by Susan Fleet
Soon those pliant pink lips would be sucking his cock.
“When shall we sit down and discuss my security assessment?”
Her gaze met his in the rearview, eyes distant.
“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.”
“We should do it as soon as possible. How about tomorrow?”
A bicyclist zoomed out from a side street in front of him. He hit the brakes, gave the kid a nasty look and returned his attention to Belinda.
But she wasn’t looking at him, intent on her stupid paperwork.
“Ma’am?” He was dying to call her Belinda as he did each night in his dreams, but he didn’t want to appear too familiar. Plenty of time for that.
She met his gaze in the rearview. “What?”
“Can we discuss my security assessment tomorrow?”
“All right.” Her sapphire-blue eyes defrosted a bit. “That’s a nasty cut on your cheek.”
He smiled at her in the mirror. “Last night at the gym I went three rounds with the local heavyweight. We were wearing helmets, but he clipped me pretty hard.” A lie, but it sounded good. Yesterday, in his haste to make himself presentable, he’d cut himself shaving. But when he got to her house, Ziegler had showed him around, not Belinda. What a letdown.
“My British employer may not have mentioned it, but I had to rescue him once from a serious threat. A disturbed man tried to stab him. I put some muscle on the creep and ran him off. Damn near broke his arm.”
Now his beloved was gazing at him with rapt attention. “No one will hurt you when I’m around, Ms. Scully. I’ll keep you safe.”
“Thank you, Mr. Silverman. I appreciate it.”
He smiled. You can show me your appreciation in bed. Soon.
_____
He waited for her outside in the courtyard. Belinda had four flute students at NOCCA so he’d be driving her here once a week. Before her first lesson, she had taken him to the office. A clerk printed his name—Barry Silverman—on a Permanent Visitor Pass and inserted it into a plastic lanyard to wear around his neck. He shoved it into the pocket of his tailored black suit and sank onto a gray-marble bench shaded by a two-story building.
A warm breeze ruffled raspberry-red flowers in the planters lining the rectangular courtyard. Belinda was teaching in the yellow-brick building to his right. Letters on a sign above the glass double-doors said: NEW ORLEANS CENTER FOR THE CREATIVE ARTS: RIVERFRONT. The lessons lasted forty-five minutes. Maybe she’d let him sit in on one sometime. That would be fun.
Two black students pushed through the glass doors, joking and laughing. Both wore Nikes and hooded sweatshirts. The boy’s was red, the girl’s green. They saw him and quieted.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” He smiled, felt pleased when they smiled back.
Three more students emerged from the building, carrying violin cases, chattering away as they walked through the courtyard toward the parking lot. Moments later a stocky dark-skinned student burst through the doors and stomped down the steps. He looked angry: lower lip stuck out, brows knit in a frown as he marched along carrying a flute case. He didn’t look much like a flute player, not with that squat chunky body and those thick fingers, holding the flute case in one hand, a music folder in the other.
“Hi there,” he said. “I bet you’re a flute player.” Still scowling, the kid kept walking. “Seems like you’re upset. I hope you’re not mad at Belinda.”
The kid jerked to a halt. “Why would I be mad at Ms. Scully?”
He spread his hands in a disarming gesture. “I guessed right? She’s your teacher?” When the kid nodded, he said, “I’m her security guard. I’m a musician too, a pianist.”
The kid said nothing, dark eyes wary, shifting his body back and forth, rocking from one foot to the other.
“My name’s Barry, what’s yours?” He offered his hand.
The kid had manners at least, came and shook his hand. “Marcus Goines. Ms. Scully’s a great teacher. I been studying with her for two years.”
“She’s a marvelous flutist. I heard her play the Khachaturian in London last week.” He raised his thumb and forefinger to his lips and kissed them. “Magnifique!”
Marcus beamed and puffed out his chest. “Then you musta heard the encore, Gershwin’s I Got Rhythm. I’m the one suggested it to her.”
“That’s terrific, Marcus.” He patted the bench. “Tell me about it.”
After a furtive glance around the courtyard, Marcus plopped onto the bench. “Ms. Scully’s great for classical technique and tone, but jazz is a whole different ballgame.”
