Silent Cymbals

by Lakes, Lynde

  Published by Evernight Publishing at Smashwords

  http://www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2012 Lynde Lakes

  ISBN: 978-1-77130-006-3

  Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

  Editor: Marie Medina

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To my supportive editing teacher, life-teacher, guru, and long time friend, Sara Rice who went out of her way for me in so many ways and sends me such lovely unique cards to brighten my days.

  Also to my husband whose faith, trust and love never waivers.

  And to those who worked to bring this special action & romance-filled novel to my awesome faithful readers: My publisher Stacey Adderley—EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING, my editor, Marie Medina, my cover designer, Sour Cherry Designs & the acquisitions manager Marie Buttineau. A big Aloha and Mahalo to you all.

  SILENT CYMBALS

  Lynde Lakes

  Copyright © 2012

  Prologue

  Rusti Collins and René had been only five years old the winter they were sent to different foster homes. She remembered an iced-over birdbath. Then being torn from her twin’s clinging arms. She fought the dark premonition that slithered around her like a venomous snake. She’d been warned about the risk of bringing her sister back into her life.

  No! I won’t let one of my forewarnings destroy a moment I’ve lived for…prayed for.

  She glanced at her watch, and then continued pacing back and forth in Jerry Nickols’ office.

  “Sit down, Red,” the P.I. said. “You’re gonna wear out my carpet.”

  Rusti hugged him. “I’m too excited to sit down.”

  He held her a little too long.

  “We talked about this, Jerry,” she told him, gently pulling away.

  Jerry grinned. “Hey, don’t look at me like that with those big cinnamon eyes. I’m sorry, but you can’t fault a guy for trying.”

  Rusti smiled. He was a darling flirt, but he could never be the man of her dreams. Never again would she fall for a man who carried a gun. Her dead fiancé had been a cop. Jerry knew that. And although his kidding around wasn’t entirely harmless, he was one of the good guys. And a miracle worker. Her long search for René had seemed endless until she hired Jerry—it took him only three months to locate René. In Hollywood. Belly dancing at some nightspot—The Egyptia.

  “I still can’t believe you found her only half an hour’s drive from where I grew up,” she said. “We could have passed each other on the street.”

  “Right, but don’t forget you were raised in different worlds. She hasn’t had your advantages, and that dyed black hair makes her look…well, I think she’s had it pretty rough. And she’s a stranger.” He went to the window and looked down on the street. “We really don’t know much about her. There are those missing years I still can’t account for.”

  “Don’t spoil this for me, Jerry.” She glanced again at her watch.

  He turned from the window. “You can stop worrying. She’s on her way up.”

  Rusti rushed ahead of him into the hall. The floor numbers above the elevator door began to climb. Finally, the faithful old Otis ground to a noisy stop and the door opened. Rusti’s heart pounded as she met her sister’s gaze. Neither of them moved. Rusti wanted to rush to her twin, but something in René’s eyes held her back. Until René smiled and opened her arms.

  Chapter One

  With Egyptian music blaring from the stage outside René’s dressing room door, Rusti sat before the mirror, adjusting her black wig with trembling hands. God, it really does make me look exactly like René. Even Mike, the club manager, hadn’t noticed the switch. But will my dancing give me away?

  She shook her head at the mocking image in the mirror. She’d danced for fun and exercise, but never professionally. So, how could Rusti Collins, kindergarten teacher, dance half-naked before a roomful of men? She glanced anxiously at the clock. Five minutes more and you’re on, she told herself—and you can do this! For René.

  “It’s an emergency,” René had said, “or I wouldn’t ask.”

  And how could she refuse? Her twin was everything she’d hoped for in a sister, affectionate, thoughtful, kind. After that first guarded moment at the threshold of Jerry’s office, they had walked so easily into one another’s arms. Into one another’s lives. It was almost as though half of her had been missing. And now she was whole.

