“Does he strike you as capable of murder?”
Hally glared. “I cannot believe you can just stand there and ask a question like that about a man you’re seeing.”
A knock banged on the door, carrying unmistakable police authority.
It wasn’t Sanchez, though, just a couple of street cops whose eyes lit up at the sight of her. “Miss Davis, we need you to come down to the station with us.”
“Okay.” She smiled at their consternation. “You guys want a cup of coffee first?”
They tried to look stern and made noises about this not being a social occasion, but she only shrugged and grabbed her bag. Hally hugged her, hard.
“You want me to come with you?”
“That’s not permissible, Miss Roberts.” One of the cops frowned at her. “And what happened to you contacting us as soon as you heard from your friend?”
Hally twirled her ponytail around one finger and widened her eyes. “It was three in the morning, I didn’t want to wake you guys. I know you need your beauty sleep.”
Christine laughed at her, earning an innocent, beaming smile in return.
“You two think this is a laughing matter, but it’s not.” One cop bunched up his shoulders. “A woman is dead and another is gravely injured. You are both persons of interest, so I’d watch my manners if I were you.”
Feet pounded up the wooden stairs and Roman stood in the open doorway. “What is the meaning of this?” He looked handsome as always, perfectly groomed.
“Mr. Sanclaro,” said the cop who hadn’t been getting all riled up, “we’re escorting Ms. Davis here to the station to answer some questions.”
“Is my fiancée under arrest?” Roman’s gaze traveled over her borrowed gypsy dress before meeting her eyes. Under the studied bland expression on his face, a chilly anger brewed.
“Not at this time.”
“Then she doesn’t talk to you. Come on, Christy—I’m taking you home so you can get cleaned up for Mass.” He held out a preemptory hand.
“Ms. Davis,” the nice cop faced her directly, “I’m asking you to come with us now. Call your lawyer, if you need to, but don’t force us to arrest you just to have a conversation.”
“I already said I’d go and I’m going. I want to talk to Detective Sanchez.”
“I’m calling our lawyers, Christy. Don’t say anything until they get there.” Roman’s charged presence had tilted the population of Hally’s smallish space from tight to seriously overcrowded.
In front of her intimate, avidly interested audience, Christine did her best to play her part right, the ingénue appealing to her hero. She widened her eyes and moved close to Roman, stroking the sharp lapel of his suit jacket.
“Don’t be angry with me, Roman. This is so difficult. I just want to get it all over with.”
He softened, as she’d hoped. He loved to play her rescuer.
“I was worried when I couldn’t find you last night,” he murmured, taking her hand and passing his thumb over the ring.
“I was praying.” She spoke the lie without a trace of guilt. “I’m so sorry to miss church, but let’s go see your parents tonight. Send the lawyers and I’ll answer questions.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes—you go on to church and I’ll call you when I’m done. They won’t let you sit in, anyway. I’m innocent of any wrongdoing. And your lawyers are the best, right?” She beamed a trusting smile at him and he fell for it, slipping a protective arm around her shoulders.
“You are under the wing of Sanclaro.” Though he ostensibly was speaking to her, he stared down the cops as he said it. They looked unimpressed.
“Ms. Davis—if you’re finished?”
“Yes. Let’s go.”
She didn’t wait for the lawyers but agreed to talk to Sanchez immediately.
“You need a sweater?” Sanchez asked her, tossing a file on the interview table. “The AC is pretty strong today.”
“I’m okay for now,” she answered.
“So, where were you last night?”
“With my lover.”
Sanchez sat back slightly. She’d surprised him out of his fatherly mien. “I take it you don’t mean your fiancé, Roman Sanclaro.”
“No. I’m cheating on Roman. Are you going to tell on me?”
“How about you give me the name of this guy?”
“I don’t care to tell you that, Detective.”
“You don’t, huh? What about when you need an alibi for where you were last night—will this prince of a guy quit hiding then?”
