by Susan Fleet
“Yeah? Then how come he jumped me the other day, accused me of talking to a cop?”
“I dunno. Got nuthin' to do with me.”
“Georgette told you they called me down the office on Friday, right?”
Marcus rolled his fleshy lips together and glowered at him.
“Don’t be spying on me for AK. You do, I’ll blow the whistle on the drug deals you got goin’ on that street corner near NOCCA. Your daddy won’t be too happy about that.”
“You do and I’ll tell AK, AK take care of you.” Marcus gave him a nasty look, turned and went back inside.
AK take care of you. A chill ran down his spine like a jug full of ice water.
Big mistake, threatening Marcus. Should have kept his mouth shut. Damn that cop anyway, wanting him to snitch, saying they’d protect him.
The cops hadn’t stopped AK from killing Chantelle.
Wouldn’t stop AK from killing him, either.
_____
Humming a fragment of her Gershwin encore, she unlocked the door, wheeled her suitcase into the foyer and stopped. Her neck prickled.
Why wasn’t the alarm on?
Then she saw the M&Ms scattered over the floor in the hall, felt the eerie quiet of her house. She ran to the office and gasped. Sheets of paper, M&Ms, Hershey’s mini-bars, and shattered glass from Jake’s brandy snifter littered the floor. Someone had trashed her house. What about her flutes?
Her heart slammed her chest and the sour taste of fear flooded her mouth. She ran upstairs to her bedroom closet, shoved her clothes aside and knelt down in front of the large steel safe in the back of the closet. Her hands were shaking so badly it took her almost a minute to dial the combination.
Offering up a silent prayer, she opened the safe.
And saw her flute cases just as she’d left them. Weak with relief, she struggled to her feet, left the closet and looked around. No trash strewn around her bedroom, but one of her pillows lay on the floor, missing its pillowcase. She studied her bureau. The drawers were closed, but the lid of her jewelry box was open. Had someone stolen her jewelry? A few pieces were quite valuable. But she didn’t have the strength to check them.
Sinking onto her bed, she rocked back and forth, overcome with hysterical laughter, laughter that ended in a choked sob.
Her stomach cramped, a vicious knife-like pain. Why was this happening now? She took a deep breath to steady her nerves and marshaled her thoughts. And her courage.
Get a grip, she thought. Lots of houses get burglarized in New Orleans, especially since Katrina. Over the weekend someone must have seen her dark house, assumed no one was home and taken advantage of it. But in the back of her mind, a question nagged her. Why wasn’t the security alarm on?
Should she call Frank?
When she’d called him after the car accident, he’d been angry with her for not reporting it to the police. This time he would be furious. She gritted her teeth, picked up the phone on her bedside table and dialed 911.
____
“I called the police,” she said, “but they didn’t seem too hopeful about catching the burglar.”
Frank said nothing, just looked at her. She felt safer now that he was here, a virile presence in her kitchen, leaning against the sink in a tan polo shirt and faded jeans, exuding vitality and strength. His dark probing eyes were incredibly sexy, regarding her steadily now.
She sank onto a chair at her butcher-block table, fighting the push-pull of sexual attraction and the irritation that festered in her mind. To break the silence, she said, “What good did it do to report it?”
He came to the table and sat down opposite her, his expression unreadable. “Someone broke into your house. That’s a crime. Now there’s a record of it. The alarm was off when you came in?”
“Yes. I don’t understand it. Jake always arms it before we leave.”
“Are you and Jake the only ones with the code?”
“A cleaning woman comes in once a week, but she doesn’t have it. If I’m not here to let her in, Jake does. Mr. Silverman has the code, too. He’s my new security man.”
“What’s his first name?”
“Barry.”
“Did you check his credentials?”
“Yes. Well, I didn’t, but Jake did. He’d been working for a London businessman. When Jake phoned him, the man was very enthusiastic. I forget his name, but Jake could tell you. Mr. Silverman is from New Orleans. He lives here.”
“Uh-huh. And you know this how?”
“That’s what he told me. Why? Does it matter?”
