DIVA

by Susan Fleet

  Antoine raised his head and looked at him, grim-faced and hard-eyed. “Testify against AK you mean?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. If you do, we’ll protect you.”

  “Not much protection you come to NOCCA and call me down the office. AK knew I talked to you. Marcus told him. He’s in my jazz harmony class. Marcus been dealing pot, gets it from AK.”

  “Marcus Goines?” Jonas Carter gasped. “Reverend Goines’ son?”

  Antoine nodded. “Marcus. No doubt about it.”

  Jonas Carter frowned. “The boy’s missing.”

  Antoine gaped at his uncle, then at Frank. “Marcus is missing?”

  His surprise seemed genuine. Scratch Antoine from the suspect list. Forty-eight hours and no sign of the kid. Frank figured it would be a miracle if Marcus turned up alive. AK and his thugs had tried to kill Antoine today. Wouldn’t surprise him if they had already killed Marcus.

  “Marcus has been missing since Friday,” Frank said. “He never came home from school. Will you testify against AK?”

  Antoine clenched his hands into fists. “I’ll testify, no doubt about that. Bad enough he pushed that lady out the car. Him and his buddies killed Chantelle. Nobody gonna rat ‘em out for it, but I know they did.” Antoine drilled him with a look. “AK gonna get the chair for killing that lady?”

  “He will if I have anything to say about it.”

  An imperfect form of justice for Chantelle, but it might be the best he could do. He couldn’t prove AK killed her and if AK’s thugs ratted on him, they might never live to testify.

  CHAPTER 30

  Monday, 13 November

  With a palpable sense of relief, she turned onto her street. Almost home. She massaged the tense knot that had taken up residence in her neck during the plane ride. Meeting Jake’s parents, their dark eyes hollow with grief, had been an ordeal. Their funeral arrangements—the music, the tributes from Jake’s cousins, the rabbi’s poignant speech—had been beautiful. Everything had been perfect, except for the fact that Jake was dead.

  She was all alone. Again. Unwilling to sink into self-pity, she gripped the wheel and gritted her teeth. Facing adversity alone was nothing new. She had survived the loss of her family, an unintended pregnancy and two heartbreaking affairs with married men. But now, thanks to her determination and talent and hard work, her career was about to take off.

  She noticed a black van parked in a driveway three houses down from hers on the opposite side of the street. ACE PLUMBERS, according to the white letters on the side. Nothing new there, either. Since Katrina everyone on her street had experienced intermittent sewage or water problems.

  She pulled into the circular driveway in front of her house, got out and rolled her suitcase up the walk. A box sat on the floor of the porch, pastries from Mr. Silverman probably. Why did he do it? He knew she’d be away. They would be stale and even if they weren’t, she wouldn’t eat them. She left her suitcase in the foyer, went in the kitchen and put the box in the trash.

  Home at last. She kicked off her shoes, took a bottle of iced tea out of the refrigerator and gulped half the contents, her mind racing with things to do. For some reason she felt more energized than she had in years, as though she’d shed several layers of skin and the real Belinda Scully had emerged.

  She wandered down the hall to the office. Not Jake’s office, her office. She was looking forward to the concert in Louisville. Music had always been her salvation, a soothing balm for emotional turmoil. Just what she needed to survive the holidays: Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years. Family holidays, and she had no family. Fortunately she would be busy. She opened the folder that lay on the desk and checked her schedule: ten concerts.

  The phone rang. She picked up and answered crisply, “Belinda Scully. May I help you?”

  “Hello, Belinda, it’s Barry. I’m happy you’re home safe and sound, but I didn’t expect you to answer. You need to rest. You’ve suffered a terrible loss. That takes a toll on you.”

  She made a face. She hated it when people dragged her down with negativity. “I’m fine. It’s time I got back to work.”

  “Then we need to talk about your security arrangements.”

  A dull ache pulsed behind her eyes. “Not now. I have work to do—”

  “You’re alone in that house, Belinda. You need someone to protect you, someone to take over Jake’s duties. My schedule is quite flexible. I can come over right now and—”

  “No. It’s kind of you to offer, but I’m fine. Really.”

