by Susan Fleet
Signs of life on the kitchen counter: a box of saltines, a jar of Winn-Dixie peanut butter, a table knife and a cracker spread with peanut butter.
Someone had left in a hurry.
A cockroach skittered out from under a bag of Doritos and disappeared behind a squat can of baked beans. He opened the cabinet door below the sink, closed it fast when he saw roaches scatter inside.
He stepped back into the hallway. Still no sounds, just an eerie quiet.
Sweat dampened his forehead. Off to his right, the door at the far end of the hall was shut. No telling what was behind it. Alert for the slightest sound, he edged down the hall, arms extended, hand clenched around the SIG. Five feet from the door he flattened himself against the wall.
The wooden door had been painted lavender. Like the door to the child’s room, the paint was flaking and streaked with dirt. A rush of adrenaline jumped his heart rate. Was someone in there?
Slugs would penetrate the wooden door like butter.
Ready to drop to the floor if a barrage of bullets came through the door, he rapped on it. Got no response. He held his breath and listened.
No telltale sounds. No footsteps.
He waited a full minute, crouched, flung open the door and burst inside.
The room was empty. Through a tattered window-blind, rays of sunlight dappled a thin mattress on the floor. On the mattress were a tangled sheet and a flattened pillow inside a dingy pillowcase. On the floor beside the mattress, a nine-inch aluminum pie plate held a stubby red candle. A sea of melted wax at the base of the candle gave off an odor of cinnamon.
Wire hangers hooked over the top of the window molding held an oversized T-shirt and a pair of denim cutoffs. He went over and touched them. They were damp, freshly washed. By Chantelle? If so, they were her only spare clothes. Nothing but empty hangers in the closet.
He holstered his SIG, powered on his camera and photographed the room, making sure each shot overlapped the previous one. Room by room, he went through the apartment, methodically snapping shots from all angles to document what he’d seen.
During his last visit AK had denied knowing Chantelle, but that was bullshit. Was AK one of the Lakeview robbers? Judging from the gold front tooth and the bling on his wrists, AK made big bucks dealing dope and pills. Why rob a dinky little convenience store? He hated to think Chantelle was involved, but she had been in Lakeview that night.
Eight days ago she’d run away from Mama LeBlanc’s. No one had seen her since. No one he knew about, anyway. No one who would admit to it.
Certain that Chantelle had been there, he left the apartment and went downstairs, his gut churning with acid even worse than before. Something or someone had interrupted Chantelle’s peanut-butter-saltine snack.
On the way back to his car he saw no signs of life, no thugs, no mothers with children, not even a stray cat. He got in the car and cranked the engine and his cell phone rang. It was Kenyon Miller.
“Frank, they just found your girl’s body behind some bushes over near Bayou St. John.”
His gut cramped and bile spurted into his throat, sharp and acidic. He took a deep breath. Swallowed hard.
“Chantelle? You’re sure?”
“Yes, unfortunately. We ID’d her from the mug shot.”
“Be right there.”
He tossed the cell on the passenger seat and slammed his palms on the wheel, recalling the fear in Chantelle’s eyes when he left her at Mama’s, the fear and the sadness and her whispered Thank-you.
The memory tore at his heart. Taking her to Mama’s had been a big mistake. If he’d put her in the lockup, she’d still be alive.
______
The man who called himself Barry Silverman entered his apartment, hung his dry-cleaning in the hall closet and glanced at the small wire-mesh cage wedged under the breakfast bar.
“Hello, Oz, you sweet thing. Happy to see me?” Inside the cage Oz hopped up and down, delirious with joy. A dwarf bunny no bigger than a three-month-old kitten, Oz had silky white fur, floppy ears and sky-blue eyes.
He dropped his keys on the breakfast bar. The yellow Formica was edged with cigarette burns from the previous tenant. The sight offended him. Everything about this shitty little apartment offended him.
But he wouldn’t be here much longer. Soon he’d be working for Belinda.
He opened the cage door and his adorable bunny hopped onto the carpet. Rabbits made excellent pets. They were quiet and did as they were told. He hated dogs, always barking and asking to be walked. Cats were worse. They’d as soon scratch you as look at you.
