DIVA

by Susan Fleet

  He preferred dark-haired women, sexy women with a sense of humor. Like Jane Russell. He loved the way she bantered with Robert Mitchum in the movies they’d made back in the fifties, Mitchum gazing at women with his hooded eyes, faintly disinterested, which, of course, drove women wild. He’d tried that heavy-lidded gaze on a girl once and got back a baffled look. Even now, twenty-five years later, the memory embarrassed him.

  He was no Robert Mitchum and Belinda was no Jane Russell.

  Like many top-notch musicians, Belinda exhibited certain narcissistic traits. Self-centered, seductive and ambitious as hell. Her rationale for hiding the abortion was understandable. But when he asked if she had other secrets, he’d seen a flash of fear in her eyes. Her terse denial didn’t fool him. She didn’t want people to know she’d had an abortion, didn’t want them knowing her other secrets, either.

  He could relate to that. He had secrets, too.

  What else was she hiding? He now believed Ziegler’s tale about the creepy notes was true. The messages and requests to meet sounded like a stalker. But most stalkers wanted the object of their obsession to fall in love with them. This one was trying to frighten her. Did someone have a grudge against her? A spurned lover? A disgruntled fan? Had some nutcase seen the sexy photos on her website and become obsessed with her?

  He hoped not. Celebrity stalkers were fanatical.

  If thwarted, some of them could be deadly.

  CHAPTER 10

  Monday, 23 October

  Slouched in his chair in the back row of Advanced Jazz Harmony class, Antoine tried to concentrate, penciling chord changes on a sheet of staff paper as Ella Fitzgerald scatted on “Lullaby of Birdland.” He knew the changes by heart, had heard it on Ella’s CD a zillion times, playing along on his saxophone.

  He loved Ella but listening to her reminded him of Chantelle.

  A terrible ache gripped his stomach. He loved Chantelle with all his heart, but she could be outrageously stubborn, took no guff from anybody, himself included. That’s one reason he loved her. She didn’t do that simper-smile act like most girls. Chantelle spoke her mind. Not only that, she was beautiful, had that sexy smile, those luscious lips . . .

  He caught Mr. Dawson watching him, penciled in a chord change, E-flat seven to A-flat, and stared out the window, hearing a train whistle in the distance, trains chugging by at inconvenient times, clashing with the music as they rumbled past NOCCA.

  After AK threatened them, he’d put Chantelle in his car and drove away. Should have taken her to his uncle’s, but Chantelle said no way was she leaving those groceries he’d brought her, said wait an hour, she’d sneak back to her apartment. He parked six blocks away and they smooched for an hour. She promised to call him, so he’d let her go.

  He wished he hadn’t.

  The music stopped. He scribbled the last three chord changes and put down his pencil. In the front row, Marcus Goines was waving his hand. Marcus always wanted to be first. First to answer, first to take a solo, first to get into a good music school. Marcus was a decent flute player, had a nice tone and all, but he couldn’t play jazz for shit. He just couldn’t swing, solos coming out stiff and tentative, like he was thinking on every note.

  Marcus also hated being wrong, arguing with Mr. D now, pointing to his worksheet, saying he’d heard the chord as an E-minor-seven with a flat-five. Antoine figured Marcus was uptight ‘cuz of his Baptist minister father, fire and brimstone to the max.

  Reverend Goines would shit a truckload of bricks if he knew Marcus was dealing pot. Dealing dope was stupid. Marcus probably did it to make money so’s he could impress girls. Marcus was homely and built like a dump truck, and girls loved when you spent money on them. He’d seen him at Iberville once, copping his supply from AK.

  Mr. D turned to check another student’s work, left Marcus looking angry, his lower lip stuck out in a pout. The boys in the ‘hood where the Goines family lived ragged on Marcus, said flute was a sissy instrument. Selling pot might give him street cred, but it wouldn’t turn him into a jazz player. To play jazz you had to act confident even if you weren’t, play every note like you loved it.

  Like Chantelle. She was a natural, had perfect time and a sultry low-pitched voice like Dinah Washington. Chantelle sang with feeling, put all her emotion into the music ‘cuz of the trouble she’d had in her life, her daddy running off, her moms a crackhead.

