DIVA (29 page)

He leaned back against the padded seat, enjoying the tangy orange juice and champagne, enjoying the sight of Kelly O’Neil even more. His kind of woman. Italian with a twist of Irish: Olive skin, short dark hair framing an oval face, and those beautiful Irish eyes.

She raised her glass in a mock-toast. “Nice to relax for a change.”

“Sure is. No shoptalk today. What shall we do after brunch?”

“There’s an interesting exhibit at Fine Arts Photography.” She grinned. “Or we could go back to my house. But I wouldn’t want to wear you out.”

Before he could think of a suitable retort, the waiter delivered their breakfast, and the Pfister Sisters began a toe-tapping version of the Boswell Sister’s
What’d You Do to Me
. Appropriate, he thought, watching Kelly crunch a piece of bacon, looking happy and content.

Man, he could get used to this. Then his cell phone rang.

Kelly pulled hers out, realized it was his and rolled her eyes. He checked the ID. A cell phone number, one he didn’t recognize. Hoping it was Otis calling with news about the Goines kid, he clicked on and said, “Renzi.”

“Help me.”

The whisper sent chills down his neck. He signaled Kelly, who frowned and mouthed:
What?

“Who’s this? Antoine?” he said, keeping his voice low.

Silence on the other end, except for the sound of labored breathing.

“Talk to me. That you, Antoine?”

“Yes.” A single syllable, barely audible.

“Where are you?”

“Royal Street, behind a store. AK’s after me.”

Frank signaled a passing waiter.

The waiter stopped at their booth, frowning, and said, “Is everything—”

Kelly shushed him and flashed her wallet.

“Antoine,” he said into the phone, “I’m on Frenchman Street near the Quarter. I’ll come get you. Tell me what block of Royal Street. Tell me the name of the store. Anything.”

“Three blocks from Canal. Behind a jewelry store. Hurry. They’re coming—”

The line went dead. He pushed back his chair and said to Kelly in a low voice, “AK’s got Antoine cornered. Are we set?”

“We’re good,” she said, rising to her feet.

Heads turned as they rushed out of the restaurant. Kelly tossed him her car keys. “You drive. You know where we’re going.”

They ducked around the corner and broke into a run, got to her car in thirty seconds flat. He got behind the wheel and cranked the engine. Kelly jumped in and he rocketed away from the curb. “Royal Street, third block. Is there a jewelry store there?”

“There’s a jewelry story near Café Beignet.”

His cell phone rang and he grabbed it. “Renzi.”

“They got guns.” A whisper. “They shot out the store window.”

“Where are you? Are you safe?”

“Hiding in an alley. Behind the Hotel Monteleone.”

He gripped the wheel and turned onto Esplanade. Royal was the next cross street. The wrong end of Royal, unfortunately. Antoine was seven blocks away. Hiding from AK and his gunslinger thugs.

“Stay where you are, Antoine. I’m on Royal now, be there in a minute.”

“Hurry.” A faint whisper.

_____

He peered into the steamy mirror above his bathroom sink. His face was a ghostly image slathered with shaving cream. With great care, he drew the razor around two zits on his cheek. Fuck-all! Zits were for teenagers.

How could a thirty-six year old man get zits?

Easy. Too much stress, too much junk food, and too little sleep.

Last night he’d maintained his vigil outside of Belinda’s house. Snacking on Doritos and sipping from a large container of black coffee, he waited until the light in her bedroom window winked out at one-thirty. Exhausted, he had driven home and slept for five hours.

He rinsed the razor under the hot water and continued his careful, methodical strokes. Today she would fly to New York to attend Ziegler’s funeral. But when would she be back?

The question vexed him so much he almost cut himself. Using a damp facecloth, he patted shaving cream from his face, wiped the fog off the mirror and examined his cheek. The two zits stood out like angry red flares.

Fuck-all! Worse than a teenager.

He put on his last clean shirt, went down the hall to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Nothing but empty shelves. He needed food, but he was short on cash. His boss at the limo service was giving him four-hour shifts, saying he had to get in line, others were ahead of him. Same thing when he asked for his check. Wait.

He slammed his fist on the counter. All he did these days was wait. Wait for decent tips. Wait for his paycheck. Wait for Belinda to come home so he could introduce her to his orgasmic delights.

