DIVA (35 page)

An odd sound sent her stomach into sickening freefall.

There it was again. A loud thump.

Her mouth went dry and her heart pounded in terror. She dropped the pantsuit on the bed and massaged her fingers. They were icy cold and goose bumps ran up and down her arms. Willing herself to be calm, she expanded her diaphragm and drew a deep breath the way she did before performances to control her breathing.

All the doors were locked. The security system was armed.

No one could get in her house without her knowing it.

Padding barefoot over the rug, she went to the bedroom door and stuck her head into the hall. Silence. No thumps, no bumps.

“You’re being silly,” she said aloud. “Stop imagining things.”

She returned to her bed and studied her outfits.

Stop dithering. Make a decision, go to bed and get some rest.
Her teal-green dress would be perfect for the after-party. She would take two pairs of slacks, one for the plane, one for rehearsal, and two light-weight tops to go with them.

An image of Jake sprang into her mind: his dark eyes and sweet smile. Unwilling to give in to grief, she shook her head. Her dearest friend was gone, but if Jake were here, he would be proud of her. His untimely death had forced her to grow up and take control of her life. Now, a week later, she was not only mastering it, she was enjoying it.

Everything would be perfect in Louisville.

______

Thursday, 16 November -- 2:10 A.M.

He scooped ringlets of brown hair out of the sink, flushed them down the toilet and studied his image in the medicine cabinet mirror. With his head shaved, he looked a bit like Robert DeNiro in
Taxi Driver
. “Who you talking to?” he said to his reflection in the mirror. “Are you talkin’ to me?”

He uttered a sardonic laugh. Maybe he’d run that line past Belinda.

Are you talkin’ to me?

The Diva didn’t want to talk to him, but she would.

Her fans could eat their hearts out. From now on the only person she'd be playing for would be him. Once she came to her senses and realized they were meant for each other, she would kiss him and fondle him and rub her luscious body against him and beg him to fuck her.

He took a bottle of extra-strength ibuprofen out of the medicine cabinet and dry-swallowed four capsules, hoping to ease the massive headache that pounded his temples. He scooped the other meds in the cabinet into a plastic bag, shut out the light, walked down the hall to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Nothing but bare shelves. Only a half-empty quart of orange juice and plastic containers of catsup and mustard remained.

Earlier he had shredded the Belinda memorabilia he’d collected over the years. His painstaking labor of love. Twenty folders full of concert reviews, newspaper and magazine articles, and his handwritten notes about items on her website. He had even shredded her photographs, glossy full-color prints that reminded him of happier days. Days when his beloved was only a yearning in his heart. Days when he’d finally made her notice him. Days when he had happily served in her employ.

But she had dismissed him as if he were a cockroach.

After all he’d done for her.

I don’t want to talk to you ever again. I don’t want to see you again, either. Not ever.

How could she abandon him in his hour of desperate need?

The pain of unrequited love crushed his chest like a boa constrictor. That’s what love was about: pain. Pain worse than a root-canal without Novocain. The few times in his life he’d grown to love someone, the result had always been the same. Rejection and pain.

He checked the file cabinet to make sure it was empty. No more worries about utility bills and credit cards now. Turning to the CD rack, he removed his Belinda CDs and four of his other favorites, and tucked them into his knapsack. The safe house he’d found had no electricity, but he had bought a battery-powered boom-box at a drug store. The water was disconnected, too. He’d be roughing it, but he had endured worse on Special Ops missions.

He had also emptied his Doomsday storage locker. The cash and his survival kit were locked in the van. His arsenal was hidden at his new abode. Recalling his landlord’s threat, he smiled a grim smile of satisfaction.

Ortiz would find nothing of value here, just ratty furniture and the Oz droppings he’d taken pleasure in scattering over the carpet. Ortiz would probably take his remaining classical CDs and sell them, but so what? He had the ones he wanted. The Diva’s CDs would keep him company until he had the real thing. He pulled a black-knit cap over his newly shaven head. From inside his cage, the Wizard of Oz gazed up at him with his sky-blue eyes.

His precious little bunny. Alert. Ever watchful for predators.

At this hour Oz was usually asleep, but this was a special night.