  He saw Mr. D head his way and composed his face into a cheery smile. Had to work at it.

  Chantelle had called him when she got back to her apartment like she’d promised, so he said he’d see her on Saturday. But Friday night when he called the cell phone she’d copped from that foster mom, he got no answer.

  Same thing Saturday. Same on Sunday. No answer.

  It was driving him crazy.

  A basketball-sized lump clogged his throat. Anything happened to Chantelle, he’d die of loneliness. After school he was going straight to Iberville and make sure Chantelle was safe.

  ______

  “I don’t want some stranger driving me around. I like driving.”

  She saw Jake’s dark bushy eyebrows bunch in a frown. His office made her feel like a caged animal. Unlike her sparsely furnished studio, it was crammed with equipment. Three gray-metal file cabinets along one wall, a computer station with yellow Post-its stuck to the monitor, two high-speed laser printers, a fax machine and a state-of-the-art copier.

  In the center of the room, Jake sat behind his massive mahogany desk. He rose from his chair and came over and hugged her. “Why didn’t you call me last night? You must have been terrified.”

  She kissed his cheek. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

  If I’m extra considerate, maybe you won’t abandon me.

  Jake plucked three Hershey’s Kisses from the glass dish on his desk, popped them in his mouth, chewed rapidly and swallowed.

  “Why did you call Renzi? Why didn’t you call me?”

  She turned and stared out the front window with unseeing eyes.

  Because Frank has taken a personal interest in me. That’s why she’d told him about the abortion. Frank cared about her. She had seen it in his eyes. Heard it in voice. You were hurting, Belinda. You needed someone to love you.

  Speaking the words she had never allowed herself to think, much less articulate to anyone. Frank was the first person she’d had a real conversation with in years. After talking to him last night, she had the feeling Frank understood her better than any man she’d ever met.

  “Renzi wants you to hire a security driver,” Jake said. “He gave me some names—”

  “No.” She turned away from the window. “I don’t want someone investigating those notes and the accident and the voicemail—”

  She caught herself in time. Jake knew nothing about the voicemail threat. Or the abortion.

  “Bee, it’s for your own safety. You need someone to protect you.”

  Protect you. A sense of impending doom descended upon her, the same feeling she’d had watching Suzanne Plechette in The Birds, sitting on a bench smoking a cigarette, oblivious to the swarm of blackbirds swooping down to perch on the trees behind her.

  Maybe she should get a driver. Maybe she’d hire that man she’d met in London. The instant he walked away she had dismissed him from her mind. But he was a security expert. And he loved classical music, especially hers. She didn’t have to reveal her secrets to him.

  She beamed a smile at Jake. “If we have to hire a security guard, let’s hire someone who loves music. At the reception in London I met a man who used to supervise security for a British businessman. He lives in New Orleans. Let me go find his card.”

  ______

  He wandered through Dillard’s lingerie department. Brassieres of every size and description dangled from the racks: underwire bras, sports bras, padded bras, white bras, black bras, flesh-toned bras. He loved the lingerie in upscale stores, not the cheap ones at K-Mart. He knew a quality bra when he saw one. He’d been handling them s
ince he was ten. He could still hear Ma bitching at him when he did her laundry.

  Don’t put my bras in the dryer. The heat ruins the elastic. That mind-fucking voice giving him orders, finding fault even if he did exactly what she said.

  He ran his fingers over a lacy black bra. For some reason, touching women’s underwear excited him.

  Across the aisle, a clerk picked up a bra someone had dropped on the floor and hung it on a rack. A young girl with strawberry-blonde hair, not as nice as Belinda’s, but long and wavy.

  The insistent urge in his crotch drew him toward her. No one could replace Belinda, but now and then, when thoughts of his beloved drove him mad with desire, he had taken a substitute.

  He walked over to her. “Your hair is beautiful,” he said.

  “Thank you.” She flashed a mechanical smile and stepped into the next aisle to straighten the packages of pantyhose on a display rack.

