DIVA

by Susan Fleet

  “Not now. Thank you for collecting my dry cleaning.”

  A clear dismissal. Unwilling to leave, he said, “Did you like the muffins?”

  “Muffins?” A perplexed frown.

  “The blueberry muffins I brought yesterday. Were they good?”

  “Oh. Yes. Thank you for being so thoughtful.” She smiled.

  His heart sang with joy. Two smiles in five minutes. But now she was yawning. His beloved wasn’t sleeping very well. If she were sleeping with him, she would. After their sexual orgies, she would fall into a contented slumber. She wasn’t quite ready for that. Not yet, but soon.

  “Have the police told you what caused Jake’s death?”

  “No. Frank said they’re waiting for the results of the toxicology tests.”

  That sounded ominous. “What sort of toxicology tests?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry, but I can’t talk right now. I need to call the funeral director.”

  “When’s the funeral?”

  “Mr. Silverman,” she said, raising her voice. “I can’t talk now.

  Wounded by her shrill tone, he left the house in an icy rage and got in his van. After all he’d done for her—bringing her muffins, playing one of her favorite pieces, tending to her dry cleaning, offering sympathy and support—she couldn’t even be courteous. Had she told him when the funeral was? No.

  But she’d told him about the toxicology tests. Tests that might reveal what Ziegler had eaten. He slammed his palms against the wheel. He hated it when things didn’t go his way. By this time Belinda must have told Renzi his name. Not his real name, the name he was using now. What if she told Renzi who gave her the brownies? Then Renzi would talk to Marcus. And Marcus, the wretched little wuss, would tell Renzi where the brownies had come from. Acid burned his gut like a blowtorch.

  He pulled away from the curb and headed for NOCCA.

  CHAPTER 25

  Saturday, 11 November

  At nine-thirty Frank drifted through a Mid-City neighborhood, hunting for the address on Barry Silverman’s DL. The early morning rain had tapered to a misty drizzle, swished away by his windshield wipers. This part of town had been hard-hit by Katrina. Many of the houses were boarded-up hulks with piles of rubbish and moldy furniture piled outside.

  He slowed to a crawl, passed a small cottage with the number 846 over the front door and came to an intersection. Silverman’s house—848— should have been on the corner. It wasn’t. No house, no cement slab, no FEMA trailer, just a weedy lot full of trash bags, rusty car parts and two discarded refrigerators wrapped with duct tape.

  He continued through the intersection. The number on the first house was 850. The address on Silverman’s license was bogus. He pulled to the curb and sat there thinking. Silverman had asked Marcus to give some brownies to Belinda. Ziegler ate them and wound up dead. Silverman had been in Atlanta the night Belinda’s house had been burglarized. Or so he’d told Belinda.

  When he talked to her yesterday, she’d been far more composed than she’d been at the hospital. On the verge of a nervous breakdown one night, an iceberg two days later. Needling him. You and your partner. She assumed he and Kelly were lovers, just as Kelly had said. Belinda was jealous. She was also a VIP, and he didn’t want her causing trouble, for him or for Kelly. One phone call was all it would take. When he asked her if Marcus might want her dead, she had flinched. A tell of fear, quickly suppressed. For a moment, she stood there, frozen, as if she was trying to solve a complicated math problem.

  Then, eyes distant, she had said: Absolutely not.

  Belinda was hiding something. And she seemed oddly protective of Silverman, a man she’d met in London who supposedly hailed from New Orleans. He wouldn’t bet the farm on it. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if Silverman was the one who had forced her off the road the night of the accident. A calculated ploy to make Belinda hire him.

  He studied the photocopy of Silverman’s license. Age, 36. Height, 6 feet. Weight, 185. Eyes: blue. Hair: brown. Eyeglasses: no.

  The man in the photo had small, close-set eyes and a high forehead accentuated by a receding hairline. No smile.

  He punched a number into his cell phone. One ring and a message came on: Silverman Associates. We’re out working a case right now. Leave a message.

  A male voice: no regional accent, no inflection, flat and unemotional. Not the sort of message likely to drum up business.

