Master of the Opera

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “She knew I’d hurt myself, but not how. I didn’t want her to know. I was so embarrassed. I felt like a failure.”

  “It’s not a failure. Everybody has different ways of dealing with pain. You should be proud for overcoming it.”

  “I wasn’t crazy. And I’m not crazy now. I’ve learned that much.”

  “Okay.” Hally’s bland look reminded her of her promise never to judge. Christine sighed.

  “It helps that you know. And . . . and I wanted you to understand at least this part of things. Why I didn’t want my father here. Helping me.”

  Hally regarded her quietly. “I get that. But he did the right thing, didn’t he? Even though you were angry then.”

  “Maybe. I’m going to need his help, though.”

  “Everyone needs help now and again.”

  “Well . . .” She sighed and toweled her hair. “I can’t count on the Sanclaro lawyers, and if the cops are talking to my friends, then I need help. What did they seem like they were after?”

  “The cops are hinting around that they think you could be part of it.”

  A chill from more than the cool tiles sank into her heart. She pulled on Hally’s sweats. “What? Why?”

  Hally sat on the toilet and bit her lip. “It’s bad. Carla apparently remembered what happened. And now the cops are talking as if she said you did it.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Well, it hardly matters, does it?” Hally snapped and tightened her ponytail. “They might have enough to arrest you now. That Detective Sanchez wanted to know where you were. And Sanclaro wants to know where you are. Let me tell you—you’re a popular girl tonight. Come morning, you won’t be able to duck them.”

  Christine stood frozen, unable to gather her thoughts.

  “What did Carla say I did?”

  “Well, we don’t know, do we? Here, comb your hair.”

  She did, hissing at the snarls she hadn’t known were there.

  “See—they won’t tell us exactly what Carla said because they’re trying to draw you out. That Sanchez kept saying ‘don’t you want me to help your friend?’ and ‘the truth will exonerate her, but it looks bad without it,’ and so on.”

  “Shit.”

  “In a word, yes. You’d better start thinking up your story.”

  “My story is that I was with him.”

  “Can you prove that?” Hally kept her face and voice studiously neutral.

  “How?”

  “Exactly. Only you have ever seen him. Unless he’s planning to testify on your behalf, you have a problem.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “It’s not me you need to convince. I’m not interested in judging you.”

  “Hally, can I ask you something?”

  “I already told you—no judgment.”

  “Not that. If someone wanted to bind a spirit to a place, how is that done?”

  Hally gave her a considering look. “You’re not the kind of person to want to commit a heinous act like that, so I’m guessing you want to know who trapped your guy and how to undo it.”

  Christine nodded. Then shivered.

  “Let’s pour some wine. Then we’ll talk.”

  4

  The few hours of sleep Christine and Hally managed—sharing her narrow futon with one another and the six cats—were nowhere near enough. Hally had wanted to talk alibis, but Christine wouldn’t. She did get the opal ring back from Hally, who grudgingly dug it out of the drawer in which she’d hidden it.

  “You need to get out of that farce of an engagement,” Hally grumbled the complaint as she slapped the ring into Christine’s palm.

  “Not yet.” She slid it onto her finger, remembering how it felt to be the tribal priestess, her feet sinking into the mud of the bloody fields, the ghost tribe gathering around her in that dreamworld below the opera house—and the twin daughters who carried her blood and wore rings like this one. The lock and the key. It started and ended with the Sanclaros. “I need Roman.”

  Hally was busy scraping her hair into her usual ponytail but fixed her friend with a gimlet stare. “I hope you know what you’re doing. That Roman—there’s something off about him. When he came by last night . . .” She snapped a barrette in place and shook her head.

  “Does he strike you as capable of murder?”

  Hally glared. “I cannot believe you can just stand there and ask a question like that about a man you’re seeing.”

  A knock banged on the door, carrying unmistakable police authority.

