Silent Cymbals

by Lakes, Lynde

  “You’re not giving me anything specific,” Baxter said. “I find it strange that no one knew much about her.” He glanced at Rusti. “Not even you, Rusti.”

  Maybe not, she thought, but Razor Jones knew René well enough to give her a valuable trinket. And those pills. Baxter had specifically mentioned drugs several times. Rusti wanted to do the right thing, but if someone leaked a story about a drug connection to the newspapers, she could just imagine the headlines—Belly Dancer Killed Over Drugs. Front-page stuff like that could make her sister appear disreputable. And she felt it in her bones that René wasn’t dishonorable, but needed time to prove it.

  Baxter’s eyes narrowed. “Anything else you want to tell me?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head, and the moment for truth had passed. She wanted René’s killer found and brought to justice, but she refused to be on the answering end of any further questions until she knew the extent of her sister’s involvement with that gangster and his crowd.

  Baxter finally let them all go around 8:00 P.M., with the usual statements about further questioning and calling him if they thought of anything he should know. He singled out Rusti and once again offered his condolences. Gravely, looking deep into her eyes, he gave her his card and warned her to be careful. Careful? Rusti felt strangely calm, detached from the scene, as though watching it from a distance.

  Kirby touched her arm. “Let me take you home, Rusti. You shouldn’t be alone.”

  “Thanks, but I won’t be alone. I’m going to a friend’s house.”

  He walked her to her car and after a quick goodbye, she headed for Petra’s place.

  Minutes later, when she called Petra from her cell phone, she heard only her brief and sassy taped retort: “Don’t hang up. Leave a massage. You know the drill.”

  “Please call me,” was all Rusti could manage—her throat was too tight to say more. Her eyes filled with tears and she could hardly see to turn around and change destination. Yearning for a closeness she’d been denied, Rusti drove straight to René’s condo. There she’d find her sister’s woodsy scent, wrap herself in René’s favorite robe, and curl up in her bed. She felt the same cold aloneness she suffered that day so long ago when they took René away. Now her twin was gone forever.

  Tears blurred her view. With trembling fingers, she wiped them away. She let out a breath of relief when she finally reached René’s condo and parked the car. She shivered at the absence of light in the two neighboring units. God, she could scream her lungs out and no one would hear. But even in the nightclub, with the afternoon crew going about their business, no one had heard René call for help.

  Rusti sat in the car, drying her eyes and trying to sort through the implications of her sister’s murder. What if carrying around the box Razor Jones had given to her wasn’t safe? But where could she hide it? The magnetic spare-key box she kept under the hood of her car was too small. In the backseat was a box of craft supplies from school. She took out a roll of masking tape and attached the pillbox up behind the dashboard of her car. She shivered, thinking of her brush with gangsters. She’d find a safer place tomorrow. That is, if she lived through the night.

  Chapter Five

  Rusti unlocked the door to René’s condo, feeling lost and hollow, as if her heart had been ripped from her.

  Inside the entryway, she laid her purse on the small antique table and turned on the light. She gasped—the room was a chaos of toppled furniture and emptied drawers and cupboards, their contents strewn about. “Oh, God!” Rusti said aloud. “Not again.” René’s killer had done this, probably looking for the pillbox. She dashed to the phone. If only she’d told Detective Baxter everything right from the start.

  Before she could dial, a man’s strong fingers closed around hers and forced the receiver back down. She screamed and kicked backwards. The kick didn’t connect. Strong hands spun her around and she found herself looking into familiar blue eyes. “Razor Jones!” She kicked again and connected with his shin.

  He seized her wrists and held her at bay. “Don’t force me to get rough.” His tone was low, menacing.

  She thrust her arms up, breaking his hold. He lunged for her. She dodged and backed away until the wall blocked further retreat. He pressed her against the cool plaster, grasped her wrists, and then used his thigh to trap her there. She opened her lips to scream again. Instantly, he clamped his hand over her mouth and leaned close. “Please, don’t do that,” he whispered against her ear.

