DIVA (12 page)

But soon he’d be working for Belinda. Alone with her every day. Bliss.

He took a bottle of extra-strength Excedrin off the upended milk crate that served as his coffee table and dry-swallowed two capsules.

Please call soon, Belinda
. He checked to make sure his Belinda-phone was on. He didn’t want to miss her call. With loving care, he placed it on the milk crate, stretched out on the futon and shut his eyes.

Useless. Every muscle in his body was taut as a bowstring.

What if she didn’t call? What if she rejected him the way she had years ago? Excruciating white-light pain seared his temples. How could she keep him in suspense like this? He rose from the futon, went to his stereo and put on one of her CDs,
The Romantic Flute.

The sensuous sound of her flute filled the room, dragging him into a deep chasm of desire. A shiver wracked him. Her next CD was due out at Christmas.
Music for Lovers Only
. He could hardly wait.

Her brochure lay atop the file cabinet beside the stereo. Belinda, gazing at him, smiling seductively. He unzipped his fly and began to stroke himself.

______

Frank parked behind the line of vehicles strung out along the road. The black crime-scene van, blue-and-white squad cars and assorted crime-scene tech vehicles lined up bumper to bumper. The coroner investigator’s van was still here which meant they hadn’t removed the body.

Acid churned his gut like a cement mixer. In Boston the street-maggots used to call him a badass motherfucker. Right now that’s what he was: A badass motherfucker driven by rage. And ready to kick ass.

He stalked along an embankment beside the murky waters of the bayou. Forty yards ahead of him, uniformed police and plainclothes detectives clustered near a clump of juniper bushes strung with yellow crime-scene tape. Kenyon Miller saw him, broke off a conversation with two detectives and hurried over, a dark-skinned, six-foot-six 240-pound powerhouse with a shaven head and a soul patch under his lower lip.

“They capped her twice in the chest, once in the face,” Miller said, his expression a study in outrage. “Dumped her like a piece of garbage. Damn shame, a girl that young,”

Frank said nothing, steeling himself, knowing what he was about to see would sicken him. During his twenty-plus years as a cop he’d seen many murder victims and had mourned them all. No one deserved to be murdered. But like most cops, he had a much harder time with young victims.

He ducked under the crime scene tape and followed Miller around a cluster of stunted juniper bushes. Saw Chantelle, flat on her back, naked from the waist down, legs splayed. Her white T-shirt was stained brown with dried blood. Her eyes were open and staring, dimmed by the opaque film that settles over the eyes of the dead.

He bent down and examined her face, recalling how she’d looked in the interview room when she talked about singing, the one time she seemed happy. Now an entry wound disfigured one cheek, an ugly hole rimmed with powder burns. The exit wound on the other cheek was worse.

Sickened by the atrocity, he straightened. Fought down the bile that rose in his throat. “Somebody sending a message.”

Miller nodded. “You find anything at the apartment?”

“She’d been there, looked like she left in a hurry, peanut butter and crackers on the counter.”

Over Miller’s shoulder, he saw Detective Sergeant Morgan Vobitch heading their way. A twenty-year NOPD veteran in his mid-fifties, Vobitch supervised the homicide detectives assigned to Districts One, Three and Eight. The day they met Vobitch had said they were birds of a feather—Yankee outsiders—Frank an Italian from Boston, Vobitch a New York Jew, with a big nose to match his pugnacious attitude. Other than his full head of wavy slate-gray hair, he resembled Sipowitz on
NYPD Blue,
and he had the same take-no-shit attitude.

Frank loved the guy.

Vobitch rolled up to them like a Sherman tank, his slate-gray eyes full of anger. “She was your girl, right, Frank? Damn shame. These fuckin maggots have no respect for life. None at all.”

Frank clenched his jaw. “And I’m gonna nail them. I’m pretty sure she was squatting in Iberville.”

Vobitch said to Miller, “You think AK was involved? He runs that place, right?”

“Last time I checked,” Miller said. “Frank talked to him last week.”

Vobitch swung his leonine head to Frank. “And?”

“I showed her picture to AK and two of his thugs. None of them knew her, of course.”

“Of course.” Vobitch’s lip curled in a sneer. “Nobody’ll know anything about this either, you ask around. You think she was in on the robbery? The clerk said the second kid was tall and skinny.” He gestured at Chantelle’s body. “She’s about five-eight, skinny, hair cropped short. Maybe the clerk mistook her for a guy.”

Frank shook his head. “No dreads.”

Vobitch snapped his fingers. “Right. The second kid had dreads. You want in on the autopsy?”

The idea of watching the coroner dissect Chantelle’s body sickened him.

The badass motherfucker inside him rose up like a cobra.

“No. I want to catch the sick fucks that killed her and bust their balls with a hammer.”

CHAPTER 12

Wednesday, 25 October

Jake hurriedly loaded the dishes into the dishwasher and hit Start. It was later than usual. After dinner they’d lingered over Dean’s latest concoction, chocolate torte with Grand Marnier sauce. Dean knew how much he loved chocolate, knew he could seduce him with it.

When he went in the living room, the sweet scent of pot filled the air. Slouched on the sofa, Dean gave him a dreamy smile and held out a fat blunt.

“Let’s get buzzed, Jake. I had a helluva day. Traffic was insane, big accident on the I-10.”

He took a hit and held the smoke in his lungs, waiting for the lazy feeling of lassitude to soothe him. He didn’t do pot every day like Dean, but tonight he needed it. “Long day for me, too, what with the Cincinnati concert and the new security man. He’s a pain in the ass. When I called, he insisted on coming right over so he could check the security system. He made me take him through the whole house and get him a key.”

“To Belinda’s house?” Dean gazed at him, wide-eyed. “Why?”

“In case the alarm goes off while we’re away. The cops get pissed if no one’s around to take care of it.”

Dean’s mouth quirked in disdain. “How’s the Queen Bee doing?”

“She’s fine. I still can’t believe she called Renzi instead of me.”

“Jealous, Jake?” Dean gazed at him, his eyes liquid-chocolate. “Renzi’s Italian. Dark, dangerous and sexy. Maybe she’ll fall for him.”

“Who cares? I’m just glad she hired some security. If I bring up the accident or those awful notes, she won’t discuss it. Bad luck, she says. She’s so superstitious it’s pathetic. I spent an hour on the phone today because some idiot at the hotel in Cincinnati gave her Room 813. When I booked it I
told
him not to give her a room with thirteen in it.”

Dean took another hit, set the blunt in an ashtray and put his feet on the coffee table.

He stroked Dean’s thigh. “I won’t be gone long. We fly out Thursday, rehearse that night, play the concert on Friday. We’ll be back on Saturday.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m taking a few days off to fly to New York.”

His heart quivered, a nervous tremolo. “To see your folks?”

And thought:
No, stupid. They live in Massachusetts.

Dean mocked him with a smile. “Jake gets an F in geography. I’ve got an appointment at Pratt Institute. An advisor wants to show me around and tell me about their graduate degrees.”

“Pratt?” he said stupidly. The pot had slowed his mind to a crawl.

“Yes, Pratt.” Dean’s voice crackled with anger. “You’re the one that keeps saying I should go to art school.”

“But Pratt’s in New York City.” Loathing the distress in his voice.

“Yes it is, Jake. In New York City. There are lots of organist jobs there, too. You used to have one, remember? Before you turned into Belinda’s step-n-fetch-it. I’m sick of having my life revolve around Belinda.”

Acid flooded his stomach. “Dean, please don’t do this to me.”

“I’m not doing anything to you. You think Belinda can’t live without you. Bullshit. Let the security guy can be her gopher. You deserve to be happy. We deserve to be happy together.”

“And I want us to be, but I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can. Check the job postings on the American Guild of Organists website.”

He stared at the floor, recalling the fabulous cultural offerings in New York. The Philharmonic, the Met opera, organ recitals at Riverside Church, art exhibits at MOMA. He and Dean could enjoy them together without worrying that some homophobic nutcase would see them and gossip about it. In New York they could be just another gay couple, unlike New Orleans.

Guilt crept into his thoughts like a London fog. What would Belinda do without him? He wasn't just her manager. She depended on him for emotional support. She also liked having a handsome, well-dressed man squire her around, a well-educated man who loved music. No strings attached. And what did she do for him? He couldn’t confide in her, couldn’t explain that Dean was six years younger than he was. Handsome and smart. Witty and fun. A joy to be with. He couldn’t tell her his deepest fear: Dean might fall in love with another man.

He glanced at Dean, sitting beside him, eyes closed, head tipped back. The person he loved more than anyone in the world.

“You’re right, Dean. I’ll check the AGO website tomorrow.”

_____

Thursday, 26 October

He studied his beloved in the rearview, seated in the back seat of his Ford E-350XL van. He had invited her to sit in front with him, but she had refused. Disappointing, but given her recent troubles, he supposed it was natural that she’d be standoffish at first. That would soon change. Soon they’d be sleeping together in her cozy double bed.

Soon those pliant pink lips would be sucking his cock.

“When shall we sit down and discuss my security assessment?”

Her gaze met his in the rearview, eyes distant.

“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.”

“We should do it as soon as possible. How about tomorrow?”

A bicyclist zoomed out from a side street in front of him. He hit the brakes, gave the kid a nasty look and returned his attention to Belinda.

But she wasn’t looking at him, intent on her stupid paperwork.

“Ma’am?” He was dying to call her Belinda as he did each night in his dreams, but he didn’t want to appear too familiar. Plenty of time for that.

She met his gaze in the rearview. “What?”

“Can we discuss my security assessment tomorrow?”

“All right.” Her sapphire-blue eyes defrosted a bit. “That’s a nasty cut on your cheek.”

He smiled at her in the mirror. “Last night at the gym I went three rounds with the local heavyweight. We were wearing helmets, but he clipped me pretty hard.” A lie, but it sounded good. Yesterday, in his haste to make himself presentable, he’d cut himself shaving. But when he got to her house, Ziegler had showed him around, not Belinda. What a letdown.

“My British employer may not have mentioned it, but I had to rescue him once from a serious threat. A disturbed man tried to stab him. I put some muscle on the creep and ran him off. Damn near broke his arm.”

Now his beloved was gazing at him with rapt attention. “No one will hurt you when I’m around, Ms. Scully. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Thank you, Mr. Silverman. I appreciate it.”

He smiled.
You can show me your appreciation in bed. Soon.

_____

He waited for her outside in the courtyard. Belinda had four flute students at NOCCA so he’d be driving her here once a week. Before her first lesson, she had taken him to the office. A clerk printed his name—Barry Silverman—on a Permanent Visitor Pass and inserted it into a plastic lanyard to wear around his neck. He shoved it into the pocket of his tailored black suit and sank onto a gray-marble bench shaded by a two-story building.

A warm breeze ruffled raspberry-red flowers in the planters lining the rectangular courtyard. Belinda was teaching in the yellow-brick building to his right. Letters on a sign above the glass double-doors said:
NEW ORLEANS CENTER FOR THE CREATIVE ARTS: RIVERFRONT
. The lessons lasted forty-five minutes. Maybe she’d let him sit in on one sometime. That would be fun.

Two black students pushed through the glass doors, joking and laughing. Both wore Nikes and hooded sweatshirts. The boy’s was red, the girl’s green. They saw him and quieted.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” He smiled, felt pleased when they smiled back.

Three more students emerged from the building, carrying violin cases, chattering away as they walked through the courtyard toward the parking lot. Moments later a stocky dark-skinned student burst through the doors and stomped down the steps. He looked angry: lower lip stuck out, brows knit in a frown as he marched along carrying a flute case. He didn’t look much like a flute player, not with that squat chunky body and those thick fingers, holding the flute case in one hand, a music folder in the other.

“Hi there,” he said. “I bet you’re a flute player.” Still scowling, the kid kept walking. “Seems like you’re upset. I hope you’re not mad at Belinda.”

The kid jerked to a halt. “Why would I be mad at Ms. Scully?”

He spread his hands in a disarming gesture. “I guessed right? She’s your teacher?” When the kid nodded, he said, “I’m her security guard. I’m a musician too, a pianist.”

The kid said nothing, dark eyes wary, shifting his body back and forth, rocking from one foot to the other.

“My name’s Barry, what’s yours?” He offered his hand.

The kid had manners at least, came and shook his hand. “Marcus Goines. Ms. Scully’s a great teacher. I been studying with her for two years.”

“She’s a marvelous flutist. I heard her play the Khachaturian in London last week.” He raised his thumb and forefinger to his lips and kissed them. “Magnifique!”