by Susan Fleet
Then why did you threaten to leave me?
She gave him one of her high-wattage smiles. “Mr. Silverman’s a bit awkward, but he’s harmless. He’s driving me to the NOCCA concert tonight. Go on home and have a nice dinner with Dean.”
Jake gazed at her silently for several seconds, and left without further argument. How could he argue? She’d sent him home to spend time with his beloved Dean. He couldn’t use that as an excuse to leave her.
Her stomach clenched. If Jake left, she’d be all alone. She felt like she’d been alone forever. Her family, killed by a drunk driver. Nick, expecting her to abandon her career to have his baby. Guy, seducing her, then kissing her off. Ramon, a virtuoso bassist, seducing her with his music and lovemaking, promising they’d be together some day. A dream thwarted by his spitfire wife, whose ugly threats had driven her out of Boston.
She made her mind go blank. Chanted her lucky mantra. Never give in to fear. Act successful and you will be successful. Believe in yourself and you cannot fail.
To hell with Nick and Guy and Ramon. They were ancient history. Her career was taking off. Fame was right around the corner.
She put on the teal-green top and studied her image in the mirror. She’d tell the kid in charge of lighting to kill the lights for her solo and put a green spot on her. That would get their attention.
All eyes would be on her, including Frank’s. Frank wasn’t married. And she was Belinda Scully, a strong woman with talent and personality and determination. A winner who went after what she wanted. And usually got it.
She could tell he was attracted to her. A delicious tingle swept her body.
Her performance was certain to captivate him. After the concert, when he came back stage to congratulate her, she would charm him into taking her out for a drink.
After that, anything could happen.
CHAPTER 15
At the last minute Frank changed his mind and went to the NOCCA concert. Maybe a dose of jazz would dispel his dark mood and take his mind off Chantelle’s funeral. The Black Box Theater held maybe a hundred chairs on risers that formed a U facing the stage. By the time he got there most of them were occupied. A grand piano sat stage left; a full trap set with shiny cymbals of various sizes sat stage right. Near the back wall an amplifier powered two large speakers located on either side of the stage. He took a seat at the end of a row near the door in case he had to make a fast exit.
The lights dimmed and a tall black man with a neat goatee stepped to a microphone. Greeted by warm applause, the NOCCA music director welcomed the audience and introduced the jazz band director, Leonard Dawson, a freckle-faced redhead. Bouncing with enthusiasm, Dawson led off the concert with a lower-level quintet.
Frank was impressed with the drummer, an energetic black kid with fantastic time, but the bass player, dwarfed by his instrument, struggled to be heard. The piano player showed flashes of talent amidst clichéd jazz licks, same with the guitar player. To close the set a young trumpet player took a chorus on “Well You Needn’t.” Frank wanted to grab his trumpet and show him how to improvise, the kid never stopping to rest, playing a zillion notes that went nowhere. No matter. The crowd gave him a standing ovation.
The first group left the stage and NOCCA’s top jazz group took their places. Frank checked the program. After their set, Belinda Scully would play. The scholarship quintet featured a chubby black kid on flute, a slender black kid on alto sax, white kids on piano and bass, and the same drummer as before. Halfway through “The Touch of Your Lips,” the alto sax player stepped forward to take a solo.
He wore dark glasses and a suit jacket over a Chantelle memorial T-shirt. That got Frank’s attention. The kid had talent, fluid technique, nice transitions over the chord changes, knew enough to leave some space between the notes. At the end of his third chorus, the kid faded away, the mournful sound ending in an almost-silent moan.
The audience erupted in wild applause, but the kid didn’t acknowledge it. As the band continued playing, he tipped an imaginary hat to the director and walked offstage. Frank slipped out of the dark theater and checked the program for the Scholarship Quintet roster.
Alto saxophone, Antoine Carter. First initial A. Last initial C.
He went to the foyer and looked down the hall that led backstage. No sign of Antoine Carter. The kid with the memorial T-shirt. The kid he’d seen at Chantelle’s funeral this afternoon. He pushed through the glass doors onto the shadowy courtyard, hoping Antoine would soon appear. Belinda’s solo was next and he didn’t want to miss it.
