DIVA

by Susan Fleet

  His cell phone went off, a jarring interruption.

  “I should have turned the damn thing off,” he muttered. He didn’t want to answer, but when his cell rang this late, it was usually urgent.

  When he answered, Belinda screamed, “Frank, I don’t know what to do! Jake is dead!”

  His heart jolted. “Hold on, slow down. Tell me what happened.”

  “H-h-he felt sick this afternoon so he went home but then he felt worse, so he went to the hospital and now he’s dead, Frank! Jake is dead! Can you come to the hospital?”

  He glanced at Kelly, gazing at him now with a somber expression. “Which hospital?”

  “Touro Infirmary. It’s on—”

  “I know where it is. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Thank you, Frank. Please hurry!”

  He punched off. “Sorry, Kelly. This woman’s hysterical. I’ve got to go calm her down.”

  Vertical frown lines appeared between Kelly’s eyebrows.

  “It’s not personal, it’s business. She’s had a lot of problems, a car accident, a B&E at her house, and now her manager’s dead. It’s more complicated than that, but I haven’t got time to explain.”

  He bent down to retrieve his polo shirt. Inspired by a sudden idea, he said, “Would you mind coming with me? Maybe you can calm her down. You’re good at that.”

  “I guess so, if you want.” But her expression remained skeptical.

  He drew her to him and kissed her. “What I want is to make love to you, but this won’t wait. I’ll explain in the car.”

  The look in her eyes said: Not okay, but I’ll go with it. For now.

  _____

  With Kelly at his side, he strode to the reception desk and flashed his ID badge at a tired-looking older woman in a white uniform.

  “We’re here to see Belinda Scully. She came in with a patient named Jake Ziegler. Can you tell me where to find her?”

  “She’s waiting for you in the Family Center. Do you know—?”

  “I know where it is.” He’d interviewed plenty of victims’ families in the Family Center, the room where they parked relatives so the doctor could deliver bad news in private. He tilted his head at Kelly and they walked down a hall decorated with cheery watercolors of pink pelicans and various wildlife.

  They came to a door with a metal faceplate: Family Center. He tapped on the door and stepped inside. Slumped in a wingchair with blue-flowered upholstery, Belinda looked up. Her eyes were bloodshot, surrounded by puffy skin. Her facial pallor matched the institutional-ivory walls. She leaped out of the chair, crossed the room in two long strides and threw her arms around him. “Thank God you’re here, Frank. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  Her ribs heaved—she was hyperventilating—and he smelled an unpleasant odor, as if she’d run a marathon and hadn’t showered.

  He eased her away and gestured at Kelly. “This is Detective Kelly O’Neil. I brought her along because, well, you seemed upset.”

  Belinda studied Kelly, a head-to-toe examination that took in Kelly’s low-cut top and mini-skirt. Not exactly NOPD regulation, he realized.

  She clamped her lips together and stepped back, shoulders clenched, neck corded. Held together by a slender thread of iron will.

  “Tell me what happened,” he said.

  “Jake . . .” Her eyes welled with tears and her chest heaved. She shook her head and turned away.

  He said to Kelly, “Stay with her while I talk to the doctor, okay?”

  Kelly sent him a message with her eyes, one he couldn’t fathom. “Sure, Frank. We’ll be fine.”

  He returned to the desk and asked to speak to the attending physician.

  The gray-haired woman stifled a yawn. “That would be Doctor Perez. A young gunshot victim came in a half hour ago. Doctor Perez is working on him in the Trauma Center, should be done soon.”

  He waited impatiently outside the Trauma Center with an elderly black woman in a faded-pink housecoat, sobbing quietly in a chair. Ten minutes later a man with dark hair and a mocha complexion pushed through a double door, dressed in green scrubs. He adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses and approached the sobbing woman. “Your grandson will be okay, Mrs. Jackson. The bullet nicked an artery in his thigh. That’s why there was so much blood, but we’ve got him stabilized.”

  “Praise the Lord!” The grandmother leaped to her feet and clasped the doctor’s hands. “Thank you, Doctor. Thank you for saving my boy!”