  He decided to wait until Monday to check Silverman’s phone records. Bad enough he was working on his birthday. And Chantelle’s. A wave of sadness welled up inside him. If she’d lived to celebrate it, Chantelle would have turned sixteen today. And now he was forty-four.

  No birthday celebrations for him, either. Kelly had killed that Thursday night. After leaving the Bulldog, he’d driven home and poured himself a big belt of scotch, something he rarely did. His Glenfiddich was reserved for celebrations and holidays. And consolation when his love life tanked.

  After an auspicious beginning, their relationship had fizzled. Maybe Kelly was right. Until Chantelle’s murder was solved, he had no time for a relationship. And the danger that someone would figure out they were dating was real. Cops were notorious gossips.

  Still, he found her enormously attractive. He loved her eyes, loved the way she bantered with him. She seemed comfortable with men, probably because she had three brothers and a father who doted on her. Her assessment of Belinda had been uncannily accurate: Belinda was into image management, on and off stage. Belinda was infatuated with him.

  Feeling weary and vaguely depressed, he put the car in gear and drove off. Now he had to call Marcus Goines’ parents and persuade them to bring him to the station. Another unpleasant chore. The father was pastor of the African Baptist Gospel Choir Church. He couldn’t understand why a Baptist minister’s son was dealing dope. Most of the dope dealers in town were kids from the projects with single mothers who couldn’t control them. Marcus was a talented music student, the only child of an upstanding two-parent family.

  His cell phone rang, jolting him out of his ruminations. He checked the caller-ID. Shocked, he pulled to the curb and answered.

  “What’s up, Frank? Taking it easy on a Saturday?”

  A curveball from Kelly O’Neil, acting as though their discussion at the Bulldog hadn’t happened. Playing along, he said, “No, busting my butt and getting nowhere fast.”

  “What are you working on?” Sticking to a safe topic. Work.

  “Hunting for Belinda Scully’s security man, the one Jake Ziegler fired. I got a copy of his DL, decided to pay him a visit. The address is bogus, no house, just a vacant lot.”

  “The plot thickens,” Kelly said in her familiar droll tone.

  He loved the sound of her voice, low-pitched and throaty. “What are you doing? Did you sleep in this morning?”

  “No. I had a lot of things to do. The yard’s a mess and uh, while I was raking up leaves I started thinking about you, and I was wondering if you’d like to come over for dinner tonight.”

  Another curveball. Sometimes women mystified him.

  “I’m not much of a cook,” she said. “Grilled salmon and vegetables is the best—”

  “Sounds great. Don’t try to be Betty Crocker.”

  She burst out laughing. “Betty Crocker. Jeez, Frank, where do you get these images?”

  My vivid imagination, picturing us in bed together celebrating my birthday.

  “Can I bring the wine?”

  “A bottle of red would be great. How does six-thirty sound?”

  “Great. See you then.” He clicked off and smiled.

  Maybe his birthday wouldn’t be such a downer after all.

  _____

  After forcing down a lunch of chicken soup and oyster crackers, Belinda went upstairs to her bedroom closet. All of her black outfits were designed for performances, not funerals. She pulled out a beige pantsuit. The outfit was plain and drab. Not terribly flattering.

  Tears stung her eyes. What w
as she thinking? This wasn’t about her. This was for Jake, the man who’d consoled her after her family was killed. The man who’d stuck by her through the lean years, the dreary small town recitals and the solo concerts with amateur orchestras, all those years when she’d worked her ass off to distinguish herself from the millions of other talented flute soloists. Talented, but without her tenacity and will to succeed.

  And now, just as she was on the verge of stardom, her world had come crashing down.

  Resolutely, she packed the beige pantsuit in her suitcase. She was dreading the funeral, but she had to comfort Jake’s parents in their hour of grief, just as Jake had comforted her. It was the least she could do. The last thing she would ever do for Jake.

  Early this morning she had driven to the train station to meet the funeral director and make sure Jake’s casket was safely aboard the train. His parents would meet the train at Penn Station. Dean had insisted on riding with the casket. She would fly to Long Island tomorrow. The funeral service was Monday at eleven. Later that afternoon she would fly back to New Orleans.

