Crime & Counterpoint

by Daniel, M. S.

  “I’m well aware.”

  “It’s a ridiculous question.”

  Henri kissed her hand uninhibited to diffuse her ire. She pulled away and turned onto her stomach, face staring at the French door windows letting in the night. She was a mask of white gold and moon glow.

  He was ill-deterred by her petulant temper. Rising to his knees, he placed both hands on her back and began to massage her, thumbs connecting as they moved in circles along her spine.

  “Remember the night we first met?” he said, tone dark and intimate. “I came to your room after the concert and–”

  “Demanded to see me,” she retorted. “I should’ve let security throw you out.”

  “But you invited me in.” His palms slowed, sliding against her skin. “And somehow your dress just fell off.”

  She scoffed but a smile peeked. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “I do,” he said gravely. She couldn’t see how pensive he was. Lowering his head, he let his mouth brush against her slender shoulder. “You stood by the window, commanded me to sit in a chair, and you took your Stradivarius and played for me. Every note drove me mad.”

  “Really? You seemed quite calm.”

  He breathed her fragrance lustfully. “That’s what you think. You were my siren.”

  She softened and reached her hand back to stroke his cheek.

  He captured her fingers and closed his eyes, fighting a breaking dam. “Do you have any regrets?” he asked huskily. “If you hadn’t married me–”

  “If I hadn’t married you, I’d still be playing, is that what you want me to say?” She muttered under her breath in Spanish and flipped onto her back, forcing him to move. “Mira, if it weren’t for you, I would have no love.”

  “You were eighteen. You had plenty of prospects.”

  “I only wanted you.”

  “How do you know that?” he asked with a hint of desperation. “How do you know you didn’t make the wrong decision?”

  Carol half-laughed and took his face in her hands. “Mi amor, where is this coming from? I am happy with you. You are enough for me.”

  “But your passion–”

  “Henri, stop it. I know I can’t play. But that’s not your fault. We’ve been through this before. You don’t have to feel guilty.”

  Henri shook his head. “If I’d just been home…”

  “Yes, and if I had just been careful. We can go on about it forever, but what’s done is done so drop it please.” She cupped the back of his head and drew him close.

  “But you’re still angry with her,” he said, breath mingling with hers.

  “I’m not.”

  “She wanted to be like you.”

  “Yes, and you encouraged her to fly beyond her capability. Now, look, she can barely stand.”

  “But she had your talent. I wanted her to be like you.”

  Carol’s eyes flashed burgundy. “Another siren for your collection?”

  Henri’s head raised, putting distance between them. His brows furrowed, anger surfacing. “I’m sorry, darling, but I just remembered something. You’ll have to excuse me.” He eased off her body, cold as dead cartilage, and her face turned ashen.

  “They’ll be arresting you tomorrow,” Henri told Cervenka over the secure phone in his home office. Door shut, he sat behind his desk in shirt and trousers only. And at that, his buttons weren’t even done. “But I suggest you turn yourself in. I’ll be better able to negotiate your release during the bail process.”

  “How did this happen, Henri? How did they find out?”

  “You didn’t cover your bases well enough. Nor did you think to inform me about this one very crucial matter.”

  “It happened well before we met,” Rybar returned, unruffled. “In truth, I forgot about it.”

  “Like hell you did.” Henri flicked at his jawline. “Anyway, I’ve discussed it with the FBI. They’re going to keep everything under wraps, undisclosed to the public in hopes of giving Kazanov a false sense of security. During the preliminaries, I plan to bring up your cooperation with the NYPD.”

  “Cooperation? I’m not sure Detective Ericson shares that view.”

  “Regardless, your leads have led to the arrests of many key constituents of the Brother’s Circle. I can persuade the court to allow only the charges of citizenship fraud to be prosecuted and throw out all other crimes and misdemeanors providing your continued cooperation with authorities. As long as there are no more surprises, you should be fine.”

  Rybar cleared his throat. “How is your daughter doing after last night?”