  His hot breath and low voice scared her as much as his viselike grip. But he had a weakness—that shoulder wound. And he’d lost blood last night. She struggled against him, wrenching her body toward his vulnerable left side.

  “Damn it!”

  His hold loosened enough for her to get out. “I know you trashed this place, looking for the box. But you wasted your time. It’s not here.”

  “I didn’t tear this place apart. It was like this when I got here.”

  Rusti didn’t believe that for a minute and continued to thrash about.

  “I’ll let go if you stop that,” he growled.

  She stilled all movement, and he eased his hand away from her mouth. Before she could react, he twisted her arm behind her back and propelled her toward the couch. She glared up at him and said, “You’re hurting me.”

  “I’m hurting you? What do you think you did to me? This red stuff seeping through my shirt isn’t ketchup.”

  He was right. The blood seeping through the dressing was staining his blue shirt a deep purple. With that bullet wound, he couldn’t keep her arm pinned back and cover her mouth at the same time. But who’d hear her? She screamed anyway.

  He thrust his boot against the couch, drew a gun from a leg holster and waved it toward her. “Shut up.”

  Rusti froze. The barrel of the gun glinted gray in the lamplight. Oh, God, maybe he really did kill René—and now he’s going to kill me.

  Detective Baxter had told her to be careful. But it was too late. Her heart pounded in terror. Fight the fear. She had to do something; she couldn’t let René’s killer get away.

  Razor Jones’s expression was grim as he watched her, his blue eyes determined. “All I want is the box,” he said in a low, deadly voice.

  She gestured widely at the mess. “It isn’t here. You should know that by now.”

  “I told you I didn’t do this.” He swayed slightly, then steadied himself. The bloody patch on his shirt was spreading. His face was almost as gray as the gun barrel.

  “You don’t look so good,” Rusti said, encouraged that he might be growing weaker.

  “I need to sit down.” He turned the gun slightly away from her.

  Now was her chance. Rusti gave him a shove, and he dropped to the couch. His groan filled her with regret, but this was war. She glared at him, hoping she seemed braver than she felt. “If you didn’t mess up the place, put the gun away.”

  She almost fainted with relief and surprise when he tucked it in his belt. “If you already gave the box to René, no problem. I just need to know where it is.”

  At the sound of René’s name, Rusti’s eyes welled with tears. I won’t cry, she vowed, but it was though a logjam had broken. Great heaving sobs racked her body.

  Razor Jones lumbered to his feet and put his good arm around her. “Hey, hey, what’s this all about? I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Rusti couldn’t speak. Razor Jones just held her until she quieted, the clean side of his shirt soaking up her tears. And as shocking as it was, she was grateful for this gangster’s comforting embrace.

  But he is the enemy!

  Strengthened by that appalling thought, she pulled away. And finally, she was able to say the words she had dreaded, words she could never take back. “My sister is dead.”

  He looked like she’d slapped him. “Dead? How do you know? Are you sure?”

  “I found her, damn you. I walked into her dressing room and it was all torn up like this. She was lying there with a knife in her
chest. My God, I’ll never forget it. Whenever I think of her, that’s what I’ll remember. That knife. That blood.”

  Razor was dead calm. “Where’s the pillbox?”

  “What kind of monster are you? My sister is dead because of that box. And you’re the lowlife who gave it to her.”

  He grabbed both her arms, wincing a bit, and shook her. “Listen to me, Rusti. I gave it to you. Don’t you know what that means?”

  She knew, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear. It was bad enough that he’d seen her tears. “I only know my twin, my other half, is lying on a slab in the morgue, murdered, and you had something to do with it.”

  “If we’re going to talk,” he said, grabbing her arm. “I need some coffee.”

  He forcibly led her to the kitchen and pulled out a chair. He favored his left arm, but it didn’t seem to handicap him all that much. She nodded toward the blood on his shirt. “Looks like what you really need is someone to look at that wound.”

