DIVA

by Susan Fleet

  Kelly’s eyes went wide. “Damn! I didn’t think of that. I’ll go back and ask her.” She cocked her head as a new tune came over the sound system. “That’s Chet Baker, isn’t it? I love his sound.”

  “One of my favorite trumpet players. You like jazz?”

  “Big time. Terry and I used to . . .” She twisted a lock of dark hair and shook her head. It made her bright shiny Big-Z earrings sway back and forth.

  “I love your earrings.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled, gazing into his eyes. “I made them.”

  “Aha! A woman of hidden talents.” Damn, he loved her eyes.

  “I majored in art at Loyola, thinking I might hit it big like the Blue-dog guy, Rodrigue.” She grinned. “I’m saving up to start a jewelry business.”

  Mesmerized by her smile and her deep-sea-green eyes, he leaned closer. Caught more vanilla-spice scent. Although they were in a crowded bar, it felt like they were in their own private bubble. “Tell me about it,” he said.

  “My brother Sean used to spend hours in the garage, making all kinds of stuff out of metal. He taught me welding and soldering. He said I was good at it, said I had great manual dexterity. So I started making jewelry.”

  “Huh. I’ve never been out with a woman welder.” Realizing he’d just implied this was a date, he quickly added, “Is Sean a cop, like your father?”

  “No. Sean and Patrick—he’s my next older brother—run a construction business in Chicago. When they were little, they owned every Tonka trunk ever made. Michael, my oldest brother, he’s a detective like Dad. They’re peas in a pod, same temperament, same foul-mouthed language.” She let out a low throaty laugh. “Good thing the nuns can’t hear us at Christmas dinner.”

  Her smile faded. She turned away, a muscle working in her jaw.

  “Holidays are the toughest, right?”

  She turned and looked at him. “Holidays are a bitch.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “What, you want to analyze me like the department shrink?”

  He touched her wrist, felt the thrum of her pulse. “They made you see a shrink? What a kick in the ass. They did that to me, too, in Boston. I hated it. They think you can’t handle your problems without help from some mental health jerkoff.” He traced his fingers down her forearm. She didn’t pull away, but her eyes had a speculative look.

  “What was your crisis?” she said.

  “Work related.”

  “And you don’t want to talk about it, right?”

  “Tell me about Terry. I hear he was a nice guy. A good cop.”

  “He was great guy. And a great cop. I still miss him.”

  He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her. Not in a crowded bar, someplace private. Someplace where he could feel her skin against his.

  “How long were you together?”

  “Nine years, married for seven.” She smiled, a wistful smile painful to see. “We were happy, you know? Lots of married people aren’t, but Terry and I were. He was the softy, always bringing home strays. I’m the practical one. I told him we couldn’t afford to feed three or four dogs if I was going to start a jewelry business. I’m not wild about being a cop, but Terry lived for the job. He loved helping people. That’s what got him killed.”

  “What happened?” He’d heard the story, but he wanted her version.

  She raked her fingers through her dark spiky hair. “Terry was in Slidell, helping his brother repair the deck on his house. We were supposed to go out that night. It was a Saturday. We were going to Snug Harbor to hear some jazz. Astral Project was playing.” She stared into space, lost in the memory.

  “It rained that day, not a downpour, but the roads were slick. Terry was driving home on the I-10 and saw a car in the breakdown lane. The driver was changing the left rear tire. So Terry, being the good Samaritan, stopped to help him.” She looked at him, eyes wet with tears. “He called me before he got out of the car and said he might be late. He didn’t want me to worry. And I was . . .” She heaved a sigh, a half-sob. “To tell the truth I was pissed, because we don’t go out for dinner that often and . . .”

  He squeezed her arm. “Don’t beat up on yourself. It wasn’t your fault.”

  Her mouth quirked and her eyes got squinty. “No, it wasn’t. It was the fucking truck driver’s fault. Terry was working on the lug nuts, and this eighteen-wheeler came along and crushed him. The doctor told me Terry never knew what hit him. He didn’t suffer, and I am, thank-you-God, grateful for that.” She picked up her beer mug and drained it.

  “I can’t tell you how to deal with it, Kelly. But for me, when something like that happens, when you lose someone you love, you have to focus on the good times.” She gazed into his eyes, as though he’d thrown her a life jacket. “Remember the wonderful times,” he said. “Little things like laughing over a stupid joke. And big things like how great it was to make love and lose yourself in him and remember how he smelled and how his skin felt.”

  She traced a finger down his cheek. “You’ve been there, right, Frank?”

  The words pierced his heart. “Yes. And I know how much it hurts.”

  “Thank you for listening. You’re the first . . .” She heaved a sigh. “Except for my dad, you’re the first person I’ve talked to about it.”

  “Yeah? And how was it for you? Was it good?” Grinning to show he was joking, wanting to lighten things up after her painful recitation.

  Her eyes crinkled in amusement. “Yes, Frank Renzi, it was very good.”

  His cell phone rang. Bummer. He checked the ID. Not someone he wanted to talk to right now. What he wanted right now was to build on the intimacies he and Kelly had just shared.

  “Sorry. I need to take this.” He punched on and said, “Renzi.”

  “Hello, Frank? It’s Belinda. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, conscious of Kelly beside him. “What’s up? You got a problem?”

  “It’s not an emergency or anything. I was just wondering if you, uh, if you had any leads on the jerk that ran me off the road.”

  “I don’t. Sorry. I wish I could tell you more.” Making it sound like official police business. He glanced at Kelly, saw her leafing through her checkbook of all things, pretending not to listen. But he knew she was. He would have, had the situation been reversed.

  “I thought maybe you might have checked the repair shops, you know, in case someone brought in an SUV with a damaged fender.”

  Had he said he’d do that? “No, I haven’t. It’s been . . . hectic.”

  “Well . . . you sound like you’re busy. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

  “Not a problem. I don’t blame you for being concerned.”

  “I’m less worried now than I was before. I hired a security person.”

  “Good.” He held up a finger to let Kelly know he was almost done.

  “Did you get a chance to come to the NOCCA concert?”

  Bingo. The real reason for the call. “Yes,” he said. “It was terrific. I enjoyed it.” Speaking innocuous words, aware of Kelly’s gaze.

  In a crisp voice Belinda said, “I’ll be in Cincinnati next weekend soloing at a Pops concert. Can you call me if you get any leads on the accident?”

  “I will. Have a good trip.” He set his cell phone on the bar and turned to Kelly. “I have a love-hate relationship with this thing. Sometimes it’s handy and other times . . .” He waggled his hand.

  “Yeah?” She gave him a slow grin. “Depends who’s calling.”

  “That it does.” Now she was fishing, and he was dodging.

  “Private detail?” Smiling faintly, a knowing look in her eyes.

  “Something like that.” Annoyed by the interruption, he sipped his beer, casting about for a way to get the conversation back on track.

  “I’m going to re-interview that rape victim next week,” Kelly said. “Want to come along? I think she’ll be okay with it if I tell her in advance.”


  His heart thrummed his chest. “Tell me when and I’ll be there.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Monday, 30 October

  He played a two-octave C-Major arpeggio and flexed his fingers, stiff and achy from schlepping luggage for asshole clients. Something he’d never do again, thanks to Belinda.

  Her suitcases he would gladly carry into any hotel in the world.

  After last night’s concert she’d seemed a bit down but she hadn’t said why. She wasn’t ready to confide in him. Not yet, but soon. Soon they’d lie in bed together and he would stroke her silky hair as she whispered her secrets. Her deepest darkest desires. Desires he couldn’t wait to fulfill.

  A spurt of anger ruined his fantasy. Her car was outside in the driveway, repaired and ready to go. But he was her driver. They were a couple now, going places together every day. He couldn’t allow her go out without him. Now that he’d rescued her from that drunk she had to know that she needed him to keep her safe. He’d paid the Minnesota biker forty bucks to fake the attack. The asshole didn’t know a flute from a football, didn’t know Belinda Scully from Britney Spears, but he’d delivered his lines well enough.

  His fingers roamed the ivories of the Steinway and settled into the introduction of the Saint-Saens Sonata for Violin and Piano. He hadn’t played it since he’d accompanied his sister for her Eastman School of Music audition. It was a bravura piece, full of tricky rhythms and rapturous melodies. Muscle memory got him through the introduction. His technique was rusty now, but fifteen years ago it hadn’t been. Rachel had played okay, though her puny sound didn’t do justice to the melodies. Even so it got her into the exclusive school. He would never forget her spiteful words when she got the letter.

  Piano players are a dime a dozen. They all want to be soloists and wind up playing rehearsals for ballet companies. You’ll never make it as a musician, but I will. I’ll be playing in a big orchestra.

  Gritting his teeth, he launched into the Beethoven sonata he’d practiced for his Boston Conservatory audition. But even the marvelous sound of the Steinway couldn’t erase Rachel’s malicious taunt. His bitch sister. Always the favored one, ever accurate in her predictions.

  He hadn’t even been accepted at Boston Conservatory, never mind the more prestigious New England Conservatory.

  Swept away by Beethoven’s passionate music, he bent over the keys, reveling in the sound, his right hand playing the melody, his left hand thundering the bass line.

  “What are you doing in here, Mr. Silverman?”

  Startled, he jerked his hands away from the keyboard. “Goodness, Belinda, you startled me.” She looked lovely this morning, coppery hair swept behind her delicate ears, held by silver clips on either side.

  She gazed at him without speaking, her sapphire-blue eyes accusing.

  He ripped off an E-flat Major arpeggio, fingers flashing up and down the keyboard. He ended with a flourish and smiled at his beloved. Soon he’d be playing arpeggios up and down her body.

  “What a gorgeous piano! A lot of the top soloists prefer a Bosendorfer or a Schimmel, but I still like a Steinway better, don’t you?” Tossing off the big-name builders to show that he knew what he was talking about when it came to pianos.

  “I prefer to have you wait in the foyer if I’m not ready to leave.”

  He maintained his smile. “I haven’t touched a piano in years. But I played quite well when I was younger. One time I accompanied a violinist and helped her win a big audition with the Debussy Violin Sonata in G minor.”

  Her expression softened. “Really? That’s quite a difficult piece.”

  “It sure is. I had to practice my ass off.” He covered his mouth in mock-horror. “Forgive my language. I hope I didn’t offend you.”

  She rewarded him with a smile. “I think I’ve heard that expression a time or two.” She looked at her watch. “We’d better go. My appointment’s at nine and I don’t want to be late.”

  Then why weren’t you ready when I got here at eight-thirty?

  “Don’t worry, Belinda, I’ll get you there on time.” Testing her first name again to see how she’d react. Nothing. Not even a polite smile. “Have you considered doing a Busoni transcription? His second violin sonata is a really meaty piece.”

  “Busoni. Goodness, you’re quite knowledgeable about chamber music.”

  Waving a self-deprecating hand, he rose from the piano bench. “I’m no expert, but you really should consider the Busoni Violin Sonata. It’s a marvelous piece.” Rachel had made him learn it so she could play it on her senior recital in high school, hoping to outdo another violinist. She hadn’t.

  “I’m too busy right now, but I’ll think about it.”

  “It would be fun if we played some duets. The French flute sonatas on your CD, perhaps. Your recording is fabulous, much better than Rampal’s. I’ve got all your CDs, and I’m a quick study. If you lend me the music, I’ll practice them. We’ll have a lovely time.”

  She trilled a laugh and tossed her long coppery tresses. “My accompanist plays for all the top soloists in New York. He’s got a Masters from Juilliard and he teaches at Yale.” She turned to leave. “But thanks for offering, Mr. Silverman. I’ll keep you in mind.”

  Bullshit. She wouldn’t keep him in mind. She wouldn’t even use his first name. He was nothing to her. A cipher.

  His cheeks burned with embarrassment. Thankfully, she didn’t notice.

  Intent on leaving, she took her briefcase off the table in the foyer and rushed out the door. Seething, he watched her sashay down the walk to his van. After all he did for her, the little courtesies that weren’t part of his job, complimenting her appearance, praising her performances, rhapsodizing over her CDs, not to mention saving her from that drunk.

  And what did he get in return? A derisive laugh when he invited her to play duets and patronizing jibes to put him in his place.

  Her accompanist had a Masters from Juilliard; he didn’t.

  Her accompanist taught at Yale; he was her chauffeur.

  He watched her tug at the door of his van. Normally, he would have rushed to assist her, but not today. Let The Diva open that heavy door herself and see how she liked it.

  But as he watched her struggle with the door, his heart melted.

  He hurried down the walk to his van.

  “Let me help you, Belinda. That door’s much too heavy for you.”

  ______

  Oblivious to other students piling into their cars and peeling out of the lot, Antoine trudged through the NOCCA parking area. His mind was a fuzzball. Probably flunked his advanced harmony test last period, unable to concentrate, imagining Chantelle’s beautiful almond eyes and the feel of her silky-smooth skin beneath his fingers, seeing her glorious smile the last time he made her come. Something he’d never do again.

  His throat closed up at the sound of a far-off train whistle. For some reason, the whistle reminded him of what Uncle Jonas said after Grandma died, said she was in Heaven and when Antoine died he’d meet up with her on The Other Side. Antoine wasn’t sure he believed it, but it was the one thing he’d clung to for the past week, the one thing that gave him hope, had to stuff a pillow in his mouth every night so Uncle Jonas wouldn’t hear him cry himself to sleep.

  Eyes blurry with tears, he arrived at his car and got out his keys.

  “Yo, Antoine!”

  His heart jumped into his throat, fluttering like a captured bird. He focused on holding onto his keys, fingers cold and numb, felt like he’d been juggling ice cubes for an hour.

  AK appeared at his elbow, smiling his evil gold-toothed smile, had his two homeboys with him, Spider arching his neck to flaunt his spider-web tat, Deadeye draping his forearm on the roof of Antoine’s car to display the mean-looking dagger-tat, dripping red blood.

  “W’as up, my man? Cat got your tongue?”

  AK doing his big-man act for his homeboys.

  Fear and loathing did battle in his mind. His heart hammered like a machine gun. He wishe
d he had one so he could blow AK away. Why’d you kill Chantelle? he wanted to scream. But he was too scared.

  “Ain’t nobody got my tongue. What you doin’ here?”

  “Here to make sure you not runnin’ your mouth to no cops.”

  Desperation and fear jazzed his mind. Had someone seen him talking to that NOPD cop last Friday night?

  “Ain’t talking to no cops.”

  “That ain’t what I hear.”

  “You heard wrong.” Hot pokers of hatred burned the fear from his mind. “Why you do that to Chantelle? She wasn’t gonna say nothing.”

  AK smiled his evil smile, challenging him with his eyes. “Do what to Chantelle?”

  What could he say? Why’d you murder the girl I loved with all my heart, the girl that made me almost as happy as when I play my saxophone?

  “Maybe the girl stepped outta line with somebody.” AK leaned closer, huffing halitosis breath at him. “You better not get outta line, Antoine, or you know what’ll happen?”

  He knew better than to answer. Big mistake, mouthing off at AK.

  Weevils of fear gnawed his stomach. Then he saw Spider and Deadeye back away from his car, their eyes fixed on someone behind him, their expressions wary.

  “What’s shaking, AK?” said a deep resonant voice. “Had to bust my hump to catch up with you. You gonna apply to NOCCA?”

  AK’s eyes hardened, lumps of coal focused on the man who’d spoken.

  Antoine knew who it was, recognized the voice right off.

  “Just having a conversation with my buddy Antoine,” AK said. “What’s it to you, Mr. Po-leece-man?”

  AK still doing his tough-guy act, Antoine noticed, but not as confident as before, looking like he wanted to split but trying hard to be cool.

  “Renzi,” said the voice. “Detective Frank Renzi. Let’s go over to the Eighth District Police Station, AK. I’ve got questions for you.”

  “Not ‘less you carryin’ paper sez I got to. Me ‘n my homies got business to take care of.” AK jerked his head at Spider and Deadeye, signaling them to head out. “You got paper says I gotta go with you?”

  Antoine held his breath, praying the cop had a warrant. Anything to let him get in his car and drive away so AK wouldn’t find out he knew the cop. Or that the cop knew him. If AK found out Renzi knew him, he was dead.