  It wasn’t Sanchez, though, just a couple of street cops whose eyes lit up at the sight of her. “Miss Davis, we need you to come down to the station with us.”

  “Okay.” She smiled at their consternation. “You guys want a cup of coffee first?”

  They tried to look stern and made noises about this not being a social occasion, but she only shrugged and grabbed her bag. Hally hugged her, hard.

  “You want me to come with you?”

  “That’s not permissible, Miss Roberts.” One of the cops frowned at her. “And what happened to you contacting us as soon as you heard from your friend?”

  Hally twirled her ponytail around one finger and widened her eyes. “It was three in the morning, I didn’t want to wake you guys. I know you need your beauty sleep.”

  Christine laughed at her, earning an innocent, beaming smile in return.

  “You two think this is a laughing matter, but it’s not.” One cop bunched up his shoulders. “A woman is dead and another is gravely injured. You are both persons of interest, so I’d watch my manners if I were you.”

  Feet pounded up the wooden stairs and Roman stood in the open doorway. “What is the meaning of this?” He looked handsome as always, perfectly groomed.

  “Mr. Sanclaro,” said the cop who hadn’t been getting all riled up, “we’re escorting Ms. Davis here to the station to answer some questions.”

  “Is my fiancée under arrest?” Roman’s gaze traveled over her borrowed gypsy dress before meeting her eyes. Under the studied bland expression on his face, a chilly anger brewed.

  “Not at this time.”

  “Then she doesn’t talk to you. Come on, Christy—I’m taking you home so you can get cleaned up for Mass.” He held out a preemptory hand.

  “Ms. Davis,” the nice cop faced her directly, “I’m asking you to come with us now. Call your lawyer, if you need to, but don’t force us to arrest you just to have a conversation.”

  “I already said I’d go and I’m going. I want to talk to Detective Sanchez.”

  “I’m calling our lawyers, Christy. Don’t say anything until they get there.” Roman’s charged presence had tilted the population of Hally’s smallish space from tight to seriously overcrowded.

  In front of her intimate, avidly interested audience, Christine did her best to play her part right, the ingénue appealing to her hero. She widened her eyes and moved close to Roman, stroking the sharp lapel of his suit jacket.

  “Don’t be angry with me, Roman. This is so difficult. I just want to get it all over with.”

  He softened, as she’d hoped. He loved to play her rescuer.

  “I was worried when I couldn’t find you last night,” he murmured, taking her hand and passing his thumb over the ring.

  “I was praying.” She spoke the lie without a trace of guilt. “I’m so sorry to miss church, but let’s go see your parents tonight. Send the lawyers and I’ll answer questions.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes—you go on to church and I’ll call you when I’m done. They won’t let you sit in, anyway. I’m innocent of any wrongdoing. And your lawyers are the best, right?” She beamed a trusting smile at him and he fell for it, slipping a protective arm around her shoulders.

  “You are under the wing of Sanclaro.” Though he ostensibly was speaking to her, he stared down the cops as he said it. They looked unimpressed.

  “Ms. Davis—if you’re finished?”

  “Yes.
Let’s go.”

  * * *

  She didn’t wait for the lawyers but agreed to talk to Sanchez immediately.

  “You need a sweater?” Sanchez asked her, tossing a file on the interview table. “The AC is pretty strong today.”

  “I’m okay for now,” she answered.

  “So, where were you last night?”

  “With my lover.”

  Sanchez sat back slightly. She’d surprised him out of his fatherly mien. “I take it you don’t mean your fiancé, Roman Sanclaro.”

  “No. I’m cheating on Roman. Are you going to tell on me?”

  “How about you give me the name of this guy?”

  “I don’t care to tell you that, Detective.”

  “You don’t, huh? What about when you need an alibi for where you were last night—will this prince of a guy quit hiding then?”

  “Do I need an alibi for last night?”

  “I don’t know. Do you?”