  “After the way you purposely made it worse by thrashing about and shoving me, I’d say your concern is less than sincere.” He dropped down at the table. “Just get the coffee. There’s instant in the cupboard next to the microwave.”

  “I know where it is,” she snapped. “But it’s interesting that you know. Want to explain how?”

  “Not really,” he said.

  “If you want that pillbox you’d better loosen your tongue.” She got out two mugs, each with a gold R emblazoned on the side. Fiercely, she swiped away the tears that welled in her eyes. “Were you giving René drugs? And don’t try to put me off like you did in the hospital.”

  “I take my coffee black,” he said and arched an eyebrow. “And no arsenic, Sweet Charlotte.”

  Arsenic, heck, Rusti thought, as she spooned the coffee crystals into the cups. What I’d like to put in his coffee is a truth serum pill.

  Razor raked a strand of wavy black hair from his forehead. In spite of the dark stubble on his jaw that gave him a dangerous look, Rusti could understand her sister’s attraction to him. Even in a serious situation like this, he had a quick wit that under different circumstances could have been endearing. Rusti’s face flamed as she remembered the tender way he’d held her. But sensing a hardness in him that was anything but reassuring, she squared her shoulders. Don’t misread this gangster. Razor Jones wasn’t just tough. He was deadly.

  Rusti traced the R on the cup with her finger, then looked directly at him. “René tried to draw something in her blood,” she said. “The police think it was an R.” She wasn’t certain it was true, but wanted to put him on the defensive.

  “I didn’t kill René,” he said.

  “Was she your girlfriend?”

  “We were friends. But the important thing right now is how you fit into this. You don’t seem to realize that René’s killer didn’t know you’d danced in her place last night. Or what that means.” Tiny tension lines had gathered at the corners of his eyes.

  A chill settled deep inside Rusti. She’d told the detective in front of everyone in the club that she’d changed places with René. “I do understand,” she said softly. “René’s killer was after the person you gave the box to. Me.”

  “Correct. And if René was dead when you got there, you couldn’t have given it to her. So you still have it. And sooner or later the killer will figure that out.”

  He had the most direct and unnerving way of looking at a person. “I know,” she said, “and when he does, I’ll be next.” A shudder went through her. René’s killer had been right here in this condo. And if he didn’t know about her yet, he soon would. Detective Baxter had said he couldn’t control the media, and the story of a twin murder mix-up would be hot news. It would be all over town tomorrow. All over the country.

  But what was it all about? Exhausted and heartbroken she wanted to give in and believe this dark stranger had been René’s friend. He was acting very unlike a killer, but even if he hadn’t killed René, he was a gangster who carried a gun. Her heart pounded as she recalled the comfort and warmth she’d found in his arms.

  What was wrong with her? Razor Jones had probably killed more than once in his violent life. And to be sitting at René’s table drinking coffee with a man who only minutes ago had pulled a gun on her was so bizarre she couldn’t believe it was really happening.

  “How long have you known my sister?” she asked. “If you were friends, why didn’t she ever mention you? And why haven’t I met you before?”

  “I’ve been out of town for the past three weeks. I guess that’s why I didn’t know about you. Now, where’s the box?”

  It was clear he wanted that box as much as the killer did. That made him equally dangerous. Somehow, she had to get the upper hand. “Since you aren’t answering my questions, I want you to leave. Now.”

  He just sat there, looking at her.

  “Okay, she said, “then I’m leaving.” She shot to her feet and raced into the living room. His footfalls followed her. She’d hoped his injuries would slow him down. Her purse was on the entry table where she’d left it. She grabbed the little handbag, and reached for the doorknob.

  Razor stepped from behind into her path, gun in hand. “Sorry,” he said, “but neither of us is leaving this apartment until I have that box.” His eyes narrowed and hardened. “It’s not yours, Rusti. I gave it to you by mistake. I don’t want to hurt you, but it’s mine, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get it back.”