  “You say you’re fine, but Jake’s death had to be a shock. I don’t blame you for feeling down. One doesn’t expect one’s friends to die so young.”

  She frowned. Jake’s death was a shock, and Frank’s statement last Friday had been equally shocking. Jake’s death was suspicious. Everyone is a suspect.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t talk right now. I’ve got to unpack and—”

  “Did you find the muffins? I thought you might appreciate a treat when you got home.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I did. Thank you, Mr. Silverman.”

  “Barry.” His voice hit her ear like a pistol shot.

  Shocked, she held the receiver away from her ear. She didn’t want to call him Barry. That implied they were friends. They weren’t, and they weren’t going to be. She did need help with the business until she hired a new manager, but Silverman seemed to think he had a lock on the job.

  You only think about yourself. And your career. Dean’s words.

  She took a deep breath. Let it out. Kept her voice even. “It was very thoughtful of you to buy the pastries. Thank you.”

  “What are your plans for the Louisville concert?”

  Irritated, she snapped, “I plan to play a magnificent performance.”

  “Of course you will. You’re the best young flute soloist in the world. But you need a security plan. We can fly to Louisville together—”

  “Stop!” she shouted. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I’m busy. I’ve already made my arrangements for Louisville. I don’t need you to go with me.”

  A brief silence. Then, “That’s a decision you might regret. You must be tired. I’ll speak with you later. Welcome home, Belinda.”

  Forcing herself not to yell, she said, “Goodbye, Mr. Silverman.”

  Just as she was getting back on track a new problem surfaced. But she refused to let Mr. Silverman ruin her upbeat mood. She was playing the Zwilich Flute Concerto and the Gershwin in Louisville.

  She shut her eyes and recited her mantra. Never give in to fear. Act successful and you will be successful. Believe in yourself and you cannot fail.

  She opened her eyes and smiled.

  The concert in Louisville would be perfect.

  ______

  “You sure the kid will testify?” A.D.A. Eddie Rouzan, a tired-looking black man, shot a skeptical look at Frank, another at Vobitch, the three of them huddled inside Vobitch’s office with the door closed. “Half these kids are no-shows when the court date arrives.”

  Frank glanced at Vobitch. He looked as tired as Rouzan and way more annoyed. The media frenzy over the Lakeview case continued unabated. In fact it was getting worse.

  “Antoine will testify,” Frank said. “He thinks AK murdered his girlfriend to keep her quiet. I think so too, but we don’t have any evidence on the Chantelle Wilson murder.”

  “You got evidence AK did the Lakeview woman?” Rouzan said.

  “We got the getaway car,” Vobitch snarled. “We got prints off the steering wheel and the back door. We got the wounded cop’s description of the robbers.”

  Frank gestured at the tape deck. “I taped Antoine’s confession.”

  “You read him the Miranda, right? No coercion.”

  “It’s on the tape! You heard me do it.”

  “Yeah, but the judge might not like it. The kid refused an attorney.”

  “I told his uncle they could call one. They declined.” When that failed to erase Rouzan’
s skeptical expression, he said, “How about a lineup? Haul AK in and have Officer Robichard identify him.”

  Rouzan yawned. Fifteen months post-Katrina the overworked D.A.’s office was short of prosecutors and plagued by a skyrocketing crime rate.

  “We pull in AK and his thugs,” Vobitch said, “one of ‘em might flip.”

  “I doubt it,” Rouzan said. “These ‘bangers turn in their mama ‘fore they rat on a brother. Morgan, I know you want to clear this one. We’re under pressure, too, but I won’t go to court with a weak case, hang it on a witness that might split.” He rose from his chair. “This case is high-profile. I don’t want it to blow up in my face. Get me a match on the prints. Get me a solid ID from the cop. Get me some evidence so I can win the case.”

  As soon as Rouzan left, Vobitch exploded. “Fuck Rouzan and the DA’s office! All these prosecutors want everything tied in a nice pink bow. Let’s get an arrest warrant.”

  He loved it when Vobitch went ballistic. They sometimes had their differences, but when the chips were down, Vobitch usually did what Frank considered to be the right thing. Not necessarily the most prudent thing, the one most likely to get results.