  Henri suppressed a froth of temper and pinched the bridge of his nose. “If I find out you had a hand in it–”

  “If she were my own, I could not have protected her more.”

  “You have no daughters, you can’t possibly make such a statement.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  Henri scowled. “Where is Kazanov now?”

  “And what would you do if you found him?” Rybar’s breath rattled the line. “Ivan is only the head of the problem. The body will live without him unless pierced in the heart.”

  “I’m too tired to solve your riddles,” Henri grunted. “The FBI will be keeping the club open to maintain the illusion that everything is fine. They’ve asked Shelley to continue.”

  “And how do you feel about that?”

  Henri swallowed with difficulty. “I’ll meet you at 1 Police Plaza in the morning.”

  “NYPD? Not the FBI?”

  “It will look better if you turn yourself in to Zach.”

  “Killing two birds with one stone, eh?”

  Sighing, Henri replied, “Three, actually… Good night.” Hanging up, he dropped his head into his hands, feeling like he had a thousand feet of water pushing down on him.

  At length, he opened a locked drawer at the bottom of his desk and dug through important family documents – passports, copies of birth certificates, social security cards – until he came to a white envelope. Opening it, he carefully withdrew an 8x10 picture of a seven-year-old Shelley at the piano accompanying Carol poised with her long-gone Stradivarius. Absolutely perfect.

  His eyes watered. He remembered the passionate euphony they’d created. His heart ached to hear them again, but that wouldn’t happen. Not without pain.

  Returning the picture to its secret storage, he turned off the light and simply sat in the dark. Listening.

  And that’s when he heard it. Faint choirs of angels.

  She was standing by the window, naked, back to him, with another violin – one he’d bought her to replace her one true love. Shock hit him that she’d even found it. He’d hidden it to present to her at the right time. If she ever healed up. After all, she hadn’t even wanted to look at a violin much less touch one for a full year after the accident.

  Henri stepped quietly, cautiously, so as not to scare her away. He took a silent seat as she fumbled her way through a few scalar runs, which he thought sounded like heaven despite knowing this was nothing compared to the virtuosic prowess she used to ooze. But after so long, just this was enough to renew his already-steadfast love. He was sure she could play again. Sure she could slowly work back up to the level of–

  She cried out suddenly and dropped her bow.

  His heart jumped into his throat, but he forced himself to stay seated.

  Pitifully, she bent and picked up the bow, her hand closing on the beautifully-warped wood with obvious difficulty.

  Her whimpers ripped at his soul, and he gripped the arms of the chair. She still had not noticed him. Standing up, she tried again, drawing the bow across the strings though he’d noticed she started to shake.

  The notes were pure anger.

  Soon, the fingers playing the fretboard lost their power, but stubbornly she continued. The strains turned sour and disjointed. Bitter.

  She started to cry, and Henri could no longer keep his seat. He went to her. “Carol, stop.”

  “N
o!”

  “Carolina, you’re going to undo your progress.”

  Still she played. Painful double stops, crying the whole while.

  His teeth gnashed. “Give it to me!” he thundered and wrested the violin from her grasp.

  The music stopped, and his siren screamed, clawing at him. “Just let me try again!”

  “Not tonight.” He firmed his jaw and took the instrument, returning it to its hard case.

  “The bow needs rosin–”

  “I know, dear,” he said and applied the protective substance to the horsehairs before detuning the bow to relieve the stress.

  She watched him, lashes wet, cheeks streaked with tears. “Thank you.”

  He latched up the case and slid it under the bed, telling himself he would have to find a better hiding place for it after she went to sleep. Then, he took her in his arms. “You don’t have to play like Paginini.”

  “Would you have loved me if I hadn’t?”

  He frowned and glanced at her forearms. “Do they hurt?”

  “They’re on fire.” She slipped her hands inside his shirt and kissed him, ardently. He tasted her salty regret.

  Part VI

  A Chromatic Love Affair

  53

  “I have an FBI escort now.”