“I know. I’m a pianist, remember?”
“You play jazz?” Giving him a dubious look.
“Classical, but I love jazz.”
He tried to recall the names of some famous jazz pianists. Duke Ellington? No, he was dead and so was Count Basie. Finally, he managed to dredge up a name. “You dig McCoy Tyner?”
"Yeah, man, he’s great. He was here for Jazz Fest.”
“How come you were upset when you came outside?”
Marcus ducked his head and scuffed his sneaker over the cement.
“Did you know the girl that got murdered? I read about it in the newspaper.”
“No.” Staring at the ground as though he might bore a hole to China.
“Why would someone shoot a young girl like that?”
The kid looked at him, expressionless. “Lotta folks get murdered in this town. Her boyfriend’s a student here, just about sleepwalked through his classes today.”
“Goodness, why was he even in school? I should think he’d stay home and take time to grieve.”
“Can’t or he’d lose his scholarship. Besides, we had tryouts today to see who plays the solos on Friday’s recital.” Marcus jutted his lip. “Antoine won, like always. He’s Mr. D’s pet. He plays alto sax. That’s why he gets all the solos. I’m just a flute player, hardly get any. How’m I gonna get into music school if I don’t have a CD?”
Amazed, he said, “You need a CD to get into music school?”
“Sure. Everybody does one, like a portfolio, you know? They tape all the recitals here. If I take a solo with the jazz band, I can put it on my CD as part of my, uh, portfolio. I already taped a classical solo with piano. Ms. Scully helped me learn it.”
“Who accompanied you? I’ve worked with lots of top-notch soloists. If you ever need an accompanist, I’d be glad to help you.”
Marcus studied him for a long moment. “You would?”
“Sure. When I lived in Boston, I studied piano with a woman at NEC.” Seeing mystification in the kid’s eyes, he said, “New England Conservatory. It’s a famous music school.”
The kid gave a slow nod. “Cool.”
“You know, I’ve got some connections at NEC. They’ve got a great jazz department, Third Stream, they call it. If you apply there, well, I can’t promise, but I might even get you a scholarship.”
“That would be great, sir.” Giving him a happy-camper grin.
“No need to be formal, Marcus. We’re musicians. Call me Barry.”
“Okay, uh, Barry. Sorry, but I gotta go. I got an appointment.”
“Check out the NEC website, and we’ll talk again next week.”
He had no connections at NEC, but Marcus studied with Belinda.
Who knows, that might be useful someday.
______
With his alto sax case slung over his shoulder, Antoine stared out the glass door, his heart a stone in his chest. Some of his classmates stood at the foot of the stairs, gossiping about him and Chantelle, probably. He didn’t want to talk to them. If he had to talk to one more person today, he’d throw up. Bad enough going to class, kids asking how he was doing. How did they think he was doing, Chantelle lying on a slab somewhere, dead?
And he knew who killed her. AK. The bastard had killed the most important person in his life except for his parents. And it was his own damn fault. Never should have gone to Lakeview, never should have ag
reed to help AK rob that store. Since then everything had turned to shit.
Yesterday morning at breakfast he’d read the newspaper article: Chantelle Wilson, age 15, found dead near Bayou St. John. He was so shocked he didn’t even cry, waited until he left the house. He had to go to school ‘cuz Mr. D was auditioning soloists at today’s rehearsal. Mr. D had picked him to play the best one. But Chantelle wouldn’t hear it.
Tears blurred his vision. Her funeral was tomorrow. His teachers were understanding, telling him to take the day off. He didn’t want to. Going to music classes and playing his sax were the only things that took his mind off the most terrible thing that had happened in his whole life. Chantelle. Dead.
Through the glass door he saw Marcus talking to some white guy in a business suit. Maybe he was one of Marcus’ customers, though Antoine doubted it. Marcus didn’t deal drugs on the school grounds.
He turned and trudged down the corridor. Marcus was pissed Mr. D had picked him to play the most important solo. Only way he got though the audition was thinking about Chantelle. How much he loved her.
And now she was gone. Forever. Hate burned his gut and AK’s words burned his brain. Keep your mouth shut or you dead.