“Do I need an alibi for last night?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
Christine sighed, the lack of sleep settling on her shoulders like heavy snowflakes. Long enough and they’d bury her under their weight. “Look, Detective Sanchez, I know you’re trying to do the right thing. I want that, too. I’m here voluntarily, aren’t I?”
“You’re here because my officers picked you up and we damn well both know it.”
“But I haven’t lawyered up, have I? They’ll be here soon, though—so we should probably discuss what you really want to know.”
He fell silent, waiting for her to say something. She knew this from theater. The long silence that prompts the guilty party to confess because she can’t stand the shouting of her inner voices. Or the imagined thump thump, thump thump of the undying heartbeat of her victim under the floorboards. Except the police station was floored with tile. She smiled, amused at her train of thought.
“Something funny?” Sanchez looked irritated.
Score one for Christine—he’d broken the silence first.
“Just waiting for you to ask me questions.”
“I already did—who were you with last night?”
“My lover, and then my friend, Hally Roberts.”
“You’ll say her name but not his.”
“That’s right. But you already know her name.”
“We’ll find out his, too.”
“I doubt it.”
“Why’s that?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“Okay, he’s a semicorporeal being who lives under the opera house. Last night he took me to another realm, where we performed ritual sex magic to help restore his strength as a demigod.” She reviewed it in her mind. “At least, I’m pretty sure that was the purpose of what we were doing. We didn’t really discuss it in detail.”
Sanchez made a note in the file, not looking at her. “Are you waiting for me to tell you how crazy that story is?”
“Yes, actually. I know how it sounds.”
“And you’ve been down this road before, haven’t you, Christy?”
“Christine.”
“Excuse me?”
“I prefer Christine now. Or Ms. Davis would be fine.”
“I have your records, Ms. Davis.” He closed the file and tapped it with a blunt finger. “This wouldn’t be the first time you’ve experienced mental and emotional difficulties.”
The AC was cold, drilling into her stomach. She stared at the file, willing the dread away. The sight of those old papers, what they likely said about her, robbed her of her courage.
“You’re a cutter. I understand that doesn’t go away.” Sanchez was trying to sound kind. Back to the fatherly approach. “Maybe the stress is making you cut again. Or you’re purposely seeking out dangerous situations.”
All the protesting she’d done in the past—no one had ever listened. That was the thing about people starting to think you were crazy. Everything you said sounded bad. Some of the old panic began to eat away at the edges of her newfound confidence. Christy the cutter was her crippled self. Christine didn’t want to be her anymore.
“I’m not.” But her voice wavered, ever so slightly, and Sanchez heard it.
“Maybe I should take you into protective custody, have you evaluated—for your own safety.”
Asking for a sweater now would be a s
ign of weakness. I’m not a cutter. I never was a cutter. A few little cuts and that was how my father punished me. The tears pricked at her eyes and she fought them back.
Sanchez’s face wore the fog of sympathy, but the truth of his canny maneuvering shone through. Sanchez thought this was the way to get to her. By making her feel crazy. Just as her dad had.
Words lie. But her gut knew the truth.
“Thanks, but I’m fine.”
“If I think you’re a danger to yourself or others, I can have you involuntarily committed.”
She laughed, and it warmed her considerably. Now she rubbed her arms briskly. “If you read my file, you know I’ve been down that road before, Detective. Believe me, I know the rules. I’m also no longer a frightened and confused thirteen-year-old girl. You’d need a hell of a lot more than what you’ve got to do that.”
“I can do a lot.”
“Yes. But not that. You can arrest me, but you can’t make me insane.”
He leaned in, but she thought she saw a gleam of respect in his eyes. “Even if I don’t arrest you, you’ll be placed on administrative leave at the opera. The board feels there’s enough suspicion to keep you away.”
Her spirits sank. They thought she was a danger? “Why?” The question sounded plaintive.