His groin stirred, a delicious tingle.

Inside his cage beside the kitchen, Oz gazed up at him with his pretty blue eyes. “I had a rough night last night, Oz.”

And the night before, and the night before that. Belinda had cast him into tortured limbo, wondering when she would return.

He looked down at his Wizard of Oz, gazing up at him with longing. Poor bunny. These days he had no time for him. He chopped up the last two carrots, opened the cage door and dropped them in the food dish.

Oz pounced on them with enthusiasm, jaws working.

“Be a good boy, Oz. I’ve got to go buy us some food. When I get home I’ll let you out and stroke you and pet you and make you feel loved.”

But who would make
him
feel loved? His throat closed up. His beloved was going to New York. What if she never came back? The idea crushed him.

He touched his crotch.

He might have to find another substitute.

The one last night hadn’t been very cooperative.

_____

When they reached the alley behind the Hotel Monteleone, he parked Kelly’s car across the opening to prevent any cars from entering or leaving. Sweat dampened his shirt and the palms of his hands.

Where the hell was Antoine? Was he still alive?

He dug his SIG out of the holster and looked over at Kelly. Saw her pull up one trouser leg and yank a Glock-9 out an ankle holster.

Despite the tension, he smiled as a catchy phrase popped into his mind.
Two cops on a date, armed and dangerous.

She gave him a steely look, her expression grim. “What?”

Gunshots shattered the rear window, spewing glass over the back seat.

“Get down! They’re behind us!” he yelled, and slid lower in the seat.

Crouched in the foot-well of the passenger seat, Kelly gripped her Glock, her face tight with tension. “We’re sitting ducks in the car.”

She was right. No telling what kind of ammo AK and his thugs were using. Some of the slugs they sold these days could penetrate steel. They couldn’t stay in the car. “Get out and run to the alley. I’ll follow you.”

Without a word, she jumped out and bolted into the alley. No gunshots.

He waited five seconds and opened the car door. Still no gunshots.

Crouching low, he sprinted to the alley.

Kelly stood with her back against the brick wall of the building, holding her Glock with both hands. “You think they’re still there?”

“If they are, they’re in one of the doorways along the side street. AK doesn’t know your car, but they might have seen me when we drove by.”

“Want me to call for backup?”

During their frantic drive through the French Quarter, Kelly had called the District Eight station to report a problem at the jewelry store on Royal Street. But that was three blocks away. Frank looked down the alley. No sign of Antoine. Twenty yards from their position at the end of the alleyway, two columns of empty milk crates were stacked against the side of a brick building. Beside the milk crates were two large green Dumpsters.

“No,” he said. “If they were still there, they’d have shot at us when we left the car. Stay here and cover me while I look for Antoine.”

He forged deeper into the alley, his SIG at the ready. Fifteen yards into the alley he stopped. “Antoine,” he called softly. “It’s Renzi. Where are you?”

A long moment passed. Then Antoine’s head appeared behind one of the big green Dumpsters. When he saw Frank, he hauled himself erect, his expression a mixture of anxiety and relief. He came out from behind the Dumpster. Dirt caked his shirt, and both pant legs were ripped.

Clutching a yellow plastic bag in one hand, he brushed dreadlocks from his face, fear evident in his large dark eyes. “Thank you. They were gonna kill me,” Antoine said. Then he frowned. “I heard shots.”

“They shot out our car window. Come on. We’ll drive you home.”

“Okay, but . . .”

“But what?” he snapped. Now that the crisis was over his quota of patience was gone.

“Could you take me to my car? It’s parked over on Canal Street.”

“Forget the car. We’re driving you to your uncle’s house. Let’s go.”

They walked back to the alleyway entrance. Kelly stood with her back against the brick wall, grim-faced, holding her Glock-9 in both hands. Seeing the amazement on Antoine’s face, Frank stifled a grin, imagining the kid’s thoughts:
Nobody better mess with that woman
.

Grim-faced and squinty-eyed, Kelly motioned Antoine into the front passenger seat. After Antoine got in the car, she said, “You drive, Frank. I’ll ride in back and keep an eye on things.”

He nodded, thinking:
This is a first, having a girlfriend watch my back.

Ten silent minutes later he pulled to a stop outside Jonas Carter’s house and said to Antoine, “I want you to go in the house and stay there.”