  His cell phone rang. He checked the ID and held up a wait-a-minute finger. Vobitch nodded and raked stubby fingers through his silvery hair.

  When he answered, Kelly said, “Hi Frank, you busy?”

  “You mean that interview I told you about?”

  Speaking in the low husky voice he found so enchanting, she said, “Oh, you can’t talk now, huh?”

  Nice to know they were on the same wavelength. “Right,” he said, aware that Vobitch was waiting, impatiently tapping a pen on his desk. He felt a zing of adrenaline, talking to his lover while his boss was waiting, the thrill of the forbidden.

  “I’m working topless today.”

  He couldn’t believe she’d said it. Maintaining a serious expression, a major effort, he said, “I’d better check that out ASAP.”

  A seductive chuckle. “I’ll set a timer, see how long it takes you.”

  He punched off, wiped his sweaty palm on his pant leg. Talk about living dangerously.

  “I’ll write the fucking warrant myself,” Vobitch said, “hand it to the judge personally! If he doesn’t okay it I’ll stick a gun in his fucking ear.”

  “Bad idea, Morgan. Play it safe and send it by courier.”

  Vobitch glowered at him. “You’re not the one taking phone calls from pissed-off Lakeview residents. And when they’re not calling me, I got some bleeding-heart social worker on the line, wants to play hug-a-thug, make sure we don’t railroad some innocent black kid.”

  “I might have a new angle on the case.”

  “Good news I hope,” Vobitch said, wearily rubbing his eyes.

  “Remember that hit-and-run incident with the VIP?”

  “The one where you called London and talked for twenty minutes on account of some flute player got in an accident?” Vobitch said, icing him with another look, his slate-gray eyes full of fury.

  “Right. Belinda Scully. Last Wednesday her manager died under suspicious circumstances. The emergency room doc thinks he might have been poisoned. We’re waiting on the tox report.”

  “So? You got a suspect?”

  “Yes. Scully’s driver. Ziegler fired him two days before he died.”

  “Well, you got motive. What’s this got to do with the Lakeview case?”

  “Ziegler’s autopsy indicated he’d eaten chocolate. One of Scully’s flute students gave her brownies. She hates chocolate, gave them to Ziegler. I interviewed the student on Friday. He said Scully’s driver asked him to give them to her. I was planning to have the kid come in with his father to sign a statement, but that’s out the window now. His name is Marcus Goines.”

  Vobitch’s eyes went wide as a satellite dish. “The kid that’s missing?”

  “Bingo. Here’s the Lakeview connection. Turns out Marcus has been dealing pot. AK is his supplier. Antoine confirmed it, but I didn’t want to bring it up while Rouzan was here.”

  “Right. He’d have blown it off as hearsay or some fucking thing. You think AK whacked the Goines kid?”

  “That’s one possibility. Scully’s driver is another. I need to call London again and get a better handle on the guy.”

  “Okay, but keep it short,” Vobitch said. “I gotta find a friendly reporter, plant a bug in his ear that we got something going on the Lakeview case.”

  Vobitch was desperate to clear the Lakeview case, but even if they got the warrant, nailing AK for murder would be tough. Being an NOPD cop these days was like Jelly Roll Morton playing piano in a Storyville brothel. The Jellyman couldn’t control what happened in the rooms upstairs any more than Vobitch could control what the DA did.

  Frank went outside to his car and dialed Kelly’s cell phone.

  “Is this the deceptive detective who speaks in riddles?” she said.

  “Is this the temptress that blindsides me with phone sex while I’m in a meeting with my boss?”

  A low throaty laugh. “That’s where you were when I called?”

  “Yes. Morgan and I were telling ADA Rouzan about Antoine and the Lakeview case. Rouzan’s afraid Antoine won’t testify. Morgan’s gonna go for an arrest warrant, grab AK and put him in a lineup. If the judge goes for it.”

  “He will if it relates to the Lakeview case.”

  “I hope so. Why’d you call me? Pining for my irresistible voice?”

  “Yowza, listen to the man’s ego! Your irresistible voice is nice, but I had other reasons. A woman got raped Saturday night and Violent Crimes asked me to interview her.”