  “A nurse will be out in a minute to give you the details.”

  Seemingly embarrassed by the woman’s emotional outburst, the doctor turned to leave. Frank intercepted him and flashed his ID.

  “I know you’re busy, Doctor Perez, but could you tell me what happened to Jacob Ziegler?” Knowing the grandmother was listening, he lowered his voice. “Ziegler and Ms. Scully have had some problems lately.”

  In a Spanish-tinged accent, Perez said, “Come with me. We can talk in the physician’s lounge.”

  The dim-lit cubicle had a metal coffee urn and two vending machines, one with bottled juice and soda, another with candy bars, packages of crackers and granola bars. Perez sank onto a green-plastic chair, removed his horn-rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes. After polishing his spectacles with a handkerchief, he put them back on.

  “Mr. Ziegler presented some odd symptoms when he arrived.”

  Frank got out his spiral notebook. “What time was that?”

  Perez puffed his cheeks and blew a stream of air. “Tell you the truth they come in so fas’ tonight I’m not sure. Beverly—she’s on the desk—she could give you the exact time.”

  “Okay. I’m more interested in the COD. Ziegler wasn’t that old.”

  “True. He was thirty-six. I cannot tell you the cause of death because I don’t know. He was barely conscious on arrival. The triage nurse took his vital signs and sent him straight to the Trauma Center.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Yes. We were concerned about his heart rate. It was very slow and irregular. Also, he complained about blurred vision and stomach pain.”

  “Could it have been a heart attack?”

  “It is possible. We had no time to do an EKG. His condition deteriorated and then his heart stopped. We tried to save him.” The doctor’s expression grew pained. “We did what we could.”

  “But the patient died,” Frank said, and cursed himself for the unthinking remark.

  Clearly irritated, the doctor said, “Yes. Sometimes the patient dies.”

  “Forgive me, Doctor Perez, I’m not criticizing. I assume you’ve never met Ziegler, but I have. And I have information, which I’m not allowed to divulge . . .” Bullshitting the man now, anything to get information. “I believe his death might involve foul play.”

  Perez gazed at him, his eyes large and dark behind the horn-rimmed glasses. “I see. Back in my country—” He gave a tight smile. “I grew up in Panama but took my advanced medical training in the United States. Back in Panama I recall a similar case. Mr. Ziegler’s partner said he came home from work feeling nauseated and—”

  “Hold on,” Frank said. “His partner? You mean Ms. Scully?”

  “No. His partner. Mr. Ziegler was gay. His partner brought him to the hospital.”

  That stopped him. He’d figured Ziegler was gay but hadn’t considered that he might have a partner. He had assumed Belinda brought him to the hospital. “What’s the partner’s name?”

  “Dean Silva.” The doctor checked his watch and stifled a yawn. “Excuse me, but I must get back to work.”

  “Before you go, could you elaborate on that case you had in Panama?”

  “Ah. Yes. When I interned at a hospital in Panama City, I saw an interesting case. People think poisoning involves arsenic or cyanide or strychnine, but there are many toxic substances. Each year in the United States, seven hundred people die of poisoning. Most of them are adults. Many of those deaths are not accidental.”

  “What happened to the pe
rson you treated in Panama?”

  “He died. From the autopsy and toxicology tests we concluded that he had eaten pokeweed. It’s a plant. Some of the poor people eat the berries and leaves, but they must be thoroughly cooked.” Perez smiled faintly. “Perhaps his wife was not a culinary expert.”

  Amused, Frank said, “Food for thought, huh?”

  The doctor’s professional demeanor reappeared as he rose to his feet. “I have ordered a full toxicology exam, including screens for alcohol, narcotics, sedatives, amphetamines, cocaine and marijuana. And a detailed report on the contents of Mr. Ziegler’s stomach. Perhaps that will tell us something.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. And thanks for the poison lecture.”

  He headed back to the Family Room, thinking: Who would want Ziegler dead badly enough to poison him? And why?

