DIVA (23 page)

With Antoine’s words echoing in his mind, he parked in front of a small Creole cottage painted forest-green with white trim. He wasn’t looking forward to interviewing Ziegler’s partner, but if there were problems in the relationship, he needed to know.

Well-tended shrubs bordered the front walk and a planter of orange marigolds hung from a hook on the porch roof. He pushed the doorbell and waited. Heavy drapes covered the windows beside the door. A minute passed. He rang the bell again. Maybe Silva was out. He had chosen not to call first. In his experience, surprise visits usually brought the best results.

The sounds of a bolt being drawn and clicking locks told him he was about to meet Ziegler’s partner. The door opened, revealing a young man with rumpled hair and red-rimmed eyes. “Mr. Silva? I’m Detective Frank Renzi, NOPD. Belinda Scully gave me your address. Can I come in? I’ve got a few questions.”

Silva stared at him silently. He seemed dazed. A man in his early thirties, five-seven, slender but well built. His dark hair looked like it hadn’t been washed and his chocolate-brown eyes were bloodshot.

“I know this is a difficult time, Mr. Silva, but the questions won’t wait.”

With a resigned sigh, Silva showed him into the living room. A mélange of odors permeated the air, some sort of spicy food he couldn’t identify and a pungent aroma he knew quite well. Darkened by heavy drapes, the only light in the room came from a small table lamp. A brown leather couch faced a big-screen TV and an elaborate stereo system. He took a seat on the couch.

Silva hesitated, then perched on the other end.

“Belinda told me you were Jake’s partner. I spoke with him a few times, and he seemed like a nice guy. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Silva’s eyes teared up and his Adam’s apple bobbed.

“The doctor said you brought him to the hospital. Could you tell me what happened?”

Silva took a pack of Marlboros off the coffee table, shook one out and lighted it. Took a drag and blew smoke. To Frank, it seemed like Silva was buying time to construct his story. He’d seen that a few times. But maybe not.

At last Silva said, “Jake left for work around eight. I was off yesterday so I didn’t . . .” His eyes teared up again. He swallowed hard. “I didn’t have breakfast with him.”

“You were off yesterday. Off from work?”

“Yes. I’m a medical courier. I deliver blood and tissue samples for Beta Diagnostics. If I work on a weekend, I get to take a weekday off.”

He made a mental note to check this with Silva’s employer.

“Jake called me at three-thirty and said he felt sick. I told him to come home, but he said he had too much work to do.” Silva took jagged puffs on his cigarette and blew smoke. “For Belinda. She’s got a concert in Baton Rouge on Sunday and another one in Kentucky next Saturday.”

Silva’s body language sent a clear message: He wasn’t fond of Belinda.

“So Jake didn’t come home?”

More jagged puffs, more plumes of smoke. “Not till four-thirty. He’d vomited twice at the office. I made him a cup of tea. Sometimes that settles your stomach, but it didn’t help. Jake had a terrible headache. I wanted to take him to the emergency room, but he just wanted to lie down and sleep. He said he couldn’t afford to get sick. He had to go to the concerts in Baton Rouge and Louisville with Belinda.” A tick pulsed in Silva’s cheek.

“Seems like Belinda Scully is a demanding employer.”

“You can say that again!” Silva’s eyes blazed with anger. “She’d call him all hours of the night, even on weekends. Not about anything important. Things she could have done for herself.”

Silva seemed jealous of Ziegler’s relationship with Belinda. But that didn’t mean he wanted Ziegler dead. His grief seemed genuine.

“How were you and Jake getting along?”

Silva gazed at him, sullen and squinty-eyed. “We’ve been together for sixteen years. We got along fine.”

“No arguments? No disagreements about the time he spent at work?”

“A few spats, maybe. Nothing serious. It was more about—” Silva snubbed out his cigarette.

“More about what?”

The tick in Silva’s cheek pulsed rapidly. “Jake was in the closet. He was afraid to tell his parents, afraid they’d disown him or some goddam thing. I begged him to tell them, but he wouldn’t. Now I can’t even go to the funeral. It’s like I’m nothing.” His eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Sixteen years together, and this is how it ends.”

Frank felt a pang of sympathy. He’d worked with a Boston cop in a similar situation. Ron was out, but his partner, the only son of Irish-Catholic parents, wasn’t. “I’m sorry, Dean. Maybe society will wake up someday and figure out that if two people love each other, they should be together, no matter what.”