  She wanted this to be over. All she had to do was give him the box. René was dead. All the jeweled boxes in the world wouldn’t bring her back, and this one could buy Rusti her freedom. Razor Jones stood quietly, giving her time to consider her options, but the unyielding cast of his jaw told her he fully expected her to give in. That rankled her. And although she was more afraid of him at this moment than ever before, she knew if she gave him the box, he’d walk out of her life without telling her what he knew about René —they’d obviously been friends. And she wanted to learn everything she could about her sister. She had to!

  He nudged her with the gun, directing her back into the kitchen. Slowly, deliberately, she sat down at the table and crossed her hands in front of her. He tucked the gun into his belt and followed suit. For the first time she felt they were on a more or less equal footing. Along with the fear and apprehension, she felt a strange tingling undercurrent of excitement. He shifted slightly, and inclined his head toward her as if to say it was her call.

  “I asked you before,” she said. “What were you to my sister? And don’t say you were just friends. We both know it was more than that.”

  His face, the planes and angles softened by the light from the brass chandelier, seemed less guarded. But instead of opening up to her, he just sat there drumming his fingers on the table.

  Well, two could play this game. She sat back, folded her arms tightly to keep them from trembling, and met his unflinching gaze, ready to sit there all night if that’s what it took. “The ball’s in your court,” she said.

  Chapter Six

  Devaux, AKA Razor Jones, felt his stomach knotting. Like it or not, he had no choice. He’d have to frighten Rusti into submission. It wouldn’t be easy; she was tougher than she’d seemed at first. Fortunately, she’d made a mistake—let her guard down. If he handled it right, he just might pull this off without having to level with her.

  “Information is a two-way street,” he said. “Since the ball’s in my court, I’ll go first. Okay?” He paused and smiled, hoping to melt the ice a bit. She just sat there glaring at him with those big cinnamon eyes. “You’re a great dancer, Rusti, but I have a feeling that belly dancing isn’t how you make your living.” He watched Rusti’s face, waiting for her to rise to the bait.

  Her eyes, so stormy a moment ago, softened. “I’m a teacher.”

  He groaned internally. It had to be something like that. But he needed more, and he’d get it. The puzzle was why René’s dossier hadn’t mentioned any siblings—
or why she’d never told him about her twin. Now he’d never know. Unless the Bureau could shed some light on it… “I wonder why René never mentioned you to me.” He kept a low tone, conversational.

  “She wasn’t one to talk much. Especially about her past. We were separated when we were only five. René probably thought we’d never see each other again.” His heart softened when Rusti briefly told him about their cruel separation and how they’d found each other only recently. “And now,” she said, “now…”

  She looked so forlorn he felt an urge to take her in his arms again. Her chin trembled, but she managed to gain control.

  “I sensed at our first meeting that René was unsure about reopening the past,” Rusti said softly. “But when we saw each other, it was clear the old twin-connection was too strong to ignore. Later when we talked about our mother, everything clicked into place. I’m on summer break and we’d planned to spend the free time getting better acquainted.” She paused and looked openly at him, inviting his confidence. “Please tell me what you know about René. It would mean so much.”

  This was almost too easy, and he cursed himself for taking advantage of a woman who was going through hell. But lives were on the line. Hers included. “That’s all you want?”

  “Well, I want to find out who killed René, of course.”

  “What grade do you teach?”

  Rusti’s eyes brightened. “Kindergarten.”

  Kindergarten teacher. Figures. “Teachers pretty much rule the roost with the kiddies, don’t they?” He paused and watched her smile fade. No doubt she suspected what was coming next. “Well, Ms. Kindergarten teacher, you don’t have the upper hand here. Recess is over. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the one with the gun.” He removed it from his belt and laid it on the table. “I want that box. Now.”

  He saw Rusti recoil as though he’d stuck her. He felt like a cur and was impressed to see her chin go up. She wasn’t going to cave, by God. The tension between them shimmered; sparks flew from her eyes. If he wasn’t careful, she’d be the one on the offensive.