Five minutes passed. No sign of the kid. Maybe he was still backstage. Maybe he’d left through another door. Maybe he wasn’t leaving. Concealed in shadow alongside the building, Frank decided to go back inside. Stopped as Antoine pushed through the glass doors and hustled down the steps, head down, dreadlocks braided in thin strands brushing his shoulders.
Frank stepped out of the shadows to intercept him. “Nice solo. You listen to Chet Baker a lot?”
The kid froze, poised to run like a deer in the headlights.
“You dig Chet Baker?” he said softly, dark-skinned face expressionless. Sunglasses masked his eyes, so it was hard to gauge his feelings, except for his lips. His lips were set in a grim line.
“Your improv on ‘Touch of Your Lips’ reminded me of some things Chet Baker used to do,” Frank said. “But your sound now . . . you sound more like Antonio Hart. Or Kenny Garrett, maybe.”
The kid’s lips twitched, almost a smile, still looked like he wanted to run.
“Didn’t I see you at Chantelle’s funeral this afternoon?”
Antoine’s head jerked up, though his face remained impassive.
“I was there.” He flashed his ID. “NOPD Detective Frank Renzi. Was Chantelle your girlfriend?”
“You the cop put her in that foster home?” the kid asked, fear radiating from him in waves.
“Yes. I caught her in Lakeview. What was she doing up there?”
“Don’t know nothin about that.”
“Did you know she was squatting at Iberville?”
Ten seconds passed. Fifteen. Emotion rolling over the kid’s face.
“Only thing I know, she’s dead.”
“And you’re hurting,” he said gently. “I want to catch her killer, Antoine. She was too young to die. What was she doing in Lakeview that night?”
A stillness came over the kid, restrained tension, as though he was willing himself not to run.
He decided not to push it. “Go home and listen to some music, Antoine. That’s what I do when I’m hurting.” He held out his card. “I told Chantelle to call me if she needed help. And I’m telling you the same thing. Call my cell phone if you’re in trouble. Anytime, day or night.”
For a second he thought the kid wouldn’t take it. After an eternity, Antoine reached for the card, turned and trudged across the courtyard.
Frank watched him, aching for the kid.
Crime was off the chart since Katrina, the good folks unable to return, the thugs back with a vengeance, dealing drugs and settling scores, which meant most of the victims were young and black and poor.
Setting his gloomy thoughts aside, he entered the building, hustled down a hallway and slipped into his seat in the Black Box Theater.
Belinda stood onstage with one of her flute students. “My student Marcus Goines inspired the piece I’m about to play,” she said. “My variations on George Gershwin’s I’ve Got Rhythm.”
A chunky black kid with close-cropped hair, Marcus almost levitated. His chest puffed out and a broad smile suffused his face as the audience applauded. He gave a stiff bow and left the stage. As he took his seat, Belinda gazed out at the audience as though she was searching for someone.
Frank sank lower in his seat, hoping she wouldn’t spot him. She looked gorgeous, not eye-candy but close, slim and trim in a pair of black velvet pants, coppery hair brushing her teal-green top.
“George dedicated I’ve Got Rhythm to his brother Ira,” she said,
her eyes bright with tears. “I’d like to dedicate this performance of the piece to my brother. Blaine Scully.”
She raised her flute to her mouth and played the melody, swaying to the music, flaunting her fat silky sound. Then, an abrupt shift into double-time, playing at breakneck speed, swoops and swirls of high notes, low notes and everything in between. The third chorus she took in a slow-drag did everything but shimmy her hips, emitting low sexy growls on her flute. The final chorus was pure virtuosity as she played the melody in one octave, splashing a zillion notes in the octave above.
The ending brought whoops and applause. Belinda bowed and blew kisses to the audience. But her playing left him cold. She had great chops, but the performance seemed designed to display her virtuosity, not the music. Belinda Scully was very attractive, very intelligent, very charming and very talented. And she knew it. That’s why she had invited him to the concert. Maybe he had misinterpreted the vibe she had sent him at her house that night. Then, it had seemed like a seduction.