Dean’s attempt at an appreciative smile failed.

“What did Jake have for breakfast yesterday?”

“Orange juice, black coffee, and a bowl of cereal with a banana.”

“What kind of cereal?”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Why? You think I poisoned him?”

“I’m trying to figure out what made him sick. Food poisoning is one possibility.” But not the only one.

“Cocoa Puffs. I hate that crap, but Jake loved it. That’s all he ever ate for breakfast. Except when I made pancakes on the weekend.”

“How about the orange juice? Did you drink some?”

“Yes, and it wasn’t the coffee.” Dean shot him a belligerent look. “Jake made a big pot of dark roast with chicory. I drank the rest and didn’t get sick, so you can cross that off the list.”

“Belinda said you and Jake planned to move to New York.”

“She did? Amazing. She wasn’t happy about it, I can tell you that. I got accepted into the masters program at Pratt. Classes start in January. It was going to be great. We’d be in a big city. A city that isn’t full of religious bigots like New Orleans. We could go places together like we used to.” He broke off and stared into space.

“Where was that?”

“Providence. We met at an organ recital at Brown University. Jake’s a terrific organist. He was looking forward to finding another job in New York.” Dean’s mouth twisted. “And now he’s dead.”

“The plans were still on for you to move to New York?”

“Yes,” Dean snapped. “I loved Jake. Why would I poison him?”

“Take it easy, Dean. With an unexplained death, we have to cover all the bases. I don’t have the autopsy report yet. Or the toxicology results.” He studied Dean’s reaction. Dean appeared unperturbed. Maybe he didn’t understand how thorough toxicology tests could be.

“It may have been something Jake ate, spoiled food maybe.” But thanks to Doctor Perez’s poison tutorial, he doubted it. He closed his notepad and stood. “Thanks, Dean. I’m sorry to bother you at a time like this.”

“Will you call me when you get the autopsy results?”

“I will.” He smiled. “By the way, who’s your supplier?”

Dean looked at him, blank-faced. “Supplier?”

He tapped his nose. “The minute I came inside your house my pot detector went off.”

Dean’s body tensed and the nervous tick in his cheek jumped like crazy.

“I’m not looking to bust you for smoking pot in your own house, Dean. But I’d like to know who your supplier is.”

A small shrug. “Just some kid.”

“What’s his name?”

“Name? These guys don’t give you names. I call him Shorty. It’s not like he gave me his business card. I think he goes to NOCCA.”

His neck prickled. “What makes you think that?”

“I meet him two blocks from the school after classes get out. He parks at the corner and we . . . do what we do.”

“What kind of car does he drive?”

“I don’t know. An old Chevy, I think. I’m not into cars. Dark blue.”

Not Antoine, Frank thought, relieved. Antoine drove a bronze Ford Tempo. “Describe him.”

“A black kid with a chubby face and short dark hair. Short and kinky.”

Definitely not Antoine. Antoine had dreads. “Was Jake into pot, too?”

“Not really. We’d share a blunt now and then.”

“Did Belinda know about it?”

Dean Silva’s liquid-brown eyes hardened. “Belinda didn’t have a clue.”

CHAPTER 23

“Dean, I know you’re hurting right now—”

“Hurting? Christ, Belinda, Jake is dead! How am I supposed to feel?”

Hunched over Jake’s desk, she gripped the phone in one hand, massaged her forehead with the other. This was the call she’d been dreading. Tension gripped her stomach in a stranglehold.

“I know how much you loved him. I just wanted to—”

“Wanted to what? Console me? Be serious. You don’t give a shit about me or anyone else. Jake did everything for you! And what did he get from you? Nothing. No consideration that he might have a life of his own. You expected him to work his ass off for you. That’s all you care about. Yourself and your fucking career.”

Stunned by the ferocity of his attack, she blinked back tears. Still, in her heart, she knew Dean was right. She had been inconsiderate. Laying guilt trips on Jake for wanting to move to New York. To be with Dean.

I love him, Bee. I don’t want to lose him.

A tear ran down her cheek. She brushed it away. Regained a semblance of control. “His parents plan to hold the funeral on Long Island where they live. They hired a funeral director to—” She stifled a sob as tears ran down her cheeks. “They hired a local funeral director to make arrangements to transport Jake’s body to Long Island by train.”