  She’d worked hard to overlook their different values. She hated to admit it, even to herself, but she still cringed every time she thought of her sister weaving her scantily clad way among the club’s clientele. Some of the men even touched her—although it was forbidden. Now here she was taking René’s place. Well, it was just for one night. And she was proud of the way she could undulate her hips and manipulate her little brass finger cymbals, known in the trade as zills.

  Still, she had no intensions of teasing the customers the way René did. She wouldn’t even acknowledge their presence.

  Rusti took a deep breath; the band played a series of runs that ended with a flourish. That was her cue. With clashing zills and pirouette leaps she charged into room, staring over the heads of the dinner-show crowd, a stage smile frozen on her face. She might be reluctant, but she knew the program and was soon responding to the band’s torrid Egyptian beat, executing the routine with all her practiced agility and grace.

  But the crowd wanted more. Mike, the club owner, saw she wasn’t teasing them with the kind of overt come-on her sister, billed as Majai, made them beg for. He gave her a signal she didn’t understand. She darted him a questioning look.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he mouthed.

  Rusti moved in closer to the tables. She smiled brilliantly and executed a difficult side-crescent movement, tapping her little brass zills in rapid-fire repetition. This brought a roar of appreciation, and Mike waved her an okay sign and disappeared. In spite of herself, Rusti felt a thrill surging through her. She added a more complicated quickstep maneuver, and again the applause was deafening. If this was all it took to please them, she could manage just fine. She repeated the routine, weaving her way among the tables—closer than she’d intended. But after all, she didn’t want to tip her hand. She was supposed to be René.

  Responding to the fervid rhythms of the band, Rusti approached a center table and did an upward stomach roll. Her silver-sequined bra and hip-hugging belt caught the myriad colors of the room and reflected them back in the flickering candlelight. Wispy red veiling floated around her ankles in a breeze of perpetual motion. The sound of her clashing cymbals pierced the air.

  As she retraced her steps with a series of reverse hip-drops, she felt the thing she’d most dreaded. She dared not look down, but the sensation of warm fingers lightly touching her bare midriff sent blood rushing to her face. Before she could react, the groping fingers tucked something hard into her spangled belt. She slapped at the hand with her cymbals, then jerked away and glared down into two of the bluest and most amused eyes she’d ever seen.

  “You’re great tonight, Majai,” the blue-eyed man said, grinning up at her.

  “And you’re out of line.”

  His blue eyes lingered on her. “Been told that before.”

  His companion laughed, coarsely.

  Rusti retreated a step. There was a sudden pop.


  The man who’d touched her winced and grasped his left shoulder. “Majai, get down!” he shouted.

  A second muted pop followed the first and the man who’d laughed so coarsely slumped over, his head tilting loosely to one side. Blood ran from a hole in his temple. At the sound of a third pop, a rush of cold air whizzed past Rusti’s ear. Stiff with fear and shock, she stood immobile in the middle of the room as everyone around her dashed wildly for cover. Dissonant chords twanged as the musicians dropped their instruments and fled.

  Mike and the injured man reached her almost simultaneously. Glaring at him, Mike grabbed her arm and hurried her backstage and into the dressing room. “Lock the door, René,” he said, “and don’t let anyone in until I come and tell you it’s okay.”

  With trembling fingers, Rusti quickly dialed 911 and reported the shooting. Then she paced the dressing room, her mind a jumble. Had others been shot or hurt in their scramble for safety? Did anyone need her help? She stared at the door. Mike had been adamant about staying put until he came to get her. Why? Was the bullet that nearly hit her meant for her twin? The men who were shot seemed to know René pretty well. What was her twin mixed up in?

  Rusti dropped down at the dressing table and stared at her reflection. René had been rather mysterious about her urgent errand, but then she wasn’t very talkative. Rusti hadn’t wanted to pry; it was barely three weeks since they found each other and—

  The shrill wail of police and ambulance sirens cut through her thoughts and brought a sense of relief. It would soon be over.