  The phone on her bedside table rang, jangling her nerves. On the way to answer it she glimpsed her image in the wall mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot, and gritty from lack of sleep.

  “Hello, Belinda. How are you feeling this morning?”

  Mr. Silverman. The man was beginning to annoy her. This morning when she went out to get the newspaper, she’d found a box of muffins on the doorstep. Still, he seemed concerned about her and eager to please, running errands. Maybe she would rehire him.

  Jake worked his ass off for you and what did he get in return?

  “Thank you for calling. I’m a bit tired, but I’ll be okay.”

  “Stress is bad for your immune system. You should take some extra vitamin C.”

  She tried to quell her annoyance. He sounded like Mother, nagging her to eat right and be sure to get eight hours sleep a night and drink plenty of milk so she’d have strong bones.

  “Did you get the muffins I left for you?”

  “Yes. Thank you. That was very thoughtful of you.” She’d thrown them in the garbage.

  “I’m going out to run some errands. Do you need any groceries?”

  The thought of food made her gag. All she’d eaten for two days was chicken soup. Mother’s cure for everything. Her mother, dead and gone for thirteen years. Unlucky thirteen.

  “No. I’m getting ready to fly to New York for the funeral.”

  “You must be feeling sad and lonely. I can drive you to the airport.”

  “Thank you, but that’s not necessary. I prefer to drive myself.”

  After a short silence, he said, “All right, but be careful. You know what happened the last time you drove home from the airport.”

  A chill skittered down her spine. She remembered all right. Someone had forced her off the road, one in a series of ugly events: weird fan mail, a whispered voicemail threat, a creepy note on her doorstep, a burglary. And Jake’s sudden death. All within weeks of the thirteenth anniversary of the accident that had decimated her family. Would this unlucky year never end?

  She gave herself a pep talk. She was no ordinary woman. She was Belinda Scully, a survivor, a confident performer with an unshakable will.

  “I’m packing for my trip, Mr. Silverman, so if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Next week,” she said firmly, and hung up. If he didn’t know when she’d be back, he couldn’t call and pester her.

  You only care about yourself. And your career. Dean’s stinging rebuke.

  She clenched her teeth. Silverman was annoying but he was right.

  She was stressed-out, not eating right, not sleeping. And the only person who seemed concerned about her was Barry Silverman.

  _____

  On his way back to the station Frank cruised through the Bayou St. John neighborhood. Setting aside his blissful anticipation of dinner with Kelly, he turned onto a side street and focused on Antoine Carter. According to the clerk in the NOCCA office, his parents were still living in Houston. Prior to Katrina, they had driven there with Antoine and his eleven-year-old sister to stay with relatives. When NOCCA reopened, Antoine, a scholarship student, had returned to New Orleans to live with his uncle, Jonas Carter.

  He parked across the street from Jonas Carter’s house, a shotgun double with mocha-brown shingles and gleaming white trim. Twin driveways bordered the house, Antoine’s bronze Ford Tempo in one, a black Ford 150 pickup in the other. The window shades were down, and not to keep out the sun. The sky was still overcast after the heavy rain that had pounded the area.

  Was Antoine was inside grieving for his girlfriend? Or hiding from AK?

  He lowered the car window, hoping to hear Antoine practicing. No music, just chirping robins and squawking blue jays. He continued down the street at a leisurely pace, picturing the NOPD artist’s sketch: a young black male with dreadlocks, large wide-set eyes and a broad nose. Like Antoine.

  The Lakeview Residents Association was hounding NOPD. Lakeview had been decimated by Katrina. Only a third of the residents had returned. Many were still living in FEMA trailers. Others occupied re-built homes surrounded by gutted houses with knee-high weeds out front. Few businesses had reopened. Lakeview residents didn’t want thugs robbing the few that had.

  His eyes flicked to the rearview. A dark-blue Lincoln Town Car was behind him, driven by a young black male, another one riding shotgun. Impossible to tell if anyone else was in the car.

