DIVA

by Susan Fleet

  Detective Renzi might have been helpful, but not half as helpful as Barry Silverman intended to be.

  ______

  “I don’t know which NOCCA student sells pot to Ziegler’s partner, but it’s not Antoine Carter.” Frank set his beer mug on the Bulldog bar and looked at Kelly, awaiting her reaction.

  “That’s good,” she said tonelessly, avoiding his gaze.

  “Antoine’s got dreads and drives a bronze Ford Tempo. Dean gets his pot from a black kid with short hair, drives a dark-blue Chevy.”

  Kelly nodded absently, fussing with her cocktail napkin. Clearly she had things on her mind, things that didn’t include the Lakeview case or Antoine or the death of Jake Ziegler. Earlier, she’d called and asked him to meet her at the Bulldog after work. He had happily agreed. Now he was getting bad vibes. This wasn’t the woman he almost made love to last night, the woman who’d kissed him passionately and told him to take off his shirt.

  The Bulldog had the usual hip ambiance, low-voiced chatter, jazz playing over the sound system, but Kelly’s demeanor was different. Edgy. Tense. And her tailored suit and turtleneck screamed hands-off. The weather was chilly for November, but not as chilly as the vibes she was sending him.

  To fill the silence, he said, “Last Friday Antoine stonewalled me again. He’s scared. He said he’s not the only NOCCA student that knows AK.”

  She twisted a lock of hair around her finger and looked at him. “You think the kid that sells pot to Ziegler’s partner gets his supply from AK?”

  “Ace Detective Kelly O’Neil scores a bull’s-eye.” He grinned at her, got no response. “What’s up, Kelly? You seem preoccupied.”

  Her gaze drifted away. “Work’s getting me down.”

  “That’s not good. But police work is tough, Kelly. You’ve been a cop long enough to know that. Your father and brother are cops.”

  “But Homicide is different. Every night I go home with a headache. They pushed me into it after Katrina. When I worked Domestic Violence I didn’t get headaches every night. I was helping women in bad situations leave the assholes that beat them. Now I feel like I’m beating my head against a wall. Even if we get a witness to a murder, half the time they won’t testify.”

  She was right. The NOPD homicide conviction rate was abysmal. But it wasn’t great for domestic violence cases either. Kelly empathized with the victims. She wanted to comfort them. He wanted to push the scumbags against a wall and punch them out.

  “Have you talked to Morgan Vobitch about it?”

  “Not yet, but as soon as we solve the Lakeview case I will.”

  “Maybe you should stop working overtime, counseling rape victims.”

  Her mouth quirked in annoyance. “That’s the only thing that keeps me going.” She tilted her head from side to side. No Big-Z earrings tonight.

  Was she sending him a message? “What about the jewelry business?”

  “Right now that seems like an impossible dream. I’m too tired to think about it.” She drank some beer and stared at the liquor bottles behind the bar.

  “Is that all that’s bothering you? Work? Come on. Talk to me.”

  She gulped some beer, gnawed her lip. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

  “This being . . . ?”

  “You know. You and me.”

  “Seemed like a good idea last night. To me anyway. I got the impression you thought so too. What changed? The phone call from Belinda and the weird scene at the hospital?”

  Kelly looked at him. “Three times we’ve been together, Frank. Three dates, if you want to call it that. Each time you got a phone call.”

  “I’m a detective. It’s not a nine-to-five job. You know that.”

  “Right. I was married to a cop, remember?”

  He remembered all too well. Maybe she was right. He didn’t feel like competing with a dead husband. Or an ex-husband, like Dana Swenson’s.

  “For you the job always comes first, Frank. That’s what got Terry killed, stopping to help somebody.”

  Heat rose on his neck, irritation verging on anger. It wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge. “You think that’s bad? Wanting to help people?”

  “But you take it to the edge. You’re an adrenaline junkie. You take every fucking murder personally. Chantelle Wilson? You want to bust AK for that so bad you want to rip off his balls.”

  “Bet your ass I do.”

  “You don’t have time for a relationship. The job always comes first.”