  Time seemed to drag. She leaned over to fix the strap of her sandal and felt a jab in her side. She knew instantly the sharp prick came from what the blue-eyed man had stuffed into her belt. She pulled it free. It was a hundred dollar bill wrapped around a small gold box. Rusti examined the jewel-encrusted lid. A ruby-eyed peacock stared up at her, its tail a profusion of multi-colored brilliance. She opened it. Inside two layers of cotton were four white tablets. Was Mr. Blue-eyes giving her sister drugs?

  After waiting for what seemed like another interminable time, Rusti decided she had to find out what was going on. Mike had probably forgotten about her. She tucked the money and the pillbox into her purse and reached for the doorknob. When she opened the door, she almost collided with Mike.

  “Did the police get the gunman?” she asked.

  Mike’s hair, usually pomaded and slicked back, spiked up in places as though he’d run his hands through it. His olive complexion had paled. “No, dammit!” he said. “He got away. Must’ve been hiding behind the partition in front of the restrooms.” He paused and gave her a level look. “The police are asking a slew of questions. Do you know the men who got shot?”

  Rusti shook her head. She’d told the truth, but he thought he was talking to René. Should she tell Mike who she was?

  “One of them tucked money in your belt,” he said. “And it wasn’t the first time.”

  “It was a hundred dollars.” She didn’t want to get René in trouble by saying something she shouldn’t, so she let it go at that. It could all be straightened out later. “Are the men who were shot going to be okay?”

  “The one who got it in the head is dead. The other guy was still alive when they put him in the ambulance.”

  “Was anyone else hurt?”

  “Don’t think so. A lot of ‘em took off before the cops got here. The others were questioned and let go.” He looked searchingly into Rusti’s eyes. “You okay, René?”

  Rusti nodded, and Mike seemed satisfied. He took her arm and led her toward his office. The Egyptia’s dining room was deserted now, and a couple of uniformed cops were placing yellow crime tape across the closed entrance doors. “Who were the men who got shot?” Rusti asked.

  “The dead guy was a big shot in a drug cartel. The other one is Razor Jones. The cops say he’s a cartel wiseguy. The kind it’s healthy to stay away from.”

  Mike’s warning sent a chill through Rusti. Her fiancé had been gunned down by just such a wiseguy, and that was never far from her mind.

  When she entered the large room they’d set up for questioning, a policeman named detective Baxter pounced on her like she was new prey.

  She’d never been questioned by the police before, but it seemed familiar—like in the movies, or on TV. Baxter asked only if she was okay and if she knew the men or had seen where the shots came from. Her knees were shaking. Pretending to be René with a police detective went against her conscience and good sense, but she had to talk to her sister before she said anything to anyone.

  When Detective Baxter excused her, Rusti changed quickly into her skirt and blouse, grabbed her purse and left. She didn’t remove the wig until she was on her way to René’s Hollywood condo. Still a bit shaky from the effects of the shooting, the idea of spending the night alone at her sister’s place made her uneasy. Even so, she would tough it out in case René returned home sooner than expected. She was anxious to talk to her vagabond sister. Where was she? What was the emergency? And what were those pills?

  In all the time she’d spent with René, Rusti had never seen any evidence of drug use. But what did she know about the effects of drugs? For that matter, what did she know about René? Like Jerry said, not very much. And René hadn’t been at all forthcoming about her past. Not that Rusti could blame her. Her foster mother had evidently been a severe, critical woman and her dad an indifferent alcoholic. Both were dead now.

  Rusti had been orphaned a second time, too. But she had enjoyed a happy childhood. It was a shame that René didn’t have loving family memories to fall back on. Neither of them remembered much about their birth mother. Only that she’d been an aspiring actress who taught ethnic dance to support them. They both recalled “play-dancing” with her, dressed up in filmy veils. Momma had been killed driving home from work in a heavy fog. There was no record of their father. At least now they had each other.