“Time to hit the road, Oz.” He picked up the cage and left.

CHAPTER 35

Thursday, 16 November

When the phone rang, she lowered the spoonful of cottage cheese and pineapple into the dish. Unwilling to miss any business calls, she had reconnected her landline this morning. Each time it rang, her heart jolted and her palms dampened with sweat.

She rose from the table, went to the wall-phone and checked Caller ID. Not Silverman, but not someone she wanted to talk to, either.

“Hello,” she said crisply, “Belinda Scully speaking.”

“Belinda, it’s Frank Renzi. How are you doing?”

I’d be fine if I didn’t keep getting phone calls from people I don’t want to talk to.

“Okay. I’m eating lunch.”

“I called you yesterday. Didn’t you get my message?”

She gritted her teeth. He was acting like an inquisitor, badgering her. If he started an argument, she’d hang up on him.

“I’ve been busy.”

“I just found out Silverman isn’t who he says he is. His real name is Benjamin Stoltz. Do you know anyone by that name?”

Her headache throbbed. She rued the day she’d met the man.

“I don’t think so.”

“Think, Belinda. It might be important.”

“I meet a lot of people. I don’t remember a Benjamin Stoltz.”

Still, the name did sound familiar. Nagged by a vague recollection, she closed her eyes. In a flash it came to her.

“I knew a violinist named Stoltz. We played in an All-State orchestra together in high school. I forget her first name. Ruth, maybe? Roberta? No, I think it was Rachael.”

“Rachael Stoltz?”

“Yes. I didn’t know her well. I think she had a brother, but he wasn’t in the orchestra.”

“Did you ever meet him?”

“If I did, I don’t remember it. That was ages ago.”

“What did Rachael look like?”

“She was very attractive. Long dark hair, green eyes. All the boys were gaga about her.”

“No resemblance to Barry Silverman?”

She laughed aloud. “None. He’s got frizzy brown hair and blue eyes.”

“Remember that voicemail message you told me about, the one with the threat?”

Chills danced down her spine. She would never forget it. “I remember.”

“Did he ever call again?”

“No, just that one call.”

“Tell me about the voice.”

“It’s hard to describe. A raspy whisper, sort of like one of those mafia mobsters in a B-movie.”

“What about Silverman? Have you heard from him?”

“Yes. He called me Monday afternoon after I got home from New York.”

“New York?”

“Yes,” she said, irritated. “I went to Long Island for Jake’s funeral.”

“Oh. Sorry. I forgot. That must have been difficult.”

Difficult? Was that all he could say? How about an emotional ordeal that she’d carry with her the rest of her life? Jake’s parents grief-stricken over the death of their only child.

“It was. Did you get the results of the toxicology tests?”

“Not yet. What did Silverman say when he called?

“I didn’t answer, but he kept leaving messages. He said he knew I was home because my car was out front and the lights were on in the office. I looked outside but I didn’t see his van. Later he called and left another message. He knew I was having chicken for dinner. I bought a barbequed chicken. He must have seen me.”

“He’s watching your house and following you. You need to hire a security team.”

“Not now! I’ve got a concert this weekend. Besides, I took care of him.” She felt a burst of pride. She didn’t need Frank to solve her problems. “He called again later. I was sick of hearing his messages so I picked up and told him not to call me anymore. I told him I never wanted to see him again.”

“How did he take it? What did he say?”

She twisted the telephone cord around her fingers. Think about the concert. Think about the music. Think about anything but Barry Silverman. Stoltz. Whatever his name was.

“I can’t waste time worrying about him. I’ve got a concert this weekend. My flight to Louisville leaves tomorrow at ten-thirty.”

“How are you getting to the airport?”

“I’ll drive myself and leave my car in short term parking. I’ll only be gone three days.”

“I’d feel better if you checked into a hotel tonight.”

A chill wracked her.
Maybe you’re nervous about your concert in Louisville, Belinda. After all, it’s the first one you’ll play since Jake died. Jake won’t be with you, but I will. I’ll be in the front row so don’t slip up.

Silverman’s words had frightened her badly. The thought of seeing him terrified her. Damned if she’d admit that to Frank, though. She wasn’t some helpless little girl.