  I had time for Janine and Gina. But he didn’t want to talk about that, or think about it. His long-term affairs with both women had ended badly.

  “Maybe you’re the one that’s not ready for a relationship. Two years since Terry died and you’re still hurting. Maybe you’ll always be hurting.” He touched her hand. “Don’t waste your life, Kelly. You deserve to be happy with someone, even if it isn’t me.”

  She polished invisible spots on the bar with her napkin. “I just don’t think this is a good idea. Work and all.”

  “Nobody will hear about us from me.” He’d never told anyone about Janine or Gina, not his Boston PD colleagues, not the guys he played hoop with, no one.

  “Some cop is sure to run into us sooner or later.”

  He drank some beer, flashing on the night his wife’s girlfriend saw him with Gina and told Evelyn about it, precipitating their ugly divorce.

  “Frank, we’ve got the same boss! sooner or later someone will figure it out.” Her eyes glinted with anger. “You think you’re so cool, but you can’t hide your feelings about women. Remember what I said last night? Belinda knew we were involved. Women know these things. Guys pick up on it too, guys like your sidekick Kenyon Miller. He knows you.”

  He touched a finger to her lips. “I don’t want to fight. You need to think things through and figure out what you want. It’s okay. I can wait.”

  But not forever. Not if she was too conflicted over her dead husband to figure out she needed sex like every normal woman her age. He eased into sardonic mode a la Morgan Vobitch. Things were going great: Dana back with her ex-husband, Kelly dazed and confused, no leads on Chantelle’s murder, Jake Ziegler dead, possibly murdered.

  Kelly touched his arm and smiled, not the mischievous smile that made her eyes light up, but a smile nevertheless. “Thanks for understanding.”

  He nodded, blank-faced. He didn’t feel like making nice. “Let’s head out. I’ve got an early appointment tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Friday morning, 10 November

  “You can’t even tell me why Jake died?” she said, outraged.

  Frank met her gaze, blank-faced, but she caught of flicker of something in his eyes. Seated opposite her at her kitchen table, he looked strong and muscular and sexy as hell. But she wasn’t going to get sucked into that trap again. He was screwing that woman cop.

  “I got the autopsy results this morning,” he said. “Cause of death inconclusive. Jake’s kidney and liver functions were abnormal. We’re waiting for the toxicology results. I need to talk to Silverman.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to interview him the day of the burglary, but I never got the chance. He didn’t call you back.”

  “He stopped by yesterday to offer his condolences.”

  “I thought he didn’t work for you anymore.”

  “He doesn’t, but he’s been quite helpful since Jake died. I think Jake was a bit hard on him. All he did was visit his girlfriend in Atlanta. Unfortunately, that was the night of the burglary.”

  “What’s the girlfriend’s name?”

  “He didn’t say. They went to an Atlanta Symphony concert.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

  She gave him an icy stare. “I didn’t want to bother you. I’m sure you and your partner are busy with other things.”

  He held her gaze, digesting the word partner, no doubt. He knew what she really meant: Your girlfriend.

  After a moment he
said, “Do you have a picture of Silverman?”

  “Jake made a copy of his driver’s license. It’s probably in a file cabinet. Jake spent hours reorganizing the files after the break-in.”

  “Let’s find it. I need a picture of Silverman. The DL will do.”

  They left the kitchen and went to the office. Unlike the day of the burglary, it was neat and orderly now. Tears misted her eyes. Neat and orderly because Jake had cleaned up the mess. She opened the top drawer of a file cabinet, took out a folder labeled Silverman and gave it to Frank.

  “He’s been very helpful, running errands and such.”

  “What kind of errands?” Frank said, thumbing through the file.

  “Odds and ends, trips to the cleaners. He’s concerned about me.”

  Unlike you. You’re too busy screwing your cop girlfriend.

  Frank looked up from Silverman’s file. “If I were you, I wouldn’t let Barry Silverman run any more errands for you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Jake died under suspicious circumstances. Might have been foul play. Right now, everyone is a suspect.”