“It’s not unusual—and totally up to a private business to make that choice, regardless of the nature of the criminal investigation. You’ll still be paid.”
As if that was all that mattered. Still, she would find other ways to see the Master, other ways to support herself. It would be better, anyway, not to have any connection to her father. She could see that now. It was time to be truly free of him. No more half steps. The idea, though, pained her deeply. “Seems to me that if you were going to arrest me, you would have done it by now. Why bother with the psych stuff if you could just lock me up?”
Sanchez sighed heavily. “A woman’s life is in danger. Do you understand that? Can’t you find it in your heart to care about her—no matter how badly she treated you?”
“I thought Carla was doing better.”
“Someone tried to kill her last night. Again.”
Christine blinked. “At the hospital?”
“No, she was released yesterday and was at home.”
“Wow. What happened? Is Charlie okay?”
“I can’t tell you anything other than Mr. Donovan is fine. Now you tell me—where were you last night? And think very, very carefully about your answer.”
5
Sanchez didn’t arrest her. They went round and round for hours—without and then with the lawyers—getting nowhere. After a while, it became clear to Christine that Sanchez, while certain she knew something about what was going on, couldn’t pin much on her. He didn’t believe she’d been with another man the night before, but he did ask several times where she thought Roman had been. She honestly didn’t know. She nearly asked why Sanchez wasn’t interrogating him, but she suspected she knew the answer to that.
Especially after Sanchez cautioned her three times to be careful.
He thought she’d been with Roman—and that she’d helped him attack Carla. Twice. She saw the conviction in his eyes.
The same officers gave her a ride home in the afternoon. She left a voice mail for Roman, grateful that he hadn’t answered his phone. She needed time to compose herself to face him and his father tonight. To build up her courage to do what she needed to do.
After she showered—she might forever associate the scent of Hally’s sandalwood lotion with the sinking fear of being recommitted—and changed clothes, they were still sitting in their car out front. Oh well, let them follow her. She waved cheerfully, then slid into her car, bouncing on the hot seat. Putting the top down helped air it out from being closed up but felt kind of frivolous.
She drove to Trader Joe’s. Sunday afternoon was not the time to shop, but she needed groceries. Plus it amused her that the cops had to deal with the chaos of the parking lot to keep an eye on her. It felt safe and normal to be amid the press of people, even the impatient ones, and the harried others with whiny children. This was how it ought to be for people. Living their lives, feeding their families.
Not relegated to being extinct shadow people, sacrificed for someone else’s greed.
She’d been ignoring her phone, except to text Hally that all was fine.
Her father had called a number of times. No surprise there. She deleted the voice mails without listening. No doubt her father knew she’d been put on administrative leave. But there was no way in hell she was going home. And she still wasn’t ready to tell him what she’d found out. So there was nothing to discuss.
When she returned to her apartment, Roman was waiting on her doorstep. The tension immediately crawled up her neck. He’d changed out of his church clothes and wore faded jeans and an open shirt. No doubt he’d bought the jeans that way, but he still looked younger, more like a guy her age. Except for his flat eyes, beady and without remorse, like a spider’s. His dangerous mien.
He straightened up when she came up the stairs and gave her a rueful smile that did nothing to warm his eyes. “I missed you, so I came early.”
“That’s sweet of you.” She pecked him on the cheek to avoid more of a kiss.
He took a couple of the grocery bags from her, giving an irritated look at the cheerful Reusable Bag! cartoons on them. “Let me help you,” he said, and they both pretended this wasn’t the first time he’d ever entered her apartment.
“Want a beer?” Christine held up the six-pack she’d bought. She tried not to fret about him coming into her apartment. Why the sudden change of heart? Did he suspect she was lying to him? “They’re not cold, but they’re air-conditioned-store cool.”
“Yeah. Okay, thanks.”