  Christine sighed, the lack of sleep settling on her shoulders like heavy snowflakes. Long enough and they’d bury her under their weight. “Look, Detective Sanchez, I know you’re trying to do the right thing. I want that, too. I’m here voluntarily, aren’t I?”

  “You’re here because my officers picked you up and we damn well both know it.”

  “But I haven’t lawyered up, have I? They’ll be here soon, though—so we should probably discuss what you really want to know.”

  He fell silent, waiting for her to say something. She knew this from theater. The long silence that prompts the guilty party to confess because she can’t stand the shouting of her inner voices. Or the imagined thump thump, thump thump of the undying heartbeat of her victim under the floorboards. Except the police station was floored with tile. She smiled, amused at her train of thought.

  “Something funny?” Sanchez looked irritated.

  Score one for Christine—he’d broken the silence first.

  “Just waiting for you to ask me questions.”

  “I already did—who were you with last night?”

  “My lover, and then my friend, Hally Roberts.”

  “You’ll say her name but not his.”

  “That’s right. But you already know her name.”

  “We’ll find out his, too.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “Okay, he’s a semicorporeal being who lives under the opera house. Last night he took me to another realm, where we performed ritual sex magic to help restore his strength as a demigod.” She reviewed it in her mind. “At least, I’m pretty sure that was the purpose of what we were doing. We didn’t really discuss it in detail.”

  Sanchez made a note in the file, not looking at her. “Are you waiting for me to tell you how crazy that story is?”

  “Yes, actually. I know how it sounds.”

  “And you’ve been down this road before, haven’t you, Christy?”

  “Christine.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I prefer Christine now. Or Ms. Davis would be fine.”

  “I have your records, Ms. Davis.” He closed the file and tapped it with a blunt finger. “This wouldn’t be the first time you’ve experienced mental and emotional difficulties.”

  The AC was cold, drilling into her stomach. She stared at the file, willing the dread away. The sight of those old papers, what they likely said about her, robbed her of her courage.

  “You’re a cutter. I understand that doesn’t go away.” Sanchez was trying to sound kind. Back to the fatherly approach. “Maybe the stress is making you cut again. Or you’re purposely seeking out dangerous situations.”

  All the protesting she’d done in the past—no one had ever listened. That was the thing about people starting to think you were crazy. Everything you said sounded bad. Some of the old panic began to eat away at the edges of her newfound confidence. Christy the cutter was her crippled self. Christine didn’t want to be her anymore.

  “I’m not.” But her voice wavered, ever so slightly, and Sanchez heard it.

  “Maybe I should take you into protective custody, have you evaluated—for your own safety.”

  Asking for a sweater now would be a sign of weakness. I’m not a cutter. I never was a cutter. A few little cuts and that was how my father punished me. The tears pricked at her eyes and she fought them back.

  Sanchez’s face wore the fog of sympathy, but the truth of his canny maneuvering shone through. Sanchez thought this was the way to get to her. By making her feel crazy. Just as her dad had.

  Words lie. But her gut knew the truth.

  “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

  “If I think you’re a danger to yourself or others, I can have you involuntarily committed.”

  She laughed, and it warmed her considerably. Now she rubbed her arms briskly. “If you read my file, you know I’ve been down that road before, Detective. Believe me, I know the rules. I’m also no longer a frightened and confused thirteen-year-old girl. You’d need a hell of a lot more than what you’ve got to do that.”

  “I can do a lot.”

  “Yes. But not that. You can arrest me, but you can’t make me insane.”

  He leaned in, but she thought she saw a gleam of respect in his eyes. “Even if I don’t arrest you, you’ll be placed on administrative leave at the opera. The board feels there’s enough suspicion to keep you away.”

  Her spirits sank. They thought she was a danger? “Why?” The question sounded plaintive.

  “It’s not unusual—and totally up to a private business to make that choice, regardless of the nature of the criminal investigation. You’ll still be paid.”