  Abigail’s weathered but soft hand combed over a silken blanket of mahogany as the organically attached head lay on her lap. “Is that so? Have you met him? Or her?”

  “No. I haven’t. I don’t think I’m supposed to know who they are.” Shelley blinked slowly, tired and yet hesitant to return to the solitude of her apartment after her hours at the club. A certain discordant phrase from Caprice No. 4 played on a loop in her mind – her mother’s magnum opus. It filled her dreams and waking hours. And in bizarre juxtaposition to the severe intervallic runs, she’d turn or simply rouse from deep slumber and there’d be that train coming right towards her. It was only when she played that the sickening feelings of certain death dissipated and she felt at all safe.

  Abigail brushed the back of her fingers over Shelley’s tawny cheek. The girl’s voice had that listless quality which reminded Abigail of Zach as a child whenever he’d received a particularly bad beating. It was the pitch of bewilderment – like you didn’t quite know what to make of anything anymore. Abigail moved her hand to stroke Shelley’s limp arm. “I still can’t believe you’ve been walking to and fro.”

  “It’s been fine so far.”

  Abigail arched a brow. “It’s twenty blocks, dear. Now’s hardly the time to prove your mettle.” After a pregnant pause, she queried, “And I suppose there’s no sense in asking Carter to chauffeur you about?”

  Shelley sighed tunelessly. “He’s got so much on his plate. I’d feel guilty.” Her notes diminished to a pianissimo. “I’ve barely seen him inside of two weeks.”

  Abigail lifted her hand as the dispirited girl righted herself and swiped up her strappy sandals. “If I were you, I’d quit.”

  Shelley shook her head, grimacing as if pained. “It’s strange. I dread going, but once I’m there, playing, I can’t imagine being anywhere else.” She stepped towards the door, light as a feather. “I think that’s what Carter doesn’t understand.”

  “It’s the music you love. Surely he can understand that.”

  Shelley gave a weighty sigh. “Maybe.” She stared at the doorknob for much too long until finally, she came to herself, said goodnight with a hollow smile, and took her leave, a wisp floating out to sea.

  Ready to collapse into her bed, Shelley went straight to her room, removed the clips from her hair, and dropped her shoes unceremoniously near a pile of sheet music.

  Thinking of a certain melody she’d played earlier, she began to unzip her evening gown. Bur then, her phone rang. Unnecessarily nervous, she peeked around the doorframe of her room and flitted across the wooden floors, her bare, tired feet keenly feeling the cold.

  It was so dark out. The city’s bug eyes, thousands of them, stared at her. And for the first time since moving here, she wished she was more than two floors above ground-level. Anyone could have looked up and seen straight through the glass wall.

  She grabbed her new smartphone from the counter where she’d left it with her keys. “Hello?”

  But there was no response. Nothing but a kind of faint clicking.

  Or was that the door?

  Shelley’s eyes amplified with ready fear. “Ashleigh?” she called. But Ashleigh wasn’t even supposed to be here. NYU had already let out for the semester. She was safe and sound at home in Plandome Manor, probably had plans with Erik tonight. He’d already broken up with Ms. Victoria Secret.

  Lowering the phone, Shelley checked the brightly-lit screen flashing the words ‘Call Ended’. But the clicking continued. From the door.

  Then, somehow, despite her effervescing panic, she remembered the gun Zach had left for her. Neglecting her phone, she ran into her bedroom and yanked open the side table drawer. There was the 9mm. Body shaking, her hands were nevertheless steady as she picked it up and turned off the lamp.

  Darkness. Her skin prickled, heart thumping painfully.

  Gasping for breath, she remained crouched in the corner formed by her side table and bed, praying for strength.

  She gripped the subcompact weapon with both hands, reminding herself how to use it. Everything Zach had taught her. But terror mounted with every pulse, and her throat closed. Sweat began to glisten on her brow.

  Then, it happened. The front door swung open with confidence. Footsteps followed, silently.