  _____

  By the time they left the hospital it was two in the morning. Judging by Kelly’s eye-roll when he returned to the Family Center, her comment—We’ll be fine—had been wishful thinking, a notion reinforced by the aversive body language as they walked Belinda to her car.

  She seemed calmer now, holding herself rigid as though she was fighting for control. When they reached her blue Infiniti coup, he said, “I can drive you home and bring you back tomorrow to get your car.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Belinda said.

  He gave his car keys to Kelly. “Can you wait in my car? I’ll be there in a minute.” Without a word, Kelly took the keys and left.

  Belinda opened her car door and looked at him. Her eyes had a glazed, dull look. Lifeless, no spark in them at all. She was still in shock.

  “What’s your schedule this week? Any concerts?”

  “I have one in Baton Rouge on Sunday afternoon, but I’m going to cancel. I can’t think about performing right now.”

  “So you’ll be here? No out of town trips?”

  She regarded him warily. No flirting tonight. “Why do you ask?”

  “Once we get the autopsy report I might have questions.”

  Her eyes glistened with tears, a rare glimpse of vulnerability trumping her usual iron-willed demeanor. He felt bad for her, but he still thought she was hiding something.

  “I have to call Jake’s parents. They live on Long Island. They’ll want to hold the funeral there, and I intend to go.” Her mouth twisted in anguish. “What shall I tell them? I don’t understand how Jake could get sick and . . . .”

  “The doctor ordered an autopsy and full toxicology screens. That may tell us something. Why didn’t you tell me Jake was gay?”

  Her eyes flashed, remnants of the old fire. “I didn’t think it was relevant. Jake was a very private person. His parents . . .” She trailed off and shrugged.

  “They didn’t know Jake was gay.”

  “No. Jake didn’t feel he could tell them. Poor Dean.”

  “His partner, right? Can you give me his address and phone number?”

  She reached in her purse, handed him a business card and said curtly, “I’m tired. I need to rest.”

  “Of course. Go home and get some sleep. Call me if you need me.”

  After giving him an odd look, she got in her car and slammed the door.

  He watched her drive off, processing what she’d said. Jake’s parents lived on Long Island and didn’t know their son was gay. Jake had a partner. Did they have a spat? It wouldn’t be the first time a gay man killed his partner. Tomorrow would be a busy day. He needed to talk to Dean Silva. And Belinda. And Barry Silverman.

  When he got to his car, Kelly was sitting in the passenger seat. She handed him the keys. “How’s the grieving celebrity?”

  “Still in shock, but she’ll survive. She’s tough.”

  He cranked the car and drove out of the parking lot, wondering if Kelly was a wired as he was. “I take it you two didn’t become bosom buddies while I was talking to the doctor.”

  She gave him a droll smile. “The Master Detective scores a bull’s eye.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She put on her Prima-Donna hat and listed her credentials. You know, flute soloist extraordinaire, protégé of Guy St. Cyr, whoever the hell he is—”

  “Big time flute soloist.”

  “Whatever. When it comes to classical music, I never got beyond Peter and the Wolf.”

  The comment struck him funny and he cracked up. “If you’d stuck with the nuns . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she said, waving a hand. “I mean, I feel for her, you know? Having someone she cared about die unexpectedly. But it’s not like he was her husband.”

  “And he wasn’t her boyfriend either. Ziegler’s gay.”

  “Really? Did you know he was gay?”

  “I figured it out a while ago, but I didn’t know he had a partner.”

  “Are you going to talk to him?”

  “Tomorrow I hope. Belinda too, once she’s over the shock.”

  Five minutes later he pulled into Kelly’s driveway, shut off the engine and draped his arm over the seat.

  “What’s your impression of Belinda? Other than prima-donna flutist.”

  “She’s into image management. When we walked into that room, she was on the verge of hysteria, but the minute you left she got it together fast, no more tears, no hand wringing. To me, it felt like a performance. That’s about it. Well, except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  Her lips widened in a grin.

  “What?”

  “Belinda Scully is infatuated with Frank Renzi.”

  “Yeah?” He ran his fingers down her forearm.