  The statement shocked her. “Everyone? Including me?”

  He gazed at her, expressionless. “Everyone. Can you tell me what Jake ate on Wednesday?”

  “Not really. I was teaching at NOCCA. One of my students cancelled so I got home around one.” She frowned. “Wait. My last student gave me some homemade brownies. I hate chocolate, but I didn’t have the heart to refuse them. Jake loves chocolate, so I gave them to him.”

  Frank reacted as if he’d been jolted with electricity. “Where are they?”

  “I put them down the garbage disposal with Jake’s M&Ms and Hershey Mini-bars.”

  “Why the hell did you do that?” His dark eyes were squinty with anger.

  “Every time I went in the office they reminded me that I’d never see Jake again. I couldn’t stand seeing them. It was too upsetting.”

  “How many brownies were left?”

  “Not many. Four or five.”

  “Out of how many?”

  “I don’t know,” she snapped. “They were brownies, cut into squares.”

  “Who’s the student?”

  “Marcus Goines. He’s a senior. Talented, but he lacks confidence.”

  Frank gazed at her with his dark penetrating eyes. “Any reason why Marcus Goines would want Jake dead?”

  “Of course not. He’s never even met Jake.”

  “Any reason why Marcus would want you dead?”

  With an effort fine-tuned over hundreds of performances, she maintained a calm façade. Marcus didn’t want her dead, but someone else might. Ramon’s wife. A prickle of fear scraped her spine. The Spanish spitfire would do anything to keep her man.

  But she wasn't about to tell Frank the sordid details: that she’d been seduced and abandoned by Ramon and blackmailed by his wife.

  Aware of Frank’s gaze, she maintained her cool demeanor. Damned if she’d give him the satisfaction of knowing how frightened she was.

  “Absolutely not,” she said.

  ______

  Frank took Marcus Goines into the NOCCA conference room where he’d interviewed Antoine. Marcus didn’t look any happier than Antoine had. He was built like a bowling ball, slumped in a folding chair, a worried frown on his chubby dark-skinned face.

  “Belinda Scully tells me you’re a talented flute player.” Loosen him up, then drop the bomb.

  The kid’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “She did?”

  “Yes. How long have you been studying with her?”

  “Two years. Did she tell you I suggested the Gershwin encore?”

  He nodded. A harmless fib to make the kid feel good. “Great piece. I heard her play it.”

  “She’s a fabulous flute player,” Marcus said, and lapsed into silence, staring at the floor as if it had just occurred to him that an NOPD detective hadn’t pulled him out of class to talk about music.

  “Tell me about the brownies.”

  The kid jerked as though he’d been hit with a stun gun and rubbed his hands on his chunky thighs. Nervous. Sweaty palms.

  Frank waited, letting the silence build.

  “I jus’ gave her some brownies, no harm in that.”

  “Did you know that Belinda Scully doesn’t eat chocolate?”

  The kid shrugged. “I guess. I don’t know.”

  “Okay, so you gave her the brownies. Any particular reason?”

  “My mother . . .” Marcus licked his lips. “My mother made them.”

  As sure as big oak trees grew from little acorns, the kid was lying.

  “And she would confirm that, right?”

  Marcus jutted his chin. “What’s the big deal? I gave my teacher some brownies. So what?”

  “The big deal is this. Ms. Scully gave them to her manager and he got sick. So sick he had to go to the hospital. And then he died.”

  The kid gaped at him, eyes wide, mouth working.

  “Jacob Ziegler. You know him?”

  Marcus shook his head, and his knee started bobbing up and down.

  “We’ve got a problem, Marcus. You gave Ms. Scully some brownies. She gave them to Ziegler. Ziegler ate them and died. Maybe I better ask your mother what ingredients she used.”

  “No!” Marcus waved his hands. “Please, don’t talk to my mom!”

  “Why not? You said she made them.”

  “That’s what the guy tol’ me to say.”

  He leaned forward and got in the kid’s face. “What guy?”

  “This guy I met. Barry. I don’t know his last name.”