Sinking onto the futon, he scooped Oz onto his lap and petted him, relishing the feel of the soft fur. “It’s going to work out, Oz,” he crooned. “Belinda wants me to protect her.”
Needles of doubt crept into his mind. Why hadn’t she called to hire him? He’d faxed his credentials twelve hours ago. With a glow of pride, he pictured her snatching pages from her fax machine, studying his fabulous two-page CV, the recommendation letters, and the eye-catching cover sheet he’d created with SILVERMAN SECURITY at the top.
His beloved was sure to be impressed.
He set Oz down, went in the kitchen and opened the half-sized refrigerator. Oz hopped after him but stopped at the doorway. When he adopted Oz at the shelter, he’d been amazed to learn that rabbits, unlike cats, had no pads on the bottom of their feet, just fur. His precious bunny had no traction to negotiate the slippery linoleum.
He tossed sprigs of cilantro onto the dingy brown carpet, and Oz set upon them with enthusiasm. He opened the door to the cabinet under the sink, took out a bag of dry food and filled the food container in Oz’s cage. Removed the water dish and dumped it in the sink. Refilled it with fresh water and put it in the cage.
“See how well I treat you, Oz? And I’ll take even better care of Belinda.”
The needles of doubt returned. Why hadn’t she called? So what if his credentials were bogus? His military training qualified him for the job. No thanks to Sergeant Asshole.
“Sergeant Asshole said I was uncoordinated, Oz, just because I fell once on the obstacle course. What did he know? Could he play piano well enough to accompany a violinist like I could? Fuck, no! You need good hand-eye coordination for that, and mine’s damn near perfect. When I got the top score in marksmanship, Sergeant Asshole had to eat crow. And so did Pa.”
The macho-man who had adopted him when he was four months old.
His lip curled with distaste. As a teenager, he used to fantasize that his real father was a renowned piano soloist, like Vladimir Ashkenazi or Daniel Barenbohm. Someone with talent, intelligence and flair.
He stroked Oz’s silky fur. “Pa didn’t appreciate me, either. People don’t realize how much smarts you need to play piano. First you have to learn the piece. Then you have to blend with the violin. That was the hardest part, Oz. Blending with my sister, keeping up when she rushed a passage. I had to accommodate her. I always had to make her look good.”
His cheeks burned at the memory.
“I hate that bitch, Oz. Sometimes you do things for people and they don’t appreciate it. But you do, Oz, and Belinda will, too.”
He arched his back and yawned. The past twenty-four hours had been arduous, but the crucial work was done. Something deep inside Belinda, some secret yearning, had made her realize how much she needed him. His ingenious plan was about to bear fruit.
He shooed Oz into his cage. “Be good while I take a nap, Oz. I have to work tonight.” Six fucking hours of saying Yes-sir and No-sir to snotty businessmen, humping their luggage into hotels. He was sick of working for people who didn’t appreciate him. He’d done that all his life for Ma and Pa and his bitch sister, always doing for them, having no time for himself. And not a word of thanks from any of them.
Pain stabbed his temples, the pulsing white-light of a migraine. If he weren't so desperate for money he’d call in sick. But an ominous notice had appeared on his last American Express bill: This account has be
en given to a collection agency. Those bastards were merciless, harassing him day and night, waking him out of a sound sleep.
But soon he’d be working for Belinda. Alone with her every day. Bliss.
He took a bottle of extra-strength Excedrin off the upended milk crate that served as his coffee table and dry-swallowed two capsules.
Please call soon, Belinda. He checked to make sure his Belinda-phone was on. He didn’t want to miss her call. With loving care, he placed it on the milk crate, stretched out on the futon and shut his eyes.
Useless. Every muscle in his body was taut as a bowstring.
What if she didn’t call? What if she rejected him the way she had years ago? Excruciating white-light pain seared his temples. How could she keep him in suspense like this? He rose from the futon, went to his stereo and put on one of her CDs, The Romantic Flute.
The sensuous sound of her flute filled the room, dragging him into a deep chasm of desire. A shiver wracked him. Her next CD was due out at Christmas. Music for Lovers Only. He could hardly wait.