  As if that was all that mattered. Still, she would find other ways to see the Master, other ways to support herself. It would be better, anyway, not to have any connection to her father. She could see that now. It was time to be truly free of him. No more half steps. The idea, though, pained her deeply. “Seems to me that if you were going to arrest me, you would have done it by now. Why bother with the psych stuff if you could just lock me up?”

  Sanchez sighed heavily. “A woman’s life is in danger. Do you understand that? Can’t you find it in your heart to care about her—no matter how badly she treated you?”

  “I thought Carla was doing better.”

  “Someone tried to kill her last night. Again.”

  Christine blinked. “At the hospital?”

  “No, she was released yesterday and was at home.”

  “Wow. What happened? Is Charlie okay?”

  “I can’t tell you anything other than Mr. Donovan is fine. Now you tell me—where were you last night? And think very, very carefully about your answer.”

  5

  Sanchez didn’t arrest her. They went round and round for hours—without and then with the lawyers—getting nowhere. After a while, it became clear to Christine that Sanchez, while certain she knew something about what was going on, couldn’t pin much on her. He didn’t believe she’d been with another man the night before, but he did ask several times where she thought Roman had been. She honestly didn’t know. She nearly asked why Sanchez wasn’t interrogating him, but she suspected she knew the answer to that.

  Especially after Sanchez cautioned her three times to be careful.

  He thought she’d been with Roman—and that she’d helped him attack Carla. Twice. She saw the conviction in his eyes.

  The same officers gave her a ride home in the afternoon. She left a voice mail for Roman, grateful that he hadn’t answered his phone. She needed time to compose herself to face him and his father tonight. To build up her courage to do what she needed to do.

  After she showered—she might forever associate the scent of Hally’s sandalwood lotion with the sinking fear of being recommitted—and changed clothes, they were still sitting in their car out front. Oh well, let them follow her. She waved cheerfully, then slid into her car
, bouncing on the hot seat. Putting the top down helped air it out from being closed up but felt kind of frivolous.

  She drove to Trader Joe’s. Sunday afternoon was not the time to shop, but she needed groceries. Plus it amused her that the cops had to deal with the chaos of the parking lot to keep an eye on her. It felt safe and normal to be amid the press of people, even the impatient ones, and the harried others with whiny children. This was how it ought to be for people. Living their lives, feeding their families.

  Not relegated to being extinct shadow people, sacrificed for someone else’s greed.

  She’d been ignoring her phone, except to text Hally that all was fine.

  Her father had called a number of times. No surprise there. She deleted the voice mails without listening. No doubt her father knew she’d been put on administrative leave. But there was no way in hell she was going home. And she still wasn’t ready to tell him what she’d found out. So there was nothing to discuss.

  When she returned to her apartment, Roman was waiting on her doorstep. The tension immediately crawled up her neck. He’d changed out of his church clothes and wore faded jeans and an open shirt. No doubt he’d bought the jeans that way, but he still looked younger, more like a guy her age. Except for his flat eyes, beady and without remorse, like a spider’s. His dangerous mien.

  He straightened up when she came up the stairs and gave her a rueful smile that did nothing to warm his eyes. “I missed you, so I came early.”

  “That’s sweet of you.” She pecked him on the cheek to avoid more of a kiss.

  He took a couple of the grocery bags from her, giving an irritated look at the cheerful Reusable Bag! cartoons on them. “Let me help you,” he said, and they both pretended this wasn’t the first time he’d ever entered her apartment.

  “Want a beer?” Christine held up the six-pack she’d bought. She tried not to fret about him coming into her apartment. Why the sudden change of heart? Did he suspect she was lying to him? “They’re not cold, but they’re air-conditioned-store cool.”

  “Yeah. Okay, thanks.”

  He sat in one of her faux Southwestern-antique bar stools, painted a garish orange she planned to change one of these weekends, and watched her put the groceries away, his eyes speculative. When she finished, she popped a beer for herself, leaned her elbows on the counter, and raised her eyebrows in silent question.