, I felt a pang of guilt: was it fair of me to put her in harm’s way?

  A flicker of doubt crossed her expression. “Are you sure he’s going to come tonight?”

  I tried to give her a reassuring smile. “As certain as I can be. We’ve looked to his past crime-scene behavior and found nothing but a consistent pattern.”

  “But how do you know it will be Helen Bell?”

  “Because once we realized Romeo and Juliet was the targeted performance, we interviewed all the women cast in the play. Only Helen has been courted by a very charming suitor who has bombarded her with love poems, flowers, and dinners.”

  I wished her luck, then returned to the main stage. Everyone else had now left.

  I emerged onstage intending to hide myself on the left side of the auditorium. But the moment I was there, I retreated into the shadows of the curtains.

  Something was different.

  Center front stage, I saw a blue envelope and a sapphire-blue satin sash. It swirled around a letter as if it were a serpent poised to strike.

  My heart raced.

  He was early.

  In the theater somewhere— but where? I looked around, saw no movement. Had he seen me— or any of the others?

  I glanced up, searching for Louie on the catwalk where he had been positioned. All was dark, quiet. Was he still there? I didn’t dare light a match and risk betraying my whereabouts to Jack.

  I checked my watch. Still nearly twenty minutes before Alistair planned to bring Mulvaney. If Jack was here already, then our timing had been wrong. They would be too late, and I’d have to hope that Mulvaney would accept the word of multiple witnesses to Jack’s actions.

  I moved to the left, making my way toward the curtained space where Isador was keeping watch. I had to warn him that Jack was here— assuming he didn’t already know.

  I stayed close to the black curtains, coming closer and closer to the backstage-door area.

  Not a sound around me anywhere. Only my own accelerated breathing.

  But something wasn’t right.

  “Isador,” I whispered— first softly, then again more loudly.

  “Izzy.” My voice was urgent now. “Are you still there?”

  I pulled back the curtain that obscured Isador’s station. He was not there, I thought. I stepped to the left and nearly fell over an obstruction on the floor.

  A leg.

  Isador.

  This hulking brute of a man was sprawled out on the floor, incapacitated.

  I shook him.

  No response.

  I felt his neck.

  No pulse.

  Was he truly dead? I had no time to find out.

  Now panicked, I automatically retraced my steps toward Helen’s dressing room, around to the side and back through the crossover. I remembered Alistair’s words: “Jack is enjoying every aspect of his handiwork. And a man who enjoys something this much will not stop— at least, not of his own accord.”

  He was here, and somehow he’d managed to incapacitate Isador both quickly and noiselessly. He had bested our toughest henchman, a veteran of far more dangerous fights than this should have been.

  But how? Without a sound or scuffle—and when Isador had at least a two-hundred-pound advantage over Jack. It made no sense.

  We’d underestimated him. If he succeeded, all would be lost.

  The moment I touched the doorknob to Helen’s dressing room, I heard a scuttling noise inside.

  Molly!

  I reached for my Smith & Wesson with my stronger, left hand while I used my right to push the door open.

  Beyond the bouquets of flowers, I saw him sitting in the chair.

  Not Jack Bogarty, but my father— arms and legs tied with rope, a red bandanna as a gag.

  He was alone.

  “Here.” I rushed to untie him, placing my gun on the floor.

  He thrashed wildly, grunting, eyes wide with alarm.

  Confused, I paused for a moment too long.

  The blow to my head came without warning.

  I recoiled, for the pain was intense— and I had barely enough presence of mind to look around for my assailant.

  Where is Jack?

  The pain seared through my head, and I dropped to my knees from the dizziness.

  Mulvaney will never make it in time. We’ve failed, and now our own lives are in jeopardy.

  Another blow came from nowhere.

  Reeling from more pain than I’d thought possible, I collapsed to the floor as the room spun wildly.

  I forced my eyes to stay open. I saw the ceiling and a bouquet of red roses above me as I fought the blackness that threatened to envelop me.

  Then I saw a face, one with determined eyes and a resolute expression.

  She had come to help— or so I thought.

  I didn’t realize the danger until it was too late, and I saw the rope . . . followed by the bloodstained blade of a knife as both inched toward my neck.

  A cruel laugh burst forth from the face in front of me— an image that spun around in dizzying circles. Was it my i
magination?

  For it was a person I’d not expected to see— no, not in this way.

  Never like this.

  I wanted to understand, but I couldn’t make sense of it. I knew only that I had been wrong about her— else she wouldn’t be grabbing my arms, binding them together.

  I could think of no reason why she would help Jack Bogarty— and certainly no reason for her to betray us as cruelly as she had.

  I closed my eyes as all conscious thought disappeared.

  And all pain.

  Only the image of Molly Hansen wielding a knife continued to linger, until the final moment when all went dark.

  CHAPTER 33

  The Lyceum Theater, 149 West Forty-fifth Street

  I woke in a state of sheer panic. It was pitch black. I couldn’t move— and I couldn’t get enough air.

  Intense claustrophobia took hold. And pain, for my head throbbed and my right arm was in agony.

  I closed my eyes again, willing myself to breathe slowly and focus. There would be sufficient air, if only I relaxed.

  The air around me was dank and close, stinking of paint.

  Without opening my eyes again, I took stock of my position.

  Hands? Immobile, wedged behind me, tied with rope.

  Legs? There was a heavy, stiff pressure on top of them. But I wriggled them— first left, then right— ascertaining that they were not tied together. Still, I couldn’t move them.

  What else did I smell— besides paint? Freshly sawed wood. And the unmistakable musty smell of a damp place.

  I was still in the theater . . . in the only space where there would be paint . . . and wood . . . and water sometimes seeping in. The basement . . . where theatrical sets were designed and painted.

  I tried to gain a perspective on the room. The lighting was dim, but once my eyes adjusted, I could tell that I was wedged under what appeared to be stacks of lumber. A heavy pile weighed down my legs. And another mound almost blocked my face, with some boards jutting out mere inches from my nose.

  I summoned every ounce of strength in my legs to push. I had to get myself out of this predicament. But what ever weighed them down was far too heavy.