Silent Cymbals

by Lakes, Lynde

  What if this double-identity business was even more complicated than it seemed? What if Razor was a double agent, someone who worked both sides against the middle and was willing to sell out to the highest bidder? That would explain the phone call, if it was legitimate.

  Rusti shook her head. As much as she’d like to, she couldn’t ignore this disturbing man. He existed. She had to learn more about him. When she’d stepped into René’s life, she’d taken on a real mess, and common sense told her she was in too deep to back out.

  She’d come home to get away from prying eyes, to be alone with her secrets and her grief. Finding Razor Jones here had derailed her. She had been so involved with him she’d hardly thought about anything else. Now, she was stuck with more secrets.

  Things were happening too fast. Gangsters and FBI agents, murder and mayhem, all within a few hours. Swallowing past a lump in her throat, Rusti looked around at her sister’s scattered belongings, yearning to start straightening up. But Detective Baxter had warned her not to touch anything until he arrived. It suddenly occurred to her that when Razor Jones wiped his fingerprints from the things he’d touched, he’d probably wiped hers and René’s away as well. This would raise questions. Oh, Lordy, I’m getting in deeper and deeper, she thought as she retraced Razor’s steps, pressing her fingerprints back onto the things he’d wiped clean, still finding it hard to believe that her belly dancing sister had been an undercover agent.

  ****

  Enrico Terrilla, crime boss, sat in his Italian leather recliner with his gout-swollen foot raised. He’d held a court of inquiry, interviewing his gang members, trying to get to the bottom of the shooting at the Egyptia. He’d saved Stretch, for last. Stretch hated Razor—considered him a usurper who had waltzed in without so much as a by-your-leave and taken Terrilla’s beloved son Antonio’s place when Antonio died. Stretch was wrong.

  It was true that Razor looked enough like Antonio to be his twin, and in every sense that mattered, Antonio had been all but reborn in Razor. What counted most was that Razor had the balls for the job, and the cool razor-sharp brain such a position required. And he didn’t intend to argue the point with Stretch. Not tonight. It was getting late and he was tired. But Razor’s call had given him a shot of energy. He was on his way. That thought lifted his spirits and he wasn’t about to let Stretch bring him down.

  “You wanted to see me?” Stretch asked, bursting in without knocking and startling Terrilla’s lovebirds into a flurry of excitement. Typical. Feathers and down drifted around the cage. He tsk-tsked the birds to calm them, then studied Stretch with a jaundiced eye. Even if Razor had never come into their lives, Antonio’s place wouldn’t have gone to anyone with Stretch’s impulsive and erratic behavior. Such traits were incompatible with leadership. This was a dangerous business, and only a man with Razor’s qualities could ever hope to fill Enrico Terrilla’s shoes.

  “Sit,” Terrilla said, gesturing with a nod to the opposing chair. He ran his fingers along the etched design of his glass, filled to the top with his favorite, and forbidden, Scotch. Alcohol wasn’t compatible with his medications. “You’ve been mouthing off—making trouble. What’s your gripe today, Stretch? Let’s have it.”

  “Razor is passing information. He’s undercover. You’d see it if you weren’t so blinded by him.”

  Terrilla gripped his glass tighter; he didn’t take kindly to having his judgment questioned. Stretch could make him angrier than anyone. If it wasn’t for… Well, no use going over all the reasons he tolerated Stretch. No matter how blinded he was by Razor, he’d kill him on the spot with his own hands if he turned out to be an agent. Terrilla laughed. “That again?”

  “Laugh. But you won’t be laughing when that traitor has us all wearing handcuffs.”

  Razor undercover? The idea was ludicrous. But the idea that Stretch had been the shooter at the Egyptia was not. And if that was true, all three bullets had been meant for Razor. Stretch had been at the club when the shooting occurred, and even before another gang member had suggested it to him, he’d wondered if Stretch might have made the unauthorized hits. More and more Terrilla leaned toward that belief.