The kid looked at him, the saddest face he’d ever seen, Antoine’s large dark eyes bright with tears. “Yessir. Go in the house and deal with my uncle.”

“Deal with him however you want, but
do not leave that house
. I need to go get my car, but I’ll be back. Then you and your uncle and I are going to sit down and have a long talk. Go.”

Antoine got out and trudged to the door of the shotgun double, went in and shut the door.

Kelly took his place in the front passenger seat. “I don’t mind waiting, Frank. Go talk to them.”

He traced a finger down her cheek. “No. You’ve done enough already. I’m just sorry we can’t kick back and relax like we planned.”

“Shit happens. We’ll have other Sundays.”

“Music to my ears. I’ll make it up to you next Sunday, I promise.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see. A lot could happen before then.”

What did that mean? A lot could happen with their relationship? A lot could happen at work that might make him break his promise?

“It was great having a pistol-packing partner with me today,” he said. “Thanks for helping out.”

Kelly grinned. “Frank. I’m a
cop
. What did you expect?”

CHAPTER 29

“Man, I never been so scared in my life.”

Frank watched fear wash over Antoine’s face and settle in his eyes.

They were seated at the dining room table in his uncle’s spic-and-span house, not a speck of dust anywhere, the maple tabletop gleaming, looked like it had been polished with Pledge. Antoine faced him across the table. Jonas Carter sat beside his nephew, a distinguished-looking man with chiseled features and gray hair, looked a bit like Ossie Davis.

A very unhappy Ossie Davis.

“AK and his boys musta seen me coming out of the Louisiana Music Factory. When they yelled at me, I took off. They were gonna kill me.”

“Tell me about the Lakeview robbery,” Frank said. “Chantelle was there, right?”

Antoine stared at the table top. “Yeah, but she ran away when the cop came out the store. I told her before we went there. Anything happens, I said, you run away. Don’t worry ‘bout me.”

“Why you go and do somethin' stupid like that, boy?” Jonas Carter said, his voice full of disappointment, dark eyes fixed on Antoine. “Your parents brought you up better’n that.”

Antoine sat there with his eyes downcast as though he was studying the molecules of wood on the tabletop. “Worried about Chantelle,” he mumbled.

“Be better off worrying ‘bout yourself,” said the uncle. “That girl’s trouble from the get go.”

“Was not! Chantelle was—” Antoine bit his lip. “Wasn’t none of it her fault. Her crackhead mom’s in Houston ever since Katrina, step-daddy took
his
kid to Atlanta, left Chantelle to fend for herself.” He looked at Frank. “Like you said, right Detective Renzi?”

Choosing his words carefully, he said. “I think Chantelle was a victim of circumstances. But that doesn’t excuse you for helping AK rob that store.”

“Exactly,” Jonas Carter declared. “No excuse for it a’tall.”

“Mr. Carter, I know you mean well, but I’d appreciate it if you’d let Antoine talk.” Shifting his gaze to the miserable teenager, he said, “I need you to tell me exactly what happened.”

Jonas Carter nodded. “Tell the man what happened, Antoine.”

“Chantelle was living at Iberville ‘cuz she don’t have no place else to live. But AK was bothering her.” Lacing his slender fingers together, Antoine stared at the tabletop. “He wanted to, you know, get in her pants. But she told AK we were, you know, involved. One day I was there AK says ‘You got to help me, prove you not gonna turn on me.’”

“Blackmailing you,” Frank said.

“Exactly!” Antoine exclaimed. “No way would I go and rob that store. But AK said if I didn’t—” He turned to his uncle. “I was afraid, Uncle Jonas. Not for myself, for Chantelle. You don’t know how bad things are at Iberville.”

Carter opened his mouth to speak, but Frank cut him off. “We know how bad it is. So AK made you go with him to rob the store. Then what?” Deliberately choosing words that cast Antoine in a more favorable light. Antoine didn’t go on his own; AK forced him.

After Kelly drove him back to his car, he had asked if she had a tape recorder. Her mini-recorder was in the middle of the table now, recording everything, including his suggestion to Jonas Carter that he call a lawyer, an offer Carter had declined. So he’d read Antoine the Miranda warning and stated that Antoine’s uncle, Jonas Carter, was present.