Frank gazed at her, clearly irritated. “I need to see his credentials.”
“I doubt I could find them for you now. You saw the office. I’ll ask Jake to find them when he comes in tomorrow.” She raked her fingers through her hair. “Why didn’t the policemen dust for fingerprints?”
“This is New Orleans not CSI. Tell me about Jake. Has he got a beef with you?”
“Of course not. Jake’s my dearest friend. He helped me get through the accident and—” Hearing the tremor in her voice, she broke off. She would not cry, damn it!
“Somebody trashed the office. Not what you’d expect with a simple B&E. Are you and Jake getting along okay?”
“Yes. For the most part. Would you like something to drink?”
“No thanks. What’s up with you and Jake?”
“I’ve got orange juice and Arizona Iced Tea.”
“Belinda, what is it that you don’t want to tell me?” Gazing at her with his incredibly sexy eyes, eyes that would probe her soul if she let them.
Her palms grew clammy. She didn’t want to tell him that Jake was abandoning her. She didn’t want to tell him any of her other secrets, either.
“What’s going on with you and Jake?”
“Well, he’s moving to New York in January, but that’s hardly grounds for suspecting him. Besides, he was with me in Cincinnati.”
“Why is he moving to New York?”
“Jake’s a fantastic organist. He’s got a Masters from New England Conservatory.” She faked a smile, though her heart was a lump of lead. “He wants to pursue other opportunities. Isn’t that how the saying goes?”
“Okay. Tell me about Silverman.”
“I met him at the reception after my concert in London. He said he’d been working a security detail for a British businessman and if I ever needed a security driver, he’d be happy to do it. He gave me his card.”
“You met him at a concert. And he just happened to be a security guy and gave you his card.”
An angry flush flooded her cheeks. “Yes, and it’s a good thing. After the NOCCA concert Friday night, a drunk accosted me in the parking lot. Mr. Silverman ran him off.”
Frank’s mouth quirked in annoyance. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”
Why didn’t you come backstage after the concert? Then you could have protected me.
“It didn’t seem that important.”
“Describe the drunk.”
“A big white man, big and scruffy looking. He looked like a lumberjack, dark beard, evil eyes. And a very foul mouth.”
“Get Jake over here. Silverman, too. I want to talk to both of them.”
_____
First thing Monday morning Frank called London, sitting at his desk now with a phone clamped to his ear. Opposite him, Kenyon Miller frowned at his computer screen, not liking what he saw apparently. Meanwhile, the voice with the Brit accent droned on. Mr. Smythe-Jones.
Y in the middle, E at the end, the pompous ass had explained.
As if he gave a shit how the guy spelled his name. Vobitch would flip when he saw the phone bill, ten minutes to London and counting, the Brit rhapsodizing about Barry Silverman, who’d taken excellent care of his security, blah, blah, blah. He tried to picture the man, envisioning a fat old geezer with white hair sprouting from his ears. “Mr. Jones—”
“Smythe-Jones.” The bigshot Brit correcting him.
“Uh-huh. Wh
at sort of business do you run?” Aware that Miller was listening now.
The line crackled with silence. Then, “I’m an entrepreneur.”
He winked at Miller. “What sort of entrepreneur? Selling guns to Middle East rebels?” Miller gave a silent laugh and a thumbs-up, egging him on.
“Certainly not!” came the indignant reply. “I invest in stock futures, that sort of thing.”
“Stock futures. That why you need security? You make a lot of money?”
“Detective Renzi, p’raps you haven’t heard, but on this side of the pond, we’ve had several businessmen kidnapped for ransom. One bloke had a finger hacked off.”
“Kidnapped for ransom and a finger hacked off,” he repeated for Miller’s benefit. “Were there any attempts to kidnap you when Silverman was guarding you?”
“Not a one. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. His work was spot on for two years. Look here, Detective, I’m expecting a call from Tokyo, so if you’re quite done . . .”