Tonight it felt like a love-me vibe, more needy than seductive.
Protocol dictated that he go backstage and congratulate her. But he didn’t feel like it. Chantelle’s funeral had put him in a funk. Talking to Antoine had made it worse. Like Romeo and Juliet, Antoine and Chantelle were star-crossed lovers, but in this case only one lover had died. The other was suffering.
He left the theater wishing he could talk to Gina and get her take on the Lakeview case. A savvy investigative reporter, Gina covered the crime beat for the Boston Herald. He hadn’t spoken with her for two years. Gina had found someone else. He still missed her.
But he lived in New Orleans now. And so did Kelly O’Neil. Tomorrow night he would meet her at The Bulldog. Kelly with the sea-green eyes, sensuous lips, and mischievous sense of humor. Tempting, but dangerous.
They both worked Homicide. Hell, they even had the same supervisor.
Definitely against his rules.
Then again, lots of times his motto was FTR. Fuck the rules.
_____
Sick with disappointment, Belinda walked along the path to the parking lot beside Mr. Silverman. She’d seen Frank in the audience, had waited for him after the concert, anticipating the admiration in his eyes when he came backstage to compliment her bravura performance. He hadn’t.
She couldn’t understand it. At her house after the accident he’d been so kind and considerate, soothing her anguish when she told him about the abortion. The chemistry between them was unmistakable. There had to be some explanation. Maybe he’d been called to an emergency, like that first night at the station.
She glanced at Mr. Silverman, striding along beside her, tall and muscular in his tailored black suit. Unlike Frank, he had lavished praise on her solo. Too bad he wasn’t more attractive. His voice was annoying, too, an adenoidal drone. Still, he did make her feel safer. A full moon shone down upon the few remaining cars, Mr. Silverman’s van and half a dozen others scattered about the dark deserted lot.
“Hey, Belinda,” a voice called, “that was a great solo. Can I have your autograph?”
Her lips spread in a smile. At least someone liked her performance.
She stopped and turned to look. A burly bearded man approached her, waving a piece of paper. He looked like a lumberjack: dark beard, massive shoulders, scruffy jeans and a Minnesota Vikings sweatshirt.
“You’re a hottie, Belinda.” He stepped closer, looming over her, his breath reeking of alcohol, his piggish eyes devouring her body. “How ‘bout a kiss for one of your fans?”
Her heart jolted. What a disgusting man. In all her years of playing concerts, nothing like this had ever happened to her. She started to turn away, but he reached out and tried to grab her, his expression angry. “Hey, bitch, gimme your autograph!”
Her knees went weak with fear. What if he stole her flute? Panic-stricken, she gripped her flute case with both hands. Mr. Silverman stepped in front of her, shoved the disgusting man away.
The man staggered back, lost his balance and fell to the ground.
Silverman grabbed her arm and hustled her toward his van. She hurried to keep up, her feet skimming the blacktop, clutching her flute case against her pounding heart. Spouting vile curses, the drunk followed them. When they reached Mr. Silverman’s van, he ran up to them. With a look of insane fury, he lunged at her, swinging his ham-like fists.
Silverman grabbed his arm, twisted it hard and threw him to the ground.
“Snotty bitch,” the man screamed. “I’ll get you . . .”
Silverman shoved her into the van and slammed the door.
She sank onto the back seat, shaking with tremors, heart pounding like a wild thing. Through the window she saw Silverman yank the drunk to his feet and force-march him away, shoving him toward the railroad tracks. She could still hear the man’s vile curses.
Unwilling to look, she put her face in her hands.
And then Mr. Silverman was opening the van door. He climbed behind the wheel, turned and looked at her with obvious concern.
“Are you all right, Belinda?”
She took a deep breath, fighting for control. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
He gazed at her, his pale blue eyes intent. “I’m sorry that idiot accosted you. These things are hard to anticipate. You never know when some drunk might come along.”
“It’s a good thing you were here.” A nervous laugh escaped her lips. “You saved me.”