  He wanted to shout: Barry Silverman. Restrained himself. “Tell me the story from the beginning. Don’t leave anything out and don’t lie to me.”

  “Wednesday morning he asked me to give her the brownies.”

  “Some stranger asked you to give your teacher some brownies? Come on, Marcus.”

  “Not some stranger. I met him a while ago. He drives for Ms. Scully.”

  Barry Silverman. “Okay, so you knew him. How did that happen?”

  “We got talking one day after school. He said he might be able to get me a scholarship to New England Conservatory. He knows some lady that works there.” Marcus looked at him, eyes pleading. “I didn’t mean to do nothing wrong, honest! Wednesday morning he said he talked to this lady and she might give me a scholarship. My folks don’t have a lot of money, and New England Conservatory’s a great school. I looked it up on the Internet.”

  “And then Barry asked you to give the brownies to Belinda?”

  “Yes, sir. He said he meant to give them to her before but he forgot, and he wasn’t driving her that day, so he asked me to do it.”

  Wasn’t driving her, because Ziegler fired him. He almost felt sorry for the kid. Silverman had manipulated him. But Marcus might not be as innocent as he seemed. “What kind of car do you drive, Marcus?”

  “An old Chevy. My folks got it for me so’s I could drive to school.”

  “What color is it?”

  “Dark blue. Can I go now?” Marcus half-rose from his chair.

  “Sit down. We’re not done. Did Barry tell you to say the brownies were from your mother?”

  A vigorous nod. “Yes, sir, he did.”

  “And you didn’t think that was odd?”

  The kid’s eyes shifted away. “Sort of. But he did me a favor, you know, recommending me to that lady at New England Conservatory, so I felt like, you know, I owed him one back.”

  “Okay, here’s the deal. Talk to your parents tonight and tell them what happened with the brownies. I’ll call your father tomorrow and have him bring you to the station so you can sign a statement about what you told me.”

  Not what he wanted, but Marcus was a juvenile. This time he would play by the rules. He’d interviewed Chantelle without calling her parents, and now she was dead. When Marcus came to the station with his father, he’d get him to sign the statement about the brownies first. Then he’d qu
estion him about the dope deals. At that point the father might lawyer-up. But maybe not.

  Marcus didn’t look too thrilled about the deal, frowning and fidgeting in his chair. “What do you think happened to Ms. Scully’s manager?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Go on back to class, Marcus. I’ll see you and your father tomorrow at the station.”

  ______

  When Belinda opened the door, he stepped into the foyer. He’d tried to open the door with his key, but she must have changed the locks after the burglary. Not that this could stop him. If he wanted to get into her house, he could do it easily enough.

  He held up her dry cleaning order, the hangers bunched together at the top, her clothes encased in clear filmy plastic. “Shall I take these upstairs?”

  “No, thank you, I can do that. Wait here while I get my wallet.”

  He draped the clothes over the settee and watched her walk down the hall. She had on shorts today, displaying her long sexy legs, and the sinuous motion of her hips aroused him. He wanted to take her upstairs, rip off her clothes and fuck her brains out.

  She returned from the kitchen and held out a twenty. “Is this enough?”

  “It was only eighteen dollars. Let me give you the change—”

  “No, no, you’ve done enough already.” She favored him with a full-fledged smile. “It was very thoughtful of you and I appreciate it.”

  Heat flamed his groin. At last she was starting to appreciate how hard he worked to please her. Soon he would be indispensable.

  “I’m happy to do it, but I’m concerned about you being here alone after that burglary. I’d feel better if I were here to protect you.”

  Vertical frown lines appeared between her eyes, little roadblocks that said NO. “I can’t think about that today, Mr. Silverman.”

  He gritted his teeth. Why wouldn’t she call him Barry?

  “I could help with your schedule. You’re no ordinary musician, Belinda. You’re a famous flute soloist. Now is not the time to let your career falter.”

  Her blue eyes turned icy. Now she was angry. He couldn’t have that. “You know how it is these days. If you’re not constantly in the public eye, people forget how talented you are. I could help with your publicity.”