  And then, the bedroom door opened. One black shoe then another stepped onto her wooden floor. And a hand flicked the light switch.

  Her finger closed in on the trigger just as the man’s face appeared, light from the hall shining behind his head and obscuring his features. Fear incited her to shoot, but she couldn’t.

  “Shelley?!”

  Her breath left her in a rush. Carter.

  For a moment, he couldn’t say anything. There was his fiancée and there was a gun. Neither bothered him separately. “What are you doing with that?” he asked in a tight voice.

  “I’m sorry,” she blubbered, gun still pointed at him. “I was scared. I thought you were – oh Carter!” She dissolved into rasping sobs.

  Her reaction doused any words of censure. Finally, his feet found their intended purpose and hurried over to her. He knelt by her where she had compressed herself into a ball. Gently, he took the gun from her rigid hands, set it on the stand, and gathered her to himself. Her arms went around his neck, and she held onto him tightly, legs drawn up as they sat on the floor.

  “I came by the club. But you were already gone,” he said. “It’s pretty cold out tonight.”

  Her response was to press closer as if she didn’t want to face the world.

  He tried again. “Where’d you get the gun, babe?”

  “Zach. I told him I didn’t want it, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  Her voice was so quiet, he didn’t have the heart to question her further. But internally, he stiffened at the reveal that Zach had been in here. “You really shouldn’t have it. I’ll take it back to him.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He kissed her hair and breathed her in. His hand felt the vertebrae of her spine – her dress wasn’t even zipped up yet. His blood warmed. “Sorry for not calling, but I thought I’d drop by to ask if you wanted to set a date.”

  She stiffened, and he thought ‘great, she’s changed her mind again’, but to his complete surprise, she said, “The sooner the better. I don’t want any fuss. And I don’t care if the governor can make it or not. I only want family and our close friends. That’s it.” She lifted her head and looked at him heartrendingly. “Okay?”

  Moved by her distress, he gave his complete assent and then cupped the back of her head, kissing her lips. She pressed close to him, needing his comfort, and he was more than happy to comply. However, the sight of her with a gun never left
his mind’s eye.

  And the memory of Zach showing her how to fire the weapon flooded her thoughts. But stronger than her feelings for both men, was her desire to please her father. And she would marry Carter. If that was what daddy wanted.

  54

  Over the next week, Shelley made and kept several appointments, all at her mother’s insistence, with the florist, Macy’s Bridal, and department stores. By herself. Carter and his fellow associates at the DA’s office were too busy dealing with the complicated prosecutions of Rybar Cervenka, the Brother’s Circle constituents, and their Wall Street associates. Fortunately, all except Kazanov would be neatly scored away by the time the wedding rolled around in one week from Saturday.

  Just after Christmas.

  Tonight, a rather frigid but windless Friday, she didn’t have to play after the dinner hours of six to nine because there was a guest artist. Although she would have liked to have stayed and just listened, she had an appointment at LaFavreau’s bakery north of Columbus Circle. Her mother had managed to get a slot with the premium cake maker after Shelley reluctantly yielded her full schedule at the club.

  Shelley’s pocket of her black leather jacket vibrated as she trudged down the crowded sidewalk glowing with Christmas lights. “Hello?” she answered, her whole being tensing in anticipation of more wedding dictates.

  “Shelley, dear,” Carol trilled. “You are on your way to LaFavreau’s, I hope.”

  She sighed inaudibly. “Yes, Mom. I’m walking past the Lincoln Center right now.” She glanced over at the golden plaza and bubbling fountain burning magically in the night, practically dusted with shattered dreams.

  Rupturing her wistful admiration, someone shoved her going in the opposite direction, and she bumped into another man who scowled at her for the intrusion. She grimaced apologetically. “Sorry.”

  The guy didn’t seem to accept her apology as he moved on.

  “I know I sent you on a thousand errands, but when one decides to have a shotgun wedding for absolutely no reason, one must suffer the consequences.”