He sat in one of her faux Southwestern-antique bar stools, painted a garish orange she planned to change one of these weekends, and watched her put the groceries away, his eyes speculative. When she finished, she popped a beer for herself, leaned her elbows on the counter, and raised her eyebrows in silent question.
“I see the cops are sitting outside.”
“Yeah. I guess I’m of sufficient interest that they want to see what I buy at Trader Joe’s.”
He snorted, then searched her face. She kept hers smooth, no cracks for him to crawl into. “They treat you okay? I hated to think of you being down there all alone.”
“I’m fine. It wasn’t too bad. I don’t know anything, so that helps.”
“You know something.” When she straightened, he tilted his head, giving her that charming grin. “The lawyers said they asked about me. And that you talked to the cops before they got there. What did you tell them?”
The fine hairs prickled on her arms, but she played it cool. And stupid. “What would I say? You don’t know anything. You’re only involved in all of this because of dumb ol’ me.”
“Yeah.” He shrugged, drinking his beer, his eyes on her. “Where did you go to pray last night?”
She started to say “huh?” but stopped at the flat look in his eyes. Hard-edged, full of venom.
“You didn’t have your car, so where did you go? Are you seeing someone else?”
“No!” But she heard the lie in her own voice.
“Because I’ll kill him, if you are. And then I’ll make you sorry. Do you understand?”
“I’m not seeing anyone else.”
He laughed, a hollow sound. “You sound oh so guilty. Tell me the truth. Confession is good for the soul.”
Her sunny kitchen dimmed and exhaustion crept in, a headache throbbing in her temples. She rubbed one, aware of Roman’s cruel smile. He rose and patted her on the ass on the way to the refrigerator. “Want another one, sweet girl?”
“I think you should go. I need to rest before dinner tonight.”
“But we haven’t finished talking. You’re a terrible liar, you know. Makes me wonder whose blood you carry after all.”
That remark chilled h
er further.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I think you know.” He raised an eyebrow and leaned against the counter; elegant, confident. “You’ve been doing your research, haven’t you? The merger of our two families will be quite profitable for us all. It’s fated.”
“I don’t believe in fate.” But her mouth was dry around the words, full of sticky cobwebs.
Roman popped the top on the beer and carelessly dropped the cap on the floor. “You don’t have to believe anything. You just have to be a good girl and do what you’re told. Are you being a good girl, Christy?” He helped himself to the bag of chips she’d planned to pack in her lunches. “I know what my fiancée told me—pillow talk, you know. You felt so guilty, confessing to me about your secret lover. Maybe he’s the one who hurt the lovely Carla, whose only crime was to piss you off.”
She stared at him aghast. He tossed the bag aside and, in a lightning-fast move, grabbed her by her wrists, wrestling them behind her and crushing her against the counter. He tried to kiss her, but she turned her face away, struggling to get loose, so he sank his teeth into the cord of muscle beneath her ear, grinding his erect cock against her tender mound.
Christine inhaled to scream and he spoke through his teeth. “Go ahead. Scream. The cops can’t touch me and I can always punish you later. Believe me—I know how to do it in ways that won’t show. You have belonged to the Sanclaros since you were born. Since before that—no matter what your stubborn father says. No one else will have you. I’ll kill you first.”
She stilled and he chuckled, licking where he’d bit her. “Just a little love bite, huh, sweet girl? Now tell me the truth.”
“There’s no one else.” She tried to make it sound true.
He smiled and let her go. For a moment she thought she’d convinced him.
Then he slapped her, hard.
She clapped her hand to her cheek, helplessness and rage rising up, choking her. Roman studied her, filing away her reactions. “Have you read Story of O? A dirty slut like you would have, I’d think. In there they say you should never spank a girl a little bit, because she grows to enjoy it. No, beatings should be reserved to break her spirit. Otherwise you risk not having perfect obedience. That is what I require of you, Christine. If there was anyone else, you will never contact him again. You understand the consequences if you do?”
Master of the Opera, Act 5: A Haunting Duet Page 3