AK had killed Chantelle, might be fixing to kill him, too.
CHAPTER 13
Thursday, 26 October
Morgan Vobitch stormed into the conference room and dropped two thick binders on the table with a loud thump. Dead silence and grim faces replaced the chatter that had preceded his entrance. Eight homicide detectives from Districts One, Three and Eight sat around a rectangular oak table, its top marred by coffee-mug rings.
Frank studied his boss’s expression. Vobitch had just held a media briefing on the Lakeview case. This would be a tense meeting.
Vobitch eyeballed them, his slate-gray eyes cold and merciless. “As of now we assume the Lakeview case and the Wilson murder are connected. That is not for publication. Any leaks, heads will roll.”
Frank looked at Kenyon Miller to his right, then across the table at the lone woman in the room. Kelly O’Neil, mid-thirties, ten-years with NOPD. He’d heard sad stories about her personal life. Her short dark hair was styled in a Liza Minelli pixie-cut that framed her oval face. An attractive woman. He liked her direct gaze, regarding him now with her sea-green eyes.
Her District-3 colleagues sat beside her: Warren Wood, stroking the ginger-colored Fu Manchu of which he was so proud, and pasty-faced Chuck Duncan, sporting his usual sad-sack expression. Otis Jones and Sam Wallace occupied the far end of the table. The two black detectives handled more than their share of murders working out of District-1, which included the Iberville housing project and Treme, a predominantly black neighborhood.
“Let’s focus on the Wilson murder,” Vobitch said. “I’ll summarize the autopsy report.”
A ceiling fan twirled cool air through the room, but Frank’s shirt was damp with sweat. The past two nights he’d slept in fits and starts, visions of Chantelle Wilson’s disfigured face and vacant eyes jolting him awake.
“She took two slugs in the chest,” Vobitch said, reading from the autopsy report. “One went through her heart and lodged in her spine, coroner said she died within a minute. The second one lodged in a rib, different caliber slugs—a .38 and a .45—so we got two shooters. The coroner believes the gunshot wound to the face was post-mortem.”
“Sending a message,” Frank said. “Her face was a mess. That means a closed casket. Word gets around fast on these things.”
“A Hollywood makeup artist couldn’t fix it.” Warren massaged his Fu Manchu and grinned. “Not that her family could afford one.”
He clenched his jaw at the gratuitous remark, felt Miller’s foot nudge his under the table. Miller had no use for Warren, said he was borderline racist, useless in black neighborhoods. Miller also ridiculed Warren’s Fu Manchu, said it made him look even dumber than he was.
“I spoke to the Mom last night,” Miller said, flipping through his notes. “She’s in Houston. She was so zonked, I was lucky to pry the step-dad’s phone number out of her. He’s in Atlanta. I talked to him this morning. Langston Cano, works as a bus driver.”
“Any possibility he was one of the shooters?” Vobitch said.
“Not a chance,” Miller said. “I spoke to his supervisor at the bus company. Cano was working during the TOD window. He said he was sorry he didn’t take the girl with him to Atlanta during Katrina.”
“Why didn’t he?” Frank snapped. “He knew the mother’s a crackhead.”
Kelly O’Neil caught his eye and nodded. He was grateful for the support, but he knew blaming Cano would solve nothing. It wouldn’t bring Chantelle back to life.
Vobitch raked stubby fingers through his silvery hair. “We should cover the funeral. When is it?”
“Tomorrow,” Miller said. “Visitation at one, funeral Mass at two.”
“I’ll be there,” he said. It was SOP for detectives to attend the funerals of murder victims in case the killer showed up, but even if it wasn’t, he’d be there. Certain cases infused him with a rage so violent he wanted to punch his fist through a wall. The atrocities people inflicted on others disgusted him. Those inflicted on women were often worse, and Chantelle was barely a woman. Sixteen years old next month she’d told him, fourteen days ago.
Miller said, “I’ll go with Frank.”
“I’ll go,” Kelly said, gazing at Frank, her eyes tinged with sadness.