  Totally exhausted after the traumatic evening, Rusti sighed gratefully at the sight of an empty parking place in front of René’s condo. She locked the doors and hurried through the shadowy areas, barely breathing. She let out a gust of relief when she reached the entrance. Quickly, she stepped inside and locked the door securely behind her. After removing her theatrical makeup, she took a long, hot shower, hoping to relax. But René’s bed was too hard and the condo too quiet.

  In the morning, snatches of dreams she couldn’t clearly remember haunted her. She rubbed her aching head and made her way to the bathroom—only to be assaulted by the light. Her mirrored reflection cried out for attention, and she repaired the damage with fresh make-up. René had more little tubes and bottles than a cosmetic counter. Rusti examined her handiwork and saw that the shadows under her eyes were gone. If only the images that ravaged her senses could be as easily obliterated. The hole in the dead man’s head remained imprinted on her brain.

  What could have kept René away all night? Surely she’d call when she heard about the shooting. It was probably headline news; there had been reporters hanging around outside the Egyptia last night when she left. She took two Tylenol tablets and headed for the kitchen.

  After fussing around with the French coffee press with disappointing results, she settled for a glass of orange juice from a carton. And all the while, her mind kept replaying the horror of last night. She had to talk to someone about it, someone she trusted. That meant Petra Morgan, her best friend since childhood. Rusti left a note in case René got back before she did, and then drove directly to Petra’s jewelry store.

  Petra had seen the paper and immediately began quizzing Rusti about René and the shooting. “Is René okay?” she asked.

  “She wasn’t there. I danced in her place last night. I was halfway through my routine when bullets started flying.” Reliving the dreadful scene, she grew agitated again and the words tumbled out. “I was never so scared in my life. There was blood everywhere. And some drug lord was killed. It was…it was…”

  Petra led her to a c
hair. “Here, sit down. You’re shaking.”

  “I don’t know where René is,” Rusti said. “She asked me to fill in for her. Some kind of emergency. She claimed it was urgent or she wouldn’t have asked me to take her place.”

  Petra rolled her eyes. “That girl! We always have to drag everything out of her.”

  “She said she’d be back later today and would tell me about it then.” Rusti shrugged, knowing it was a lame gesture and handed Petra the jeweled box. “What can you tell me about this?”

  Petra put the jewelry loupe to her eye. “It’s a good piece. Eighteen karat, and these stones are real.” Her hazel eyes twinkled. “Where’d you get it?”

  “I found it.” Rusti’s face warmed. She’d just lied to her best friend. But some intrinsic caution wouldn’t let her explain further. “Is it worth anything?”

  “About five hundred bucks, I’d say.”

  Petra turned the box over, opened and closed it. As a caution, Rusti had removed the pills.

  Petra grinned that sly Cheshire cat grin that was so endearing. “Where’d you find it, anyway?”

  “At the Egyptia.” That pricey pillbox was no mere trinket.

  Petra blew a tendril of hair away from her forehead. “You’re beginning to sound like your tight-lipped sister. Where, precisely, did you find it?”

  “In the ladies’ room.” Another lie. Her protectiveness toward her sister was turning her into someone she didn’t admire.

  She justified it with the thought that she hadn’t really told Petra anything. Still, her loyalties were stretched almost to the limit. But her silence couldn’t hurt Petra, and if she said something about the box or the man who had given it to her, Petra might jump to conclusions. The same conclusions Rusti had jumped to herself. It wasn’t safe to invite speculation.

  Rusti’s cell phone rang. “Hold on a second,” she told Petra. “This may be René.” Instead, it was a man whose voice she couldn’t identify. He mumbled his name and, speaking quickly, said, “René will be at the club around five—in time for the six o’clock show. She’ll wait for you in her dressing room.” And before Rusti could ask who he was, he hung up.