He smiled. “That’s why you hired me, Belinda. Relax. I’ll have you home in no time, safe and sound.”
CHAPTER 16
“That girl wasn’t just lost, right?” Angela gazed at him, eyes solemn in the dim glow of the streetlight beside his car. “I ask around, you know, show that picture you gave me? Nobody wants to talk. And now she’s dead.”
He locked eyes with her. “Right. Now she’s dead. Somebody killed her.”
“She living in Iberville, AK mixed up in it.”
“You know that for sure?”
“No!” A vehement headshake. “That just be my guess.” Angela wouldn’t look at him now, hunched her shoulders and stared out the windshield, sank lower in her seat as a bus lumbered past them belching smelly exhaust fumes.
“I need a lead, Angela. She was only fifteen. She didn’t deserve to get murdered. I want to catch the thugs that killed her."
His plea got him nowhere. "Anything you can tell me might help.”
“Heard a couple girls talking in the laundry room the other day. They work housekeeping, same as me. Heard ‘em say Chantelle had a boyfriend that plays some kind of instrument. Saxophone, I think they said.”
“What else did they say?”
“Nothin.” Angela gazed at him, fear blatant in her eyes. “And you didn’t hear nothin from me.” She jumped out and ran to her car.
______
Ten minutes later he was sitting in the Bulldog, a funky bar that catered to locals and featured a huge assortment of draft and bottled beers. This time on a Saturday night the place was jammed. On the sound-system, barely audible over the conversational buzz, Ahmad Jamal was playing some tasty jazz piano. Looking equally tasty in a V-necked paisley-print top, Kelly O’Neil was sitting beside him on a stool at one end of the eight-foot bar.
“My CI thinks AK’s involved in Chantelle’s murder,” he said. “Angela’s pretty astute about these things. She grew up in the St. Bernard project.”
“But not Iberville,” Kelly said, and drank some of her Bud Light.
“No, but AK’s got clout in this town. Enough to scare Angela.”
And Angela had pretty much confirmed his theory: Antoine was Chantelle’s boyfriend. He’d seen the updated composite sketches from the wounded cop’s description. One sketch looked like AK: shaven head, delicate features, deadly eyes. Unfortunately, the other one, the kid with dreadlocks, looked a lot like Antoine, a fact he would have to report to Vobitch.
“Tell me about your rapist,” he said, shifting gears to the ostensible pu
rpose of their meeting.
“I think he stalks them first, jumps them when they walk to their cars after work. He doesn’t seem to care if they see his face.”
“And the victims don’t give you squat for a description, right?”
Her lip quirked, an unhappy grimace. “That’s the problem.”
“Typical. They’re too scared to look at him. They don’t want to be there, don’t want it to be happening, don’t want to think about it. Afterwards they’re so happy to be alive, they block it out.”
“That’s what Julie said. She was positive he was going to kill her.”
His mind was a split screen, one half processing details of the rape, the other focused on Kelly. When she laughed, one of her front teeth overlapped the adjacent one. When deep in thought, she rolled her lower lip over her top lip. When outraged, as she was now, her eyes were sea-green agates. “He complements them like it’s a fucking date or something!”
Frank shrugged. “To him, it is a date. He wants her to like him, so he sweet-talks her. A gentleman rapist. So called anyway.”
“He’s no gentleman. He’s an animal. He forces these women to do disgusting things.” She stared into the distance. Bright-blue Z-shaped earrings dangled from her earlobes. Maybe she was a Zephyr’s fan. The Mets Triple-A baseball team played at a ballpark on Airline Drive.
“Does he hurt them? Punch them, slap them around?”
“No, but he uses a knife to intimidate them.”
He tried to focus on the case but he felt weird, discussing the sexual habits of a rapist while sitting this close to a woman he found enormously attractive. Were they here to talk about the rapist? Or did she have something else in mind? When it came to romance, he was an optimist, but he never took women for granted. Still, the buzz in his gut told him they might be headed in that direction. He could smell her scent, perfume or body lotion maybe, a delicious aroma of vanilla and spice.
“Did she leave any prints? On the door handle maybe, when he forced her into his car?”