  “It’s quite a reach,” he said, “to think my most trusted lieutenant is a Fed who’s been passing mysterious and unverified information to a now dead belly dancing accomplice. What is it you’re after, Stretch? Think you can eliminate Razor and move into his place? Or is it my place you’re after?”

  “Don’t call me Stretch. And you’d better listen to me. We have too much at stake here.”

  Terrilla brushed a piece of lint from his velvet smoking jacket, fighting to hold his temper. “We’ve been through this before, and I’m sick of your jealousy. It undermines morale.” Terrilla studied the amber liquid in the glass he was holding. “Don’t mention this again without concrete evidence.”

  “Can’t you see he’s making a fool of you?”

  “Basta!” Terrilla shouted, banging his fist down so hard that the lovebirds fluttered and took flight.

  “It’s not nearly enough. I saw Razor tuck something into Majai’s belt. And Kincaid before him. There’s something fishy going on. Both of them handed off something small and shiny. My informant at the P.D. thinks the container has microfilm in it.”

  Terrilla listened impassively. It was that or explode. Which was bad for him. And the birds. When Stretch stopped ranting and glared at the old dom, Terrilla spoke, calmly, stroking his silver hair. “Did it ever occur to you that Razor was giving Majai a tip, hoping to get her into bed?” Terrilla shook his head. “You don’t think things through; you stabbed Kincaid before I could question him.” Terrilla gave Stretch his most malevolent smile. “Maybe the joke’s on you. If I’d had a go at Kincaid, he might have talked and proved your point. You’re too quick to kill. And now you’ve killed Majai.” Terrilla emptied his glass with one gulp. “And that’s brought the whole homicide force down on us. I ought to wring your neck.”

  Stretch went dead silent, a typical defensive move.

  Terrilla forced himself to maintain a calm voice. “If I find out you tried to kill Razor Jones, I’ll—”

  “I don’t use guns,” Stretch muttered. “You know that.”

  “I’m not so sure I know you at all.” Terrilla refilled his glass. A bad idea, but it had been a bad couple of days. He leveled his gaze directly at Stretch, hard and deliberate. “Be warned. If Razor goes down, you go down with him. Capice? And leave the twin alone. She could be useful.”

  “You know about her?”

  “When will you learn? I make it my business to know about everyone and everything that pertains to me and my empire.”

  Stretch scowled. Terrilla let the impact of Stretch’s silent rage roll off him like water off a duck’s back. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “Remember who’s in charge around here. And no more moves without my direct order, or you’ll end up in a landfill.”

  Stretch rose and stomped out without permission. Terrilla was beyond caring. His foot hurt like hell, and he’d already had too much Scotch. He lit another cigar. God, what a day.

  Chapter Eight

  Razor had circled the block after leaving Rusti, then returned and parked a few yards away and waited until he saw Baxter and his CSI team arrive. He needed to check in with Terrilla, but since the old man was a night owl, there was no hurry. Rusti’s safety was his first priority—and would be until he managed to bring this botched case to a close.

  He’d hated frightening her. She could handle it; that much was clear. But he’d started the chain of events that led to her sister’s death and put Rusti in jeopardy. Jesus— René was dead. Stabbed, like Agent Kincaid. Razor’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Their deaths were his fault; he had to accept that. But he couldn’t cry over them now. He had to stay focused, or even more would die. If he wasn’t careful, the next in line could be Rusti. He had to manage to stay close to her without letting her know he felt such a strong attraction to her. Whatever sizzl
e there was, it was nuts. He’d met her only a few hours ago under the worst of circumstances. But she’d felt it too. Chemistry. That’s all it was, all it could be. As Razor Jones, he wasn’t capable of the kind of love a woman like Rusti deserved. And after the years he’d spent doing undercover work, there wasn’t a whole lot left of his old self. If he’d had any doubt about that before tonight, the wariness in Rusti’s eyes had put it to rest.