  He slowed down to see what they would do. The Lincoln settled in ten feet from his bumper. He turned right at the next corner. The Lincoln followed. He took the next right, stomped the gas pedal and raced to the next intersection. The Lincoln sped after him.

  In the rearview, he saw a black kid lean out the passenger side window. Holding a shotgun. Adrenaline blasted his heart rate. What the hell? Broad daylight on a Saturday and a car full of gunslingers was after him?

  He stomped the accelerator. Gripped the wheel with one hand. Dug out his SIG-Sauer. Not that he'd shoot at them. That was Hollywood nonsense. There were too many civilians around. Holding the weapon reassured him, but his heart drummed his ribs like the hooves of a runaway horse.

  Thirty yards ahead of him, a maroon Toyota turned a corner and approached him. He blew past it. Glimpsed the woman driver’s face. Saw astonishment, then fear. In the rearview, he saw her pull over.

  The thugs kept coming. The Lincoln was gaining on him. He wheeled left and rocketed down a street, hoping some little kid on a bike wouldn’t zoom out into his path. Hoping the street didn’t dead-end at a canal.

  Blam! A slug ripped into the trunk of his car. Cursing aloud, he took the next left. Floored the accelerator. Zoomed past an elderly black man carrying groceries into a house. At the next cross street, he slowed and checked the rearview. No Lincoln. He turned left again and completed the circuit back to where the thugs had begun chasing him. The street where Antoine Carter lived with his uncle. No sign of the Lincoln.

  He holstered his weapon and waited for his heart rate to return to what passed for normal. Twelve days ago he’d caught AK and his goons in the NOCCA parking lot, threatening Antoine. Last week, he had pulled Antoine out of class to interview him. You gonna get me killed, Antoine had said. I’m not the only NOCCA student that knows AK. Was Marcus the other student? Had Marcus told AK that Detective Frank Renzi had interviewed Antoine? Someone had. Why else would AK’s thugs be watching Antoine’s house?

  Seething with anger, he headed for Iberville. New Orleans housing projects were no different from the projects in Boston. Ghettos of poverty, race and crime, ruled by vicious punks with no regard for life. An image flashed in his mind: eleven-year-old Janelle Robinson lying dead on a grungy carpet, killed by a cop’s bullet—his own or his partner’s—a black girl caught in the crossfire of a bust gone bad. His gut twisted in a sickening freefall.

  Bile rose in his throat as he pictured the tears on t
he chocolate skin of Janelle Robinson’s face. Chantelle had been caught in the crossfire too. He couldn’t imagine how scared she must have felt, all alone in that apartment, knowing addicts used vacant units as crack houses, copping drugs from the evil excuse for a man that ran the place. AK-47, the King of Iberville.

  It took him less than ten minutes to get there. He got out of his car and examined the trunk. A hole was punched through the metal beside the Mazda logo. Anger burned a hole in his gut, and his mind seethed with ugly thoughts as he marched into the complex to the building where Chantelle had lived.

  He leaned against the door and waited.

  Crawl out from under your rock, scumbag. I know you’re here.

  Sure enough, a minute later AK sauntered around the corner of the next building. “Wha’s up, my man?” Flashing his gold-toothed smile.

  “I just played a game of tag with your homeboys.”

  “That right? Y’all have a good time?”

  “What were they doing in Antoine Carter’s neighborhood?”

  AK’s eyes hardened and his smile faded. “What was you doing there?”

  He stepped closer, invading AK's space, looming over the shorter man. “Seems like every time I get anywhere near Antoine you and your homeboys turn up. Why’s that?”

  “Me and Antoine, we buddies.”

  “Were you buddies with Chantelle Wilson, too?”

  “Who?” Frowning. “Oh, the bitch got killed a couple weeks ago?”

  It took all his willpower not to throttle the bastard.

  “No. The girl someone murdered to keep her from talking.”

  AK backed up two paces. “Talkin' ‘bout what?”

  “The Lakeview murder. Why did you push that woman out of the car?”

  “Did no such thing. Who tol’ you that?” AK said, eyes cold as ice and hard as granite.

  “We got the getaway car. We got evidence.”