  “Yeah, and you know it.”

  He leaned over the console to kiss her, but she pushed him away.

  “Not so fast. Her infatuation with you was my first observation. Here’s another one.”

  He knew better than to interrupt, knew better than to make any wise-ass remarks, too.

  “She knows we were making out before we came here.”

  “Get out. How could she?”

  Kelly shook her head. “Men are so clueless. Women know these things, Frank. She probably smelled my perfume on you.”

  He loved the way she analyzed it, loved the way she said it so matter-of-factly. She was probably right and he didn’t care. He wanted to take her inside and take her to bed. Would have if work hadn’t been a scant five hours away.

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her.

  “I’ll tell you what I know, Kelly O’Neil. You’re a terrific woman and a savvy detective and I can’t wait to make love to you.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Thursday 9 November

  Oz woke him at dawn. When the first rays of sunlight filtered into the room, his bunny had begun hopping around his cage, tossing his water dish in a frenzy of joy. The woman at the animal shelter had warned him that rabbits were sun-greeters, and Oz was no exception.

  Now, bleary eyed and exhausted, he’d been awake for hours, a crucial question festering in his mind. What happened to Ziegler?

  The man who loved chocolate. The man who’d fired him.

  Rage clogged his throat. His plan had seemed foolproof, but now, in the cold light of day, he wasn’t so sure.

  He strode to the file cabinet. The photos he’d stolen lay on top, Belinda with her mouth open, lips moist, as though she’d licked them in anticipation of his kiss. He unzipped his fly and stroked his cock. Soon they would be together. Soon he would touch the silky skin of her breasts and stroke her nipples, erect with desire. For him. He pumped his hand faster, his breathing ragged, his erection a fierce ache. Felt the wondrous glow . . .

  His cell phone chimed. Fuck-all! Who was calling when he was about to climax with his beloved? Then he thought: It’s Belinda calling me!

  Euphoric, he grabbed his cell phone, punched on and answered.

  “Mr. Nickerson? This is Greg from Collections Unlimited. According to our records, you’re three months behind on your American Express Card payments. We need to talk
about a payment plan.”

  “Fuck you and your payment plan!” He snapped the phone shut.

  To hell with Collections Unlimited. His glorious dream was about to come true. When he moved in with Belinda, he would have no rent to pay, and his new salary—one commensurate with his new duties—would allow him to pay off his debts.

  He returned to the file cabinet and turned his Belinda photos over. He never fantasized about his beloved when he was angry. For that he used his bitch sister, visualizing her and Pa fucking like dogs all those years, picturing Rachel’s dark hair draped over Pa’s hairy chest, hearing their ugly grunts and cries. He stroked harder. Imagined his cock pounding into Rachel. Enjoying the terror in her eyes. Hearing her scream.

  He tried to climax. Impossible. Not knowing what happened to Ziegler was driving him crazy. Shaking with rage, he punched Belinda’s number into his cell phone and waited. Five rings . . . six . . .

  He gripped the phone. Why didn’t she answer?

  “Hello.”

  Her soft voice made the hairs on his forearms stand at attention.

  “Did I wake you, Belinda?” He slapped his forehead. How stupid! From his frequent observations, he knew Belinda rose at six-thirty every day to do a five mile run, followed by an hour of scales, arpeggios and finger exercises on her flute, then breakfast. When she didn’t respond, he said, “It’s Barry Silverman. Is something wrong?”

  “Yes, Mr. Silverman, something is very wrong.”

  He did a festive dance beside the futon.

  “Jake,” she said in a dull voice. “It’s Jake.”

  “What’s wrong with Jake?” Hoping his ingenious plan had worked.

  “Jake is dead.”

  His heart sang a Beethovian whoop of joy. He heard her faint breathing and realized he had to say something. “How terrible! What happened?”

  “He went home sick yesterday and then he went to the hospital and they tried to save him, but—” A choked sob. “They couldn’t.”

  Part of him resented the fact that she had such deep feelings for that asshole. But he couldn’t ignore her distress.