  The situation was a double-edged sword. He had to stick close to Rusti to protect her. At least until he delivered the microfilm. But the kind of sexual energy they generated wasn’t going to be easy to ignore. He reached for his cell phone and dialed Buck in Langley. The sooner the evidence was out of his hands, the sooner he could be free of Rusti. That couldn’t be too soon for his peace of mind. Or Buck’s, who would be worried about Rusti’s safety and counting on him to guarantee it. After a dozen rings, Buck answered, his voice thick. Razor explained the mess, going into things he couldn’t say while Rusti was listening. Buck was silent for several moments, then growled, “Call it off, Devaux—case closed.”

  “That was my first reaction, Buck. But it’s too late. She knows too much and the killer has her in his sights. Besides, I have to complete the mission. For René. I can’t let her death count for nothing. It was my fault. And now her sister is mixed up in it. I can’t walk away from that, let her die, too. If you won’t authorize it, I’ll go it alone.”

  There was another long silence. “You’re nuts, you know that?”

  Sweat trickled down Razor’s back. “She’s a dead woman if I don’t

  protect her. And I owe it to René.” René had been Buck’s special protégé at the academy, and Razor felt like a louse putting it that way.

  “Okay. Twenty-four hours. I’ll set up the transfer.” The line went dead.

  Razor hoped that wasn’t a metaphor for the future.

  Chapter Nine

  Rusti had barely finished cleaning up all traces of Razor’s presence when she saw the flashing blue lights of police cars out in front.

  Five minutes later, her sister’s condo was full of police. Detective Baxter was speaking into a digital recorder, “11: 20 P.M. René Bartlett’s condo.”

  A woman investigator dusting for fingerprints worked in the kitchen. Rusti stiffened. Had she forgotten anything? Devaux, AKA Razor Jones, was taking a chance using such an inept liar as an ally, and he just might die regretting it.

  Rusti accompanied Baxter through the rooms while he examined each area, constantly mumbling into his recorder. In the bedroom, every drawer had been pulled out. Clothing, jewelry, and a rainbow of scarves were strewn about like tornado debris. Rusti bent to pick up the spilled contents from an underwear drawer.

  “Hold it!” Baxter said. “I don’t want anything disturbed until the lab boys go over the entire place.”

  She nodded, feeling guilty about her secret visitor, and wishing she could level with the detective. Could a man with such direct eyes be a double-dealing P.D. informant? Her parents hadn’t raised a liar and she knew it was especially wrong and dangerous to lie to the police—even a lie of omission. But she couldn’t be responsible for getting Razor killed. If only she had trusted René enough to see through her glitzy show-biz masquerade, she might have come to know the courageous person her twin really was. Still resolute about keeping Razor’s confidence, at least for now, she followed Baxter into the bathroom.

  “Any small make-up containers missing?” he asked.

  The image of the jeweled pillbox popped into Rusti’s mind, condemning her silence.

  The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. “Why?”

  “The maid at the club said all kinds of small containers had disappeared,” he said.

  Rusti scanned René’s array of cosmetics. “There were lots of little containers here this morning and now they’re gone.”

  “Hmm. So, we can assume the intruder is after an object small enough to conceal in something like a compact or lipstick case.” Baxter gave her a hard look. “The question is, did he find it?”

  Rusti shrugged, her mind churning. Since the killer took all of the little containers, that meant he wasn’t looking specifically for a pillbox. And that proved Razor didn’t kill René. It shook Rusti to realize the extent of her relief. What did the fact that she’d been protecting a man she hadn’t completely trusted say about her? She still wondered whether he’d told her all he knew about René’s murder. The killer had probably seen Razor tuck the box into her belt and realized it had to be something small. And Razor was right; the killer thought she had it. Rusti shuddered.

  “I’ve frightened you.” Baxter paused, seeming to consider his next words. “I’m sorry, but you need to know if the killer didn’t find what he’s looking for he could come back.”

  Rusti felt her neck muscles tighten. She knew he hadn’t found it. Now he’d be after her, and no place would be safe.

  “I’ve arranged protection for you,” Baxter said, his thoughtfulness and gentle voice eliciting a wave of gratitude. But before the warm feeling settled firmly, he chilled it with, “You’re sure you can’t shed some light on what your sister might’ve had that someone else wanted?”