Her brochure lay atop the file cabinet beside the stereo. Belinda, gazing at him, smiling seductively. He unzipped his fly and began to stroke himself.
______
Frank parked behind the line of vehicles strung out along the road. The black crime-scene van, blue-and-white squad cars and assorted crime-scene tech vehicles lined up bumper to bumper. The coroner investigator’s van was still here which meant they hadn’t removed the body.
Acid churned his gut like a cement mixer. In Boston the street-maggots used to call him a badass motherfucker. Right now that’s what he was: A badass motherfucker driven by rage. And ready to kick ass.
He stalked along an embankment beside the murky waters of the bayou. Forty yards ahead of him, uniformed police and plainclothes detectives clustered near a clump of juniper bushes strung with yellow crime-scene tape. Kenyon Miller saw him, broke off a conversation with two detectives and hurried over, a dark-skinned, six-foot-six 240-pound powerhouse with a shaven head and a soul patch under his lower lip.
“They capped her twice in the chest, once in the face,” Miller said, his expression a study in outrage. “Dumped her like a piece of garbage. Damn shame, a girl that young,”
Frank said nothing, steeling himself, knowing what he was about to see would sicken him. During his twenty-plus years as a cop he’d seen many murder victims and had mourned them all. No one deserved to be murdered. But like most cops, he had a much harder time with young victims.
He ducked under the crime scene tape and followed Miller around a cluster of stunted juniper bushes. Saw Chantelle, flat on her back, naked from the waist down, legs splayed. Her white T-shirt was stained brown with dried blood. Her eyes were open and staring, dimmed by the opaque film that settles over the eyes of the dead.
He bent down and examined her face, recalling how she’d looked in the interview room when she talked about singing, the one time she seemed happy. Now an entry wound disfigured one cheek, an ugly hole rimmed with powder burns. The exit wound on the other cheek was worse.
Sickened by the atrocity, he straightened. Fought down the bile that rose in his throat. “Somebody sending a message.”
Miller nodded. “You find anything at the apartment?”
“She’d been there, looked like she left in a hurry, peanut butter and crackers on the counter.”
Over Miller’s shoulder, he saw Detective Sergeant Morgan Vobitch heading their way. A twenty-year NOPD veteran in his mid-fifties, Vobitch supervised the homicide detectives assigned to Districts One, Three and Eight. The day they met Vobitch had said they were birds of a feather—Yankee outsiders—Frank an Italian from Boston, Vobitch a New York Jew, with a big nose to match his pugnacious attitude. Other than his full head of wavy slate-gray hair, he resembled Sipowitz on NYPD Blue, and he had the same take-no-shit attitude.
Frank loved the guy.
Vobitch rolled up to them like a Sherman tank, his slate-gray eyes full of anger. “She was your girl, right, Frank? Damn shame. These fuckin maggots have no respect for life. None at all.”
Frank clenched his jaw. “And I’m gonna nail them. I’m pretty sure she was squatting in Iberville.”
Vobitch said to Miller, “You think AK was involved? He runs that place, right?”
“Last time I checked,” Miller said. “Frank talked to him last week.”
Vobitch swung his leonine head to Frank. “And?”
“I showed her picture to AK and two of his thugs. None of them knew her, of course.”
“Of course.” Vobitch’s lip curled in a sneer. “Nobody’ll know anything about this either, you ask around. You think she was in on the robbery? The clerk said the second kid was tall and skinny.” He gestured at Chantelle’s body. “She’s about five-eight, skinny, hair cropped short. Maybe the clerk mistook her for a guy.”
Frank shook his head. “No dreads.”
Vobitch snapped his fingers. “Right. The second kid had dreads. You want in on the autopsy?”
The idea of watching the coroner dissect Chantelle’s body sickened him.
The badass motherfucker inside him rose up like a cobra.
“No. I want to catch the sick fucks that killed her and bust their balls with a hammer.”
CHAPTER 12
Wednesday, 25 October
Jake hurriedly loaded the dishes into the dishwasher and hit Start. It was later than usual. After dinner they’d lingered over Dean’s latest concoction, chocolate torte with Grand Marnier sauce. Dean knew how much he loved chocolate, knew he could seduce him with it.