“We’ll be there,” said Otis Jones. The dark-skinned gray-bearded detective gestured at his young partner, Sam Wallace, a baby-faced man with smooth milk-chocolate skin.
Warren and Chuck remained silent, eyes fixed on the table.
“I’d go,” Vobitch said, “but contrary to the media hype, we got other homicides, more than a hundred so far this year, two months to go. And we know what happens during the holidays. Family members get riled up and decide to kill someone. Themselves or their beloved relatives.”
Chuckles rippled around the table. Dark humor about dark deeds.
“The Wilson girl had a tattoo on her left breast,” Vobitch said. “A red heart with two initials. The bullet obliterated the right one. The left one was singed but legible, coroner said it’s an ‘A.’”
“Might be initials,” Frank said. “Her boyfriend, maybe.”
“Sounds deliberate,” said Sam Wallace, disgust visible on his face. “First slug knocks her down, they pull up her shirt to hit the tat.” He shrugged. “Maybe that’s farfetched, but—”
“No.” Frank leaned forward over the table to lock eyes with him. “I think they knew her, probably knew the boyfriend, too.”
Otis nodded. “Maggots sending a message to the boyfriend.”
Reading from the report, Vobitch said, “The coroner found evidence of sexual activity. Her hymen was not intact so she wasn’t a virgin. But he found no semen, no bruising on her vagina or labia. He combed the pubic hair. We’ll see what we get from that.”
“Maybe the initials were her pimp’s.” Warren sent a sardonic smile around the table. “Teenage girls these days? Lot of them are hookers.”
“Hey,” Kelly snapped, “women like sex too. It doesn’t mean we’re all out selling it. What if it was your daughter?”
Warren fingered his Fu Manchu. “My daughter’s not a hooker.”
Anger flashed in Kelly’s eyes. “You better hope some drunk never beats her up, rapes her and tells you it was consensual and she loved it.”
Warren flushed beet-red, and a pall of silence fell over the room. Kelly leaned back in her chair, lips set in a line, a jaw muscle working. Frank was touched that she’d stood up for Chantelle. He’d heard she was the go-to female cop for interviewing rape victims. Before joining Homicide after Katrina, she had worked Domestic Violence.
Vobitch broke the silence. “Frank, did she mention a boyfriend when you interviewed her?”
“No. She didn’t even want to tell me her name.” He scratched the scar on his jaw, recal
ling her wistful expression when she asked if he knew a tune called Nowhere. His throat tightened.
That’s where Chantelle had wound up. Nowhere.
Vobitch fixed him with a stern gaze. “When you left her apartment, did you take the peanut butter and crackers with you?”
Laughter rippled through the room, all eyes on Frank now. Knowing Vobitch was trying to lighten things up, he said, “Just copping my daily fluffernutter.” When the guffaws died down, he said, “I locked up when I left. If the crackers were gone when Forensics got there, somebody’s got a key.”
“Seems like it,” Vobitch said. “Forensics got a ton of prints but they have to eliminate the occupants and any known visitors. No telling who’s been in there since Katrina.”
“How about AK?” Miller asked. “We must have his prints on file. AK’s been in trouble since the Civil War.”
Raucous laughter erupted. Sometimes dark humor was the only way to endure crimes this sickening.
“How’s Robichard?” Frank said. Robichard was the off-duty policeman shot during the robbery. “I hear he’s out of intensive care.”
“You heard right,” Vobitch said, and cheers went up around the table. “Jim Whitworth’s at the hospital now, trying to get more details. Chuck, what’d you get on the getaway car?”
Chuck pulled a long face. “Not much. I checked the stolen car reports, pulled up six late-model black Cadillacs. But a lotta Caddy’s got flooded in Katrina, no telling who’s driving them now. I’m checking the chop-shops, got two more to go. I’m not hopeful.”
“Keep looking,” Vobitch said. “Anybody got anything else?”
When no one spoke, he said, “Okay, let’s work the Wilson case hard. Solve that one we might break the Lakeview case. It’s been two weeks since that sucker and I need something to feed the media vultures.”
As Vobitch left the room Miller leaned over and said, “Pick me up tomorrow, we go to the funeral together, okay?”