  He studied her, assessing her ability to resist: petite, not athletic looking, not a jogger for sure. Joggers tended to be strong and fit. He hated to fight with his dates. It was better when they complied without a struggle. Maybe he’d get her in his van after she finished work and take her for a spin.

  Careful not to startle her, he moved closer.

  “Your hair is really beautiful. Girls with short hair are so unattractive. I love long hair on a woman. It’s so feminine.”

  She looked up at him, eyes wary. “My boyfriend likes it too.”

  Anger spewed into his throat like molten lead. Why was she being so hostile? Rejecting him when he hadn’t even asked her out.

  He faked a smile. “I’m sure he does. I’m sure he likes everything about you.” Including your big tits and your ass. Burning with rage, he pretended to check the price on a pair of pantyhose, fantasizing about how Blondie’s hair would feel when he rubbed it against his cock.

  And then, a miracle. His Belinda-phone chimed the ring-tone he’d given it: the opening of Mozart’s Symphony No. 40.

  His heart surged. Finally! He’d been waiting all day for her call.

  “My girlfriend,” he said to the clerk. “I’d better take it. She gets cross if I don’t answer.” He turned away to answer the call.

  “Could I speak to Barry Silverman, please?”

  The dulcet tones of his beloved. His cock throbbed. But he didn’t want to talk to her in front of this bitchy clerk.

  “Speaking. Could you hold, please?”

  Belinda, bless her heart, said she could.

  He rushed to the nearest exit and stepped outside.

  “Sorry. I was in a situation that needed my undivided attention.”

  “This is Belinda Scully. We met in London last week and you gave me your card.”

  “Oh?” he said, feigning forgetfulness. “Oh, yes, now I remember. At the reception after your marvelous performance with the Royal Philharmonic. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m thinking about hiring a security person. Are you living in New Orleans now?”

  “I sure am, settled in and already working. What sort of security services did you require?”

  “Hold on. My assistant can explain.”

  A male voice came on the line. “Mr. Silverman? This is Jake Ziegler, Ms. Scully’s assistant.”

  He clenched his teeth. She’d fobbed him off onto her assistant. Her lover. He fake-smiled into the phone. “How can I help you?”

  “We need to assess our security arrangements. Ms. Scully might need a driver.”

  “That sounds reasonable.” Reasonable? It was fucking fantastic! “When do I start?”

  “I need to see some references first. Ms. Scully said you worked for a London businessman. Could you fax your credentials and a letter of recommendation to me?”

  “Of course. When I get back to my office I’ll fax you everything you need to know about Silverman Security.”

  His heart drummed a thunderous tympani roll. His dream was about to come true. Why settle for that bitchy clerk? Soon he’d have the real thing.

  Still, he couldn’t resist going back inside. The bitch saw him and scurried away, but she couldn’t escape him. No one could.

  With three long strides he caught up with her.

  “My girlfriend needs me so I’ve got to go. Pity. I wanted to get to know you. I love women.”

  I love sucking their tits and rubbing my cock in their hair until I come.

  He wrapped his powerful fingers around her wrist.

  She stared up at him, eyes fearful now that he was in control.

  He loved that. But why bother with this insignificant little bitch?

  Belinda wanted him. Belinda was a star, a ripe juicy peach ready to fall in love with her defender.

  CHAPTER 11

  Tuesday, 24 October

  At ten o’clock Frank stopped at a traffic light beside the Iberville project and took a swig of his take-out coffee. Chantelle Wilson had been missing for eight days. The knot in his gut tightened. Eight days and eight long nights.

  He’d posted her mug shot in every district station so the patrol officers could be on the lookout for her. Nothing so far. Using the same photo with the height chart edited out, he’d made a flyer—Have you seen this girl?—and put his cell phone number at the bottom. She looked indescribably sad, staring into the camera with angry eyes. He’d given flyers to three black ministers he’d befriended since coming to New Orleans and asked them to post them in their churches. On the off chance that she was panhandling, he’d posted a dozen more in the French Quarter. Other than a few crank calls from drunks and weirdoes, he’d heard nothing. No one had seen her.