  “Your serial rapist?”

  “No. Different MO. The asshole beat her up and broke her nose. The good news is she identified his vehicle. She used to work at her father’s Ford dealership. She said she’s positive it was a Ford E-series van.”

  “Hold it. Silverman drives a Ford E-series van.”

  “A black one?”

  “No, his is white.”

  “Uh-oh, Warren just came out and spotted me. Listen, I can’t meet you tonight after work. I forgot I promised to have dinner with Terry’s mother. Can we do it tomorrow night instead?”

  Unwilling to show his disappointment, he said, “Sure, no problem. I’ll see you tomorrow anyway. Morgan’s calling a meeting so we can set up a plan to nab AK and his thugs.”

  He went back to his office. Kelly was hot on her latest rape case, but his mind was on Ziegler. He dialed a number and waited.

  “State Toxicology Lab, Annette speaking.”

  “Hi, Annette, Detective Renzi, NOPD. I’m waiting on a tox report for Jacob Ziegler, died last Wednesday. Could you check the status for me?”

  “Hold on.” He heard papers rustling as she muttered, “Everyone wants their tox reports yesterday. And we’re working fourteen hours a day on Katrina bodies.”

  After Katrina the state had set up a temporary lab at the hospital in Carville that had once housed victims of Hanson’s Disease. The hospital had closed years ago, but many still called it the leper hospital. Hundreds of Katrina victims remained there, awaiting identification.

  “Sorry,” Annette said. “The Ziegler report isn’t back yet. I’ll put a pink sticky on it, might have it for you by the end of the week.”

  He thanked her, rang off, and punched a string of numbers into the phone: country and city code, then the six-digit number of Smythe-Jones, former employer of Barry Silverman. He heard the doop-doop ring of the international call. Then a mechanical voice: “The number you dialed has been disconnected. No further information is available.”

  He slammed the phone in the cradle. Smythe-Jones was a phony and so was Barry Silverman. Silverman was no security expert, he was a stalker. He might also be a killer. And so far all their attempts to find him had failed.

  CHAPTER 31

  Humming a snippet of I Got Rhythm, she fixed a salad to go with the barbequed chicken she’d bought for dinner. Twenty min
utes ago, after a perfect run-through of the Zwilich, she’d put the chicken in the oven to reheat, returned to her studio and played her Gershwin Variations twice, flawlessly. The Louisville audience was sure to love it. A limo would meet her at the airport Friday afternoon and drive her to the hotel. The only rehearsal was at seven, but she wasn’t worried. The Louisville Orchestra was topnotch.

  She cut a plum tomato into quarters, dropped them on a salad plate of greens and drained the broccoli in the sink. Hearing the long rolling rumble of distant thunder, she leaned over the sink and looked out the window. The setting sun had disappeared behind sullen gray clouds.

  The phone rang, shrill and insistent in the silence of her kitchen.

  Her pulse pounded. She checked the Caller ID. Unavailable.

  Her neck tensed and her diaphragm tightened. She massaged her icy fingers. The phone had rung twice while she was practicing, but she had ignored it. After she finished, she had checked her voicemail.

  No message from the five o’clock caller, but at six there had been.

  Why don’t you answer, Belinda? I know you’re there. Your car’s out front and the office light is on. She had run to the window and scanned the street. Silverman’s van was nowhere in sight, but she was no longer sure its absence meant anything. No longer sure she was safe.

  Her eyes flicked to the wall calendar beside the refrigerator. Today’s date was circled. Monday, the thirteenth of November. Unlucky thirteen.

  More thunder, an ominous rumble. But nowhere near as ominous as her ringing telephone. Now it was seven o’clock. It had to be him.

  She rubbed the goose bumps on her arms, aware of how empty her house was. Aware of how alone she was without Jake. And Frank was no help. He was busy with work, busy romancing that woman detective.

  The ringing stopped as her voicemail kicked in. Not wanting to listen, afraid not to, she ran to the office and heard the tone sound. Then his voice.

  What a wonderful rendition of the Gershwin you just played, Belinda. Note perfect.