“Okay, Mr. Smythe-Jones, thanks for your time.” He cradled the phone and rubbed the scar on his chin. Something felt wrong. The pompous Brit was just a voice on the phone, could be anybody. He needed to talk to Silverman. He’d interviewed Ziegler at Belinda’s yesterday, but not Silverman. Belinda had phoned him and left a message, but Silverman never called back.
“Hoo-ee!” Miller said, his eyes gleeful. “Smith-Jones? What’s up with that? Take the two most common names in the world, hook ‘em together?”
“Hey, Mr. Know-Nothing. Not Smith, S-M-I-T-H. There’s that all-important Y in the middle, that extra-special E at the end. Like he’s an aristocrat or some fucking thing.”
Miller cracked up, rumbling a laugh.
His cell phone rang and he grabbed it. “Renzi.”
“Hey, Frank, it’s Kelly. You got a minute?”
A minute? He had hours and days worth of minutes for Kelly O’Neil. A warm glow filled his chest as he pictured her entrancing sea-green eyes.
“Give me a minute, I’ll call you back.” He pushed back from his desk and said to Miller, “I gotta go check something. Back in five.”
Focused on his computer, Miller waved a hand without looking up.
He hustled outside and sat on a stone bench between the Eighth District Station and the coffee joint next door, far enough from the outdoor tables so no one could overhear, and called Kelly.
“Sorry," he said. "It was noisy in the office. I had to go outside.” A big fib. He didn’t want to talk to her in front of Miller. They were on the verge of something. He felt it in his gut, the buzz he got before he slept with a woman.
Kelly responded with a derisive laugh. “Your office wasn’t noisy. You just didn’t want to talk to me in front of Kenyon Miller. I’m outside too.”
“Yeah?” he said, grinning. “Close encounters with Warren getting to you? Can’t stand being cooped up in a trailer Mr. Sexist-Pig?”
Fifteen months post-Katrina, the badly damaged District-Three station remained closed, the D-3 detectives working out of a trailer in cubicles barely big enough to hold a computer station.
“How’d you guess?” she said, with a lilt in her voice. “I’m sitting under a big oak tree enjoying the fresh air and sunshine, figured I’d give you a call and make sure you’re busting your butt.”
He could feel her smiling. “I am. I just finished talking to a snotty old fart in London.”
“London? How come? Something to do with the Lakeview case?”
“No. How about we have dinner tonight and I’ll tell you about it?”
“Uh, not tonight. Sorry. I’ve got something planned.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, thinking: What plans and with whom?
“How about tomorrow? I could meet you at seven.”
His heart soared. “Perfect. Let’s meet at Zea’s on Magazine Street. My treat.” Hinting this wasn’t about work to see how she’d react.
She uttered a low throaty laugh. “Sounds great. See you then.”
His heart thrummed. Dinner with Kelly O’Neil tomorrow night.
After dinner, anything could happen.
When it came to women, he liked to think positive.
_____
At ten-thirty he unlocked Belinda’s door and stepped into the foyer, carrying a foil-covered plate. Agitated voices came from the office. His heart surged, fueled by delicious anticipation. Now he would demonstrate his expertise to his beloved and make her understand how indispensable he was.
And Ziegler would get his comeuppance.
Belinda came out to the foyer, sporting a worried frown. “Hello, Mr. Silverman. Someone broke in while we were gone.”
“Broke in!” he exclaimed, feigning astonishment and concern.
Ziegler came out of the office and stood beside Belinda.
He had to use all his willpower not to laugh. The asshole’s bearded face was puckered in the mother of all frowns.
“Someone trashed the place,” Ziegler said, glaring at him.
He set the foil-covered plate on the foyer table and adopted a stern expression. “That’s not good. Tell me what happened, Belinda.”
“I got home around three and came inside and saw the mess—”
“Hold it. Didn’t the police come when the alarm went off?”
After a quick glance at Ziegler, she said, “The alarm wasn’t on.”
“I armed it before we left,” Ziegler said, and gnawed at his thumbnail.
He smiled, emulating the condescending smile Ziegler often gave him. “Are you sure? You were in a rush. It’s easy to forget something when—”
“I wasn’t in a rush. I didn’t forget. I set the alarm before I left.”