“I am not checking into a hotel. I’m staying right here in my own house. I’ll be fine.”

“You blew Silverman off. He’s dangerous—”

“Frank, I’m not staying in a hotel and I’m not going to argue about it.”

A long silence. Then, “Okay, but lock your doors when you’re home. If Silverman shows up, do not let him in. Call me right away. If
anything
unusual happens, call me.”

Frank seemed awfully worried about her all of a sudden. Maybe his detective girlfriend was giving him problems. But that was his worry, not hers.

“Nothing’s going to happen, Frank. I’ll be fine.”

_____

Unsettled by what Belinda had said, Frank tapped his pen on the desk. Yesterday she’d blown Silverman off. She didn’t get it. Silverman was a stalker, and stalkers didn’t go away quietly when women rejected them, they escalated. Tomorrow she would fly to Louisville, but for the next twenty-four hours she’d be on her own with no one to protect her. And he had no clue where Silverman was. The BOLO on his van had drawn a blank.

He fingered the scar on his chin. Belinda’s description of the voicemail threat she’d received was also worrisome. A raspy whisper. Kelly’s rape victim had said her attacker spoke in a raspy whisper. She had also identified his vehicle. An E-Series Ford van like Silverman’s. But the rapist’s van was black.

He punched Kelly’s work number into his cell phone.

“Kelly O’Neil.”

The sound of her voice brought a smile to his face. “Hi, Kelly. Your father’s London cop connection helped a lot.”

“That’s good,” she said, her tone listless.

“You sound kind of down. Are you okay?”

“I keep thinking about Chuck. The funeral’s on Saturday, cops coming in from all over.”

Another funeral with cops coming in from all over. Had many had come for Terry’s funeral, he wondered. “I’m sorry. That must bring back painful memories.”

When she didn’t respond, he said, “Ian Attaway called me with Silverman’s real name. Benjamin Stoltz. S-T-O-L-T-Z. Any chance you could run the name through the data bases? I’d do it, but I have to write the Incident Report on yesterday’s craziness.”

Miller had taken four days off to visit his family in Atlanta, which left him to write the report. He hated writing reports, and this one was crucial. Every detail had to be precise or the judge might dismiss the case. Chuck would have died for nothing.

“I’ll give it a shot,” Kelly said. “I have to interview a witness on another case this afternoon.”

“Thanks, that would be great. I just called Belinda. She didn’t remember Benjamin Stoltz, but she played in an orchestra with a violinist named Rachael Stoltz. Could you run that name too?”

“Sure. Same last name, I’ll probably get lots of hits. Want me to call if I find something?”

“Yes. Call my cell in case I’m out of the office. This guy’s a ticking time-bomb. Belinda blew him off yesterday. I tried to get her to stay in a hotel tonight, but she won’t. She’s got a concert in Louisville this weekend.”

“Maybe we’ll find him while she’s in Louisville. I’ll run those names. You never know what the damsel detective might find.”

Amused by her playful comment, he smiled but quickly sobered.

No sign of Silverman’s van. Nothing on the Goines kid, either. And Silverman was out there, a stalker rejected by the object of his obsession. Dangerous. Rejected stalkers could be deadly.

CHAPTER 36

Her eyes fluttered open. Pale sunlight was creeping through her window.

With a vague sense of foreboding, she rolled over and looked at her clock radio—6:30—and her alarm went off, an insistent beep. She silenced the alarm and threw off the sheet. Her flight wasn’t until ten-thirty, but she wanted to leave the house by eight-thirty. That would give her plenty of time to get through security, find her gate and relax.

She heard a faint sigh. Her skin prickled.

“Good morning, Belinda.”

For an instant, she thought she had imagined the voice.

Fear jolted her wide awake. She gasped.

Silverman stood in the doorway, smiling. No, not a smile, a suggestive leer. But where was his hair? His frizzy brown hair was gone. He looked like some futuristic militiaman in a sci-fi movie. His head was hairless. Even his eyebrows were gone, which accentuated his pale-blue eyes.

Predatory eyes, fixed on her.

“What’s the matter, Belinda? You seem frightened.”

Her heart slammed her ribs. “I’m not frightened.”