  The light changed and he drove into Iberville. His first attempt to locate Chantelle had been fruitless, but this time he knew where to go. It had taken him a week to navigate the Housing Authority’s bureaucratic maze, locate the apartment Chantelle’s mother had rented prior to Katrina and get a search warrant. Any other case the judge wouldn’t have swallowed the bullshit he’d put on the application, but mounting outrage fueled by the incessant media drumbeat over the Lakeview incident had convinced the judge.

  Everyone was hot on that case, the NOPD top brass and local politicians fielding calls from angry residents. Not a word about the black kids shot earlier that day. Then again, he hadn’t paid much attention to the incident Jake Ziegler and Belinda Scully had reported that night either. Until someone ran Belinda off the road.

  He hoped she had the sense to hire some security.

  He parked in front of a red-brick building and dug his digital camera out of the glove box. A warrant search without a police photographer to document it was against protocol, but their only photographer was on another case, and the urgent signals from his gut told him not to wait.

  Slinging the camera strap over his shoulder, he got out and walked into Iberville. Halfway down a cement walk littered with mangled beer cans, candy wrappers and shards of glass, he arrived at Chantelle’s former abode. No sign of AK or his thugs, but the same creepy sensation on his neck he’d felt on his previous visit told him they were watching.

  Inside the building the usual foul odors assaulted him. He jogged up two flights of stairs, his feet thudding on the hollow metal steps. The stench wasn’t as bad on the third floor, but it didn’t smell like the Ritz either. Not a soul in sight. More creepy-crawlies on his neck.

  He walked down the hall to unit 314, eyed the security peephole and stepped to one side. If some thug with a gun was inside, he didn’t want to take a shot in the gut. He tapped on the door and waited.

  The building was eerily quiet, as silent as a cat stalking a mouse.

  He used the Housing Authority key to unlock the door, turned the knob and pushed. With an audible creak from its rusty hinges, the door swung open onto a living room. No one in sight. No garbage or litter on the shit-brown carpet. Below a grime-streaked window, a dilapidated couch without seat cushions faced the door. No tables, no chairs, no TV, no stereo, no nothing. All items of value had been removed.

/>   He stepped inside. The air was thick with humidity and the odor of spoiled food, the noxious stench Katrina had bestowed upon New Orleans.

  “Chantelle,” he said softly. “You in here?”

  The apartment remained deathly quiet. Too quiet.

  The hackles rose on his neck. He unholstered his SIG. Racked the slide. Felt his heart thud against his ribs. He and his partner had faced a similar situation up in Boston once, and all hell had broken loose.

  On the wall to his right a door was ajar. At some point the door had been painted sky-blue. Now the paint was peeling and streaked with dirt. Hyper-alert for sounds or movement, he edged to the door and pushed it open. A small room, ten-feet square, a child’s bedroom at some point, maybe. A tattered shade covered the lone window. No furniture, no trash.

  And no occupant.

  He heard a distant thud and froze. Someone was in the building.

  Moving silently, he returned to the entry door and stuck his head into the hall. Saw no one. Heard nothing.

  His heart was racing, juiced by adrenaline. And anxiety.

  Coming here alone might have been a mistake.

  He quietly closed the door and flipped the lock. Dust motes danced in the sunlight slanting through the filthy window behind the couch. He fought down an urge to sneeze. Four feet to his left, an archway opened onto a dark hall. Raising his SIG-Sauer, he eased into the hallway.

  Chunks of plaster had fallen from walls painted a sickly yellow, littering the wood floor. With silent stealth, he crept down the hall to an open door on the left. An empty bathroom smelling of lavender.

  The sink was dry, but a bar of soap sat in a cheap soap dish screwed to the wall above the sink. Beside a tub with serious rust stains, a raggedy blue bath towel hung from a chrome rack. No shower curtain on the tub. He checked the medicine cabinet above the sink.

  The only item was a small bottle of Walgreen’s acetaminophen. Whoever had stripped the apartment would have emptied the medicine cabinet. Someone was living here. He eased across the hall into the kitchen. Bits of food caked a filthy stove. No refrigerator. After Katrina the city had been infested with no-see-ums, minuscule bugs that flew out of the refrigerator the instant you opened it. Once out, you couldn’t get rid of them.