When he went in the living room, the sweet scent of pot filled the air. Slouched on the sofa, Dean gave him a dreamy smile and held out a fat blunt.
“Let’s get buzzed, Jake. I had a helluva day. Traffic was insane, big accident on the I-10.”
He took a hit and held the smoke in his lungs, waiting for the lazy feeling of lassitude to soothe him. He didn’t do pot every day like Dean, but tonight he needed it. “Long day for me, too, what with the Cincinnati concert and the new security man. He’s a pain in the ass. When I called, he insisted on coming right over so he could check the security system. He made me take him through the whole house and get him a key.”
“To Belinda’s house?” Dean gazed at him, wide-eyed. “Why?”
“In case the alarm goes off while we’re away. The cops get pissed if no one’s around to take care of it.”
Dean’s mouth quirked in disdain. “How’s the Queen Bee doing?”
“She’s fine. I still can’t believe she called Renzi instead of me.”
“Jealous, Jake?” Dean gazed at him, his eyes liquid-chocolate. “Renzi’s Italian. Dark, dangerous and sexy. Maybe she’ll fall for him.”
“Who cares? I’m just glad she hired some security. If I bring up the accident or those awful notes, she won’t discuss it. Bad luck, she says. She’s so superstitious it’s pathetic. I spent an hour on the phone today because some idiot at the hotel in Cincinnati gave her Room 813. When I booked it I told him not to give her a room with thirteen in it.”
Dean took another hit, set the blunt in an ashtray and put his feet on the coffee table.
He stroked Dean’s thigh. “I won’t be gone long. We fly out Thursday, rehearse that night, play the concert on Friday. We’ll be back on Saturday.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m taking a few days off to fly to New York.”
His heart quivered, a nervous tremolo. “To see your folks?”
And thought: No, stupid. They live in Massachusetts.
Dean mocked him with a smile. “Jake gets an F in geography. I’ve got an appointment at Pratt Institute. An advisor wants to show me around and tell me about their graduate degrees.”
“Pratt?” he said stupidly. The pot had slowed his mind to a crawl.
“Yes, Pratt.” Dean’s voice crackled with anger. “You’re the one that keeps saying I should go to art school.”
“But Pratt’s in Ne
w York City.” Loathing the distress in his voice.
“Yes it is, Jake. In New York City. There are lots of organist jobs there, too. You used to have one, remember? Before you turned into Belinda’s step-n-fetch-it. I’m sick of having my life revolve around Belinda.”
Acid flooded his stomach. “Dean, please don’t do this to me.”
“I’m not doing anything to you. You think Belinda can’t live without you. Bullshit. Let the security guy can be her gopher. You deserve to be happy. We deserve to be happy together.”
“And I want us to be, but I can’t just—”
“Yes, you can. Check the job postings on the American Guild of Organists website.”
He stared at the floor, recalling the fabulous cultural offerings in New York. The Philharmonic, the Met opera, organ recitals at Riverside Church, art exhibits at MOMA. He and Dean could enjoy them together without worrying that some homophobic nutcase would see them and gossip about it. In New York they could be just another gay couple, unlike New Orleans.
Guilt crept into his thoughts like a London fog. What would Belinda do without him? He wasn't just her manager. She depended on him for emotional support. She also liked having a handsome, well-dressed man squire her around, a well-educated man who loved music. No strings attached. And what did she do for him? He couldn’t confide in her, couldn’t explain that Dean was six years younger than he was. Handsome and smart. Witty and fun. A joy to be with. He couldn’t tell her his deepest fear: Dean might fall in love with another man.
He glanced at Dean, sitting beside him, eyes closed, head tipped back. The person he loved more than anyone in the world.
“You’re right, Dean. I’ll check the AGO website tomorrow.”
_____
Thursday, 26 October
He studied his beloved in the rearview, seated in the back seat of his Ford E-350XL van. He had invited her to sit in front with him, but she had refused. Disappointing, but given her recent troubles, he supposed it was natural that she’d be standoffish at first. That would soon change. Soon they’d be sleeping together in her cozy double bed.