  Heat rose in Rusti’s cheeks. “I want to put her murderer behind bars more than you do, Detective. Don’t you know that?”

  Baxter’s fishing expedition had come too close for comfort and she was about to lose her cool. He knew Razor Jones had tucked something into her belt. Oh, God. Did he suspect it was more than just the money?

  “What’s this?” Baxter asked, removing the lid from a small box. The sight of the diaphragm inside sent more heat rushing to Rusti’s face.

  Baxter raised his eyebrows. “What do you know about your sister’s love life?”

  There was so much she didn’t know about René. Had there been a man in her life? Kirby? Razor? “She never mentioned anyone,” Rusti said.

  Baxter scrutinized her expression, and she tried to look wide-eyed and innocent. “You wouldn’t hold out on me, would you?” he asked. “It could be important. Crimes of passion are committed every day.”

  “We shared only our early childhood years. I don’t know much about her adult life.” Tears filled Rusti’s eyes. “Now to lose my sister again—this time forever…”

  Baxter looked down at his shoes. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s a lousy break.”

  She laced her fingers tightly. “Have you learned anything at all about her killer?”

  “It’s too soon, Ms. Collins. We’re still gathering evidence. We know your sister got to the club around three o’clock. The maintenance man changed a light bulb in her dressing room and saw her crying. Any idea why?”

  “No,” Rusti said, thinking that she had never seen her sister cry. After the day the adoption people took René away, Rusti had never cried much herself. She’d thought that most of her tears must have been shed on that horrible day. But now, a tear she’d been fiercely fighting to hold back rolled down her cheek.

  Baxter handed her a tissue from the dressing table.

  She dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “I guess I’ll never know where she went or what she was doing.”

  “We’ll find out. The coroner has a couple of ideas.” He gave her a deep searching look, then said, “I hate to ask you this, but it’s standard practice. Can you come down to the morgue in the morning and fill out some paperwork? You can see her if you like.”

  Rusti nodded.

  “What time did you leave here today?” Baxter asked.

  “Before noon. And I didn’t get back until a short while ago.”

  He raked his hand through his sparse, graying hair. “That means we don’t know for sure if the killer was here before or after he was at the Egyptia. He killed your sister about an hour before you found her body, and I kept you at the club until nearly eight o’clock. You were there only three hours and away from here for over seven hours. Where were you before you went to the club?”

  His question bro
ught others to mind. What about Razor’s missing hours? is queHiHow long had he been here before she arrived? What time had he left the hospital? Where had he been all afternoon?

  Detective Baxter quit rifling through drawers and looked balefully at her, waiting for her reply. She refused to wilt under his scrutiny. What could she safely say? She couldn’t tell him she’d gone to the hospital to see Razor Jones without raising questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

  “Where were you before you went to the club?” he repeated with a touch of impatience in his voice.

  She blinked, hoping he’d buy her dazed condition. “I’m sorry. I’m a little numb from all that’s happened.” She rubbed her head. “I was at my friend Petra’s jewelry store. We had lunch, talked a while.” Rusti had also picked up the box, but wasn’t about to tell him that. Keeping Razor’s confidence was getting her in deeper and deeper. And it worked against finding René’s killer. How could Baxter solve the case without all the facts?

  “We know you went to the hospital,” he said, “but you were there only a few minutes. What was that all about?”

  Rusti’s face warmed. Caught. What else did he know? “Have you been following me? Oh, no. It was the guard at the hospital, wasn’t it?”

  “That, and we had someone else watching Jones until he gave them the slip, which wasn’t too shrewd. Someone tried to kill him. They might try again.”

  That was why Razor needed her on his side—needed her silence, her protection. “He and my sister were friends,” she said. “I thought he might know where she went last night.”

  The suspicion in Baxter’s brown eyes lost intensity. “The way things are adding up, I don’t think Jones had anything to do with your sister’s murder. But you’d be wise to stay as far away from that wiseguy as you can.”