by Susan Fleet
After the IAD interview, Vobitch had met him outside in the hall and said, “Come on, Frank, I’m taking you out for a pop.”
Twenty feet from their booth, a TV set above the bar blared news of the New Orleans Massacre. Frank ignored it and mopped his cheeseburger in some catsup. Under stress, his appetite vanished, but now he was ravenous.
He hadn’t eaten all day, the longest day of his life. But he was alive. Kelly was alive. Belinda was alive. And Stoltz was dead. The buzz-saw that had clawed his gut for the last twelve hours had subsided.
Vobitch raked fingers through his silvery mane of hair, outrage replacing the certainty in his eyes. “What? Did they lean on you? I’ll blast those fuckheads—”
“It went okay. I’ve been through this before. In Boston.”
Boston had been much worse. The bad guy died, but so had an innocent young girl. That interview had been a nightmare. Hard eyes, probing questions, police union and IAD tape-recorders running. He’d sat there for an hour picturing the dead girl, pain gnawing his gut.
He gulped some ice water, unable to quench his terrible thirst. “They put me on paid administrative leave and told me to write my report ASAP.”
“You’re okay with this, right?” Vobitch said, pressing him.
Touched, he studied the older man, not old enough to be his father, but old enough to express his concern in a fatherly way. Vobitch hadn’t brought him here to be sociable. It was a gesture of solidarity: You did the right thing, and I’m behind you a hundred percent.
Had Judge Salvatore Renzi heard about the massacre, he wondered.
“I just wish we got Stoltz sooner,” he said. “He killed a lot of people, wounded a lot more. He did a lot of damage.”
Vobitch rattled the ice in his glass at the waitress, signaling for another round. “Hey, the guy was a fuckin' maniac. We get into the military data base, we’ll probably find out he was a Green Beret or something. He had a fuckin’ arsenal! SWAT found a crossbow in that house. Know what else they found?”
Overcome by exhaustion, he shook his head, too weary for words.
“A rabbit.”
He studied his boss’s face to see if he was joking. Vobitch often did that in tense situations to put people at ease. “A live rabbit?”
“Yeah. In a cage, like it was his pet or some fuckin’ thing.” Vobitch’s lips formed a smile. “When one of the SWAT guys tried to take the rabbit out of the cage it bit him.”
Laughter burst from his mouth. For a moment Vobitch stared at him. Then Vobitch started laughing too, thunderous gut-shaking guffaws. Nervous laughter after the unbearable tension.
“The rabbit,” Frank said, shaking with laughter. “The rabbit bit him?”
Vobitch nodded. He couldn’t stop laughing either.
The waitress brought their drinks—Dewars on the rocks for Vobitch, a Heineken for Frank—and hustled back to the bar, couldn’t get away from her weirdo