“When? I’ll ride up with you.”

“Saturday morning. I’m flying up on Sunday.”

“Fine, but I’m going on the train. With Jake.”

A vicious click in her ear and Dean was gone. She grabbed a tissue, blew her nose and wandered into her studio. Music was her only refuge, her one escape from grief. But she was too upset to play her flute.

Her eyes welled with tears, tears that streamed down her cheeks and dripped into her mouth, salty and bitter. A torrent of grief.

Sobbing uncontrollably, she slumped into her mother’s rocking chair.

What would she do without Jake? Losing his emotional support was bad enough. She was beginning to realize all the work he’d done to manage her career, work she knew nothing about. When she’d called to cancel Sunday’s performance, the Baton Rouge orchestra manager seemed annoyed until she told him about Jake. Then he had rhapsodized over how wonderful Jake was.

The memory brought fresh tears. Yes, Jake was wonderful, good and kind and thoughtful, all that and more. After the call to Baton Rouge, she’d sat there for an hour, trying to decide what to do about her other engagements. In the end, she’d done nothing. Sitting in Jake’s chair brought home the utter finality of his death. Everything in the office reminded her of him: the concert posters on the walls, the folder with her concert schedule, even the bowls of M&Ms and Hershey’s Mini-bars and the plate of brownies her student had given her, sweet reminders of Jake’s chocoholic tendencies.

Jake had loved her, but she never showed her appreciation, never thanked him for all the things he did for her. Had done for her. Past tense.

She would never see his sweet smile again, never feel his arms around her, never hear his congratulations after a performance.

Jake was dead. She was all alone. Again. Her throat closed up.

First Mother and Dad and Blaine. Now Jake, her dearest friend.

No one else cared about her. Her audiences cheered, but that was for her performance. Even her mother’s love had been conditional. To win Mother’s love she had to be perfect: all A’s in school, perfect auditions and performances. No one loved her for herself.

Not once since she’d left Boston had Ramon called. In fact, other than business, no one called. She had no family, no friends. Frank didn’t care about her, either. He was smitten with that woman he’d brought to the hospital, looking like a streetwalker in her low-cut top. If she let her hair grow and used some makeup, she might even be attractive. It was obvious that she and Frank were lovers. Inside that hospital room, the sexual heat had radiated from them in palpable waves. Their knowing glances had confirmed it.

The clang of the doorbell cut into her thoughts. She massaged her temples. What now? Then she remembered. Mr. Silverman. She didn’t want to deal with him, but she had to stop thinking of herself. She’d been inconsiderate of him too, belittling his attempt to impress her, dismissing his knowledge of chamber music.

Besides, he seemed quite worried about her.

She rose from the rocking chair and headed for the front door.

_____

He caressed the keys as tenderly as if they were his beloved’s flesh, playing chords with his left hand, teasing out the melancholy melody with his right. He didn’t dare look at her, sitting ten feet away in her rocking chair as he’d asked. At first she objected, but he had insisted, saying it was his tribute to Jake. He felt her eyes on him as he played his gift of love. He had no trouble recalling the simple melody, the first of Satie’s
Trois Gymnopedies.

His tribute to
her
, not the insufferable Ziegler.

As the last chord died away he sat motionless, aching to take her upstairs and make love to her. After a moment he turned to look. She sat in the chair, as still as a statue, as pale and wan as a woman in a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Tears streamed down her cheeks. With a shuddering sob, she met his gaze. “Thank you. What a beautiful tribute to Jake.”

He rose from the piano and approached her. “My pleasure, Belinda. I know how much you loved Jake.” Knew it and hated it.

She wiped tears from her eyes, balled up the tissue and stood. “I have something for you in the office.”

He followed her into the hall. “Would you like your muffin now? We could sit in the kitchen and enjoy them together.”

Or we could go to bed and I could suck your nipples and . . .

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry. Wait here and I’ll get your check.”

Stung by disappointment, he watched her enter the office. He needed the check desperately, but he’d bought two of her favorite muffins thinking they would enjoy them together. She came out of the office, shut the door and handed him an envelope. “Thank you for everything, Mr. Silverman. You’ve been very thoughtful and I really appreciate it.”