Feigning concern, he said to Belinda, “You came in the house by yourself? What if the robbers were still here? If I had driven you home, I could have protected you.”
If I’d come with you to Cincinnati none of this would have been necessary.
“She called you yesterday and left a message,” Ziegler said. “Where were you?”
“Really? My answering service said nothing about a message.” To Belinda he said, “Was anything stolen? What about your flutes?”
“My flutes weren’t stolen, just some jewelry and my CD player.”
And four CDs, and a pair of your sexy-smelling panties.
“Did you call the police?”
“Yes. For all the good it did. They didn’t seem hopeful about catching the burglar.”
“Did you notify your insurance company?”
“Yes. They told me to make a list of everything that’s missing.”
Ziegler skewered him a look, a vindictive squinty-eyed look. “Where were you yesterday?”
“At an Atlanta Symphony concert. My sis—” He caught himself in time. “My girlfriend plays in the orchestra. It was a terrific concert. I really enjoyed it.” Except for watching my bitch-sister Rachel sawing away on her violin.
“When we’re out of town,” Ziegler said, “you’re supposed to be here to cover the alarm in case something happens. That’s why I gave you the code.”
He gave the asshole a self-righteous smile. “I paid for a plane ticket to Cincinnati, Jake, but you told me I wasn’t needed. The ticket wasn’t refundable, so I exchanged it for a round-trip flight to Atlanta. I flew back early this morning.”
Belinda glanced at Ziegler. His beloved appeared sympathetic, unlike Ziegler, who glared at him, his baleful eyes full of disdain.
“Only three people have the code, Mr. Silverman. Belinda has it, I have it, and you have it.”
“Wait. Are you accusing me?” He turned to Belinda and made his eyes go wide. “You think I had something to do with this?
“No, I don’t.” She wouldn’t meet his gaze, however. A bad sign.
“Well, I do!” Ziegler said. “Your services are no longer required, Mr. Silverman. Send me an invoice for your time, including today, and I’ll mail you a check.”
An angry flush burned his cheeks. This was totall
y unfair. He couldn’t allow this to happen. “Is that what you want, Belinda?”
She continued to stare at the floor. “I’m sorry, Mr. Silverman.”
He clenched his fists and took a step toward Ziegler. The asshole stood his ground, smirking at him. He wanted to punch the smirk off his face, wanted to ram a fist into his gut and show Belinda how impotent and helpless Loverboy was. But that wouldn’t do.
He looked at Belinda. “Well, if that’s the way it is . . .”
“Yes, that’s the way it is!” Ziegler said.
He picked up the foil-wrapped plate from the table and offered it to her. “My girlfriend baked some brownies and I saved some for you, Belinda.”
“Take your fucking brownies and get out!” Ziegler shouted.
Rage hotter than a blazing inferno exploded inside him. With a colossal effort, he maintained control. “No need to get testy, Mr. Ziegler.”
You’ll get what’s coming to you soon enough.
CHAPTER 21
Wednesday, 8 November
Kelly unlocked her front door and led him into her living room. She flashed a smile, but she seemed edgy. Maybe she was having second thoughts about inviting him home for a nightcap after their dinner at Zea’s.
“Have a seat while I get the Baileys, Frank.”
He put his arms around her and pulled her close. She exhaled a puff of air against his cheek, tipped her head back and looked at him, her sea-green eyes liquid pools. He took her face in his hands and kissed her, gently at first, more deeply when she opened her lips and pressed her body against him.
When they came up for air, she said, “Mmm. That was good.”
He raised her top and caressed her back with his fingertips.
“Too many clothes,” he said. “I want to feel your skin.”
She pulled off her low-cut top and tossed it on the sofa. He undid her bra, brushed the straps from her shoulders and it fell to the floor.
“Take off your shirt,” she whispered.
He feathered her nipples with his fingers and kissed her. When he took off his shirt and dropped it on the floor, she pressed against him. Her skin felt warm against his, her nipples hard against his chest. He felt her heartbeat, thrumming almost as fast as his.