DIVA (15 page)

She took out a teal-green top. The color complimented her hair, and the scoop neck displayed her creamy skin. It had cost plenty to erase the splotches on her neck and shoulders, ugly reminders of the hours she’d spent at the beach as a teenager, trying for a tan and getting sunburned instead.

She put the outfit on her bed, removed her robe and studied herself in the full-length mirror beside the closet. She never worried about her weight. One-hundred-fifteen pounds in high school, not an ounce more now. But her upper arms looked flabby. She needed to work out more.

A tap sounded on the door. “I’m about to leave, Bee. Need anything before I go?”

She put on her robe and belted it. “Come in, Jake. I’m getting ready for tonight’s concert.”

When he stepped into the room, she held up her teal-green top.

“Do you think this is too dressy for the NOCCA concert?”

“It’s fine,” he said, pacing the oval rug between her bed and dresser. “You know, I’m not sure Silverman is going to work out.”

“Why not?” She picked up the velvet pants.

“He’s getting on my nerves. He comes in my office when I’m working.”

“He’s just making conversation, trying to get to know you.”

“He doesn’t give a damn about me. He’s more interested in
you
.”

“That’s his job, isn’t it? Jake, you’re the one that wanted me to hire a security man.” She inspected the pants. Nothing looked worse than lint specks on black velvet. She took a lint brush out of her dresser drawer and rolled it over one leg of the pants.

“I caught him going through the file cabinet this morning. And he wants to come with us when you play the concert in Cincinnati.”

She finished one leg and started on the other. “I don’t think that’s necessary, do you?”

“That’s what I told him, but he told me to check with you.”

“He’s not a bad guy once you get to know him. I think he’s a bit insecure—”

“Insecure? Christ, he’s your security man!”

“That’s not what I meant. He’s an excellent driver. I meant
personally
insecure. He’s not that attractive. All those acne scars and that frizzy hair. We chatted today in the car. He thinks I’m absolutely right not to talk to reporters about the accident.”

She raised the teal-green top to her nose and detected a chemical odor from the dry cleaners. Maybe she could mask it with perfume. If Frank asked her out after the concert, she didn’t want to smell like a chem lab.

“What accident?” Jake said.

She looked at him. “The accident that killed my family. What did you think I was talking about?”

“The accident last week when someone ran you off the road. The one in the restaurant parking lot when someone tried to
kill
you!”

“Stop saying that!” She hugged the nubby terrycloth robe against her bare skin. “You’re trying to scare me, and I don’t like it!”

He came closer, eyes full of concern. “I worry about you, Bee.”

Then why did you threaten to leave me?

She gave him one of her high-wattage smiles. “Mr. Silverman’s a bit awkward, but he’s harmless. He’s driving me to the NOCCA concert tonight. Go on home and have a nice dinner with Dean.”

Jake gazed at her silently for several seconds, and left without further argument. How could he argue? She’d sent him home to spend time with his beloved Dean. He couldn’t use that as an excuse to leave her.

Her stomach clenched. If Jake left, she’d be all alone. She felt like she’d been alone forever. Her family, killed by a drunk driver. Nick, expecting her to abandon her career to have his baby. Guy, seducing her, then kissing her off. Ramon, a virtuoso bassist, seducing her with his music and lovemaking, promising they’d be together some day. A dream thwarted by his spitfire wife, whose ugly threats had driven her out of Boston.

She made her mind go blank. Chanted her lucky mantra.
Never give in to fear. Act successful and you will be successful. Believe in yourself and you cannot fail.

To hell with Nick and Guy and Ramon. They were ancient history. Her career was taking off. Fame was right around the corner.

She put on the teal-green top and studied her image in the mirror. She’d tell the kid in charge of lighting to kill the lights for her solo and put a green spot on her. That would get their attention.

All eyes would be on her, including Frank’s. Frank wasn’t married. And she was Belinda Scully, a strong woman with talent and personality and determination. A winner who went after what she wanted. And usually got it.

She could tell he was attracted to her. A delicious tingle swept her body.

Her performance was certain to captivate him. After the concert, when he came back stage to congratulate her, she would charm him into taking her out for a drink.

After that, anything could happen.

CHAPTER 15

At the last minute Frank changed his mind and went to the NOCCA concert. Maybe a dose of jazz would dispel his dark mood and take his mind off Chantelle’s funeral. The Black Box Theater held maybe a hundred chairs on risers that formed a U facing the stage. By the time he got there most of them were occupied. A grand piano sat stage left; a full trap set with shiny cymbals of various sizes sat stage right. Near the back wall an amplifier powered two large speakers located on either side of the stage. He took a seat at the end of a row near the door in case he had to make a fast exit.

The lights dimmed and a tall black man with a neat goatee stepped to a microphone. Greeted by warm applause, the NOCCA music director welcomed the audience and introduced the jazz band director, Leonard Dawson, a freckle-faced redhead. Bouncing with enthusiasm, Dawson led off the concert with a lower-level quintet.

Frank was impressed with the drummer, an energetic black kid with fantastic time, but the bass player, dwarfed by his instrument, struggled to be heard. The piano player showed flashes of talent amidst clichéd jazz licks, same with the guitar player. To close the set a young trumpet player took a chorus on “Well You Needn’t.” Frank wanted to grab his trumpet and show him how to improvise, the kid never stopping to rest, playing a zillion notes that went nowhere. No matter. The crowd gave him a standing ovation.

The first group left the stage and NOCCA’s top jazz group took their places. Frank checked the program. After their set, Belinda Scully would play. The scholarship quintet featured a chubby black kid on flute, a slender black kid on alto sax, white kids on piano and bass, and the same drummer as before. Halfway through “The Touch of Your Lips,” the alto sax player stepped forward to take a solo.

He wore dark glasses and a suit jacket over a Chantelle memorial T-shirt. That got Frank’s attention. The kid had talent, fluid technique, nice transitions over the chord changes, knew enough to leave some space between the notes. At the end of his third chorus, the kid faded away, the mournful sound ending in an almost-silent moan.

The audience erupted in wild applause, but the kid didn’t acknowledge it. As the band continued playing, he tipped an imaginary hat to the director and walked offstage. Frank slipped out of the dark theater and checked the program for the Scholarship Quintet roster.

Alto saxophone, Antoine Carter. First initial
A
. Last initial
C
.

He went to the foyer and looked down the hall that led backstage. No sign of Antoine Carter. The kid with the memorial T-shirt. The kid he’d seen at Chantelle’s funeral this afternoon. He pushed through the glass doors onto the shadowy courtyard, hoping Antoine would soon appear. Belinda’s solo was next and he didn’t want to miss it.

Five minutes passed. No sign of the kid. Maybe he was still backstage. Maybe he’d left through another door. Maybe he wasn’t leaving. Concealed in shadow alongside the building, Frank decided to go back inside. Stopped as Antoine pushed through the glass doors and hustled down the steps, head down, dreadlocks braided in thin strands brushing his shoulders.

Frank stepped out of the shadows to intercept him. “Nice solo. You listen to Chet Baker a lot?”

The kid froze, poised to run like a deer in the headlights.

“You dig Chet Baker?” he said softly, dark-skinned face expressionless. Sunglasses masked his eyes, so it was hard to gauge his feelings, except for his lips. His lips were set in a grim line.

“Your improv on ‘Touch of Your Lips’ reminded me of some things Chet Baker used to do,” Frank said. “But your sound now . . . you sound more like Antonio Hart. Or Kenny Garrett, maybe.”

The kid’s lips twitched, almost a smile, still looked like he wanted to run.

“Didn’t I see you at Chantelle’s funeral this afternoon?”

Antoine’s head jerked up, though his face remained impassive.

“I was there.” He flashed his ID. “NOPD Detective Frank Renzi. Was Chantelle your girlfriend?”

“You the cop put her in that foster home?” the kid asked, fear radiating from him in waves.

“Yes. I caught her in Lakeview. What was she doing up there?”

“Don’t know nothin about that.”

“Did you know she was squatting at Iberville?”

Ten seconds passed. Fifteen. Emotion rolling over the kid’s face.

“Only thing I know, she’s dead.”

“And you’re hurting,” he said gently. “I want to catch her killer, Antoine. She was too young to die. What was she doing in Lakeview that night?”

A stillness came over the kid, restrained tension, as though he was willing himself not to run.

He decided not to push it. “Go home and listen to some music, Antoine. That’s what I do when I’m hurting.” He held out his card. “I told Chantelle to call me if she needed help. And I’m telling you the same thing. Call my cell phone if you’re in trouble. Anytime, day or night.”

For a second he thought the kid wouldn’t take it. After an eternity, Antoine reached for the card, turned and trudged across the courtyard.

Frank watched him, aching for the kid.

Crime was off the chart since Katrina, the good folks unable to return, the thugs back with a vengeance, dealing drugs and settling scores, which meant most of the victims were young and black and poor.

Setting his gloomy thoughts aside, he entered the building, hustled down a hallway and slipped into his seat in the Black Box Theater.

Belinda stood onstage with one of her flute students. “My student Marcus Goines inspired the piece I’m about to play,” she said. “My variations on George Gershwin’s
I’ve Got Rhythm
.”

A chunky black kid with close-cropped hair, Marcus almost levitated. His chest puffed out and a broad smile suffused his face as the audience applauded. He gave a stiff bow and left the stage. As he took his seat, Belinda gazed out at the audience as though she was searching for someone.

Frank sank lower in his seat, hoping she wouldn’t spot him. She looked gorgeous, not eye-candy but close, slim and trim in a pair of black velvet pants, coppery hair brushing her teal-green top.

“George dedicated
I’ve Got Rhythm
to his brother Ira,” she said, her eyes bright with tears. “I’d like to dedicate this performance of the piece to
my
brother. Blaine Scully.”

She raised her flute to her mouth and played the melody, swaying to the music, flaunting her fat silky sound. Then, an abrupt shift into double-time, playing at breakneck speed, swoops and swirls of high notes, low notes and everything in between. The third chorus she took in a slow-drag did everything but shimmy her hips, emitting low sexy growls on her flute. The final chorus was pure virtuosity as she played the melody in one octave, splashing a zillion notes in the octave above.

The ending brought whoops and applause. Belinda bowed and blew kisses to the audience. But her playing left him cold. She had great chops, but the performance seemed designed to display her virtuosity, not the music. Belinda Scully was very attractive, very intelligent, very charming and very talented. And she knew it. That’s why she had invited him to the concert. Maybe he had misinterpreted the vibe she had sent him at her house that night. Then, it had seemed like a seduction.

Tonight it felt like a love-me vibe, more needy than seductive.

Protocol dictated that he go backstage and congratulate her. But he didn’t feel like it. Chantelle’s funeral had put him in a funk. Talking to Antoine had made it worse. Like Romeo and Juliet, Antoine and Chantelle were star-crossed lovers, but in this case only one lover had died. The other was suffering.

He left the theater wishing he could talk to Gina and get her take on the Lakeview case. A savvy investigative reporter, Gina covered the crime beat for the Boston
Herald
. He hadn’t spoken with her for two years. Gina had found someone else. He still missed her.

But he lived in New Orleans now. And so did Kelly O’Neil. Tomorrow night he would meet her at The Bulldog. Kelly with the sea-green eyes, sensuous lips, and mischievous sense of humor. Tempting, but dangerous.

They both worked Homicide. Hell, they even had the same supervisor.

Definitely against his rules.

Then again, lots of times his motto was FTR. Fuck the rules.

_____

Sick with disappointment, Belinda walked along the path to the parking lot beside Mr. Silverman. She’d seen Frank in the audience, had waited for him after the concert, anticipating the admiration in his eyes when he came backstage to compliment her bravura performance. He hadn’t.

She couldn’t understand it. At her house after the accident he’d been so kind and considerate, soothing her anguish when she told him about the abortion. The chemistry between them was unmistakable. There had to be some explanation. Maybe he’d been called to an emergency, like that first night at the station.

She glanced at Mr. Silverman, striding along beside her, tall and muscular in his tailored black suit. Unlike Frank, he had lavished praise on her solo. Too bad he wasn’t more attractive. His voice was annoying, too, an adenoidal drone. Still, he did make her feel safer. A full moon shone down upon the few remaining cars, Mr. Silverman’s van and half a dozen others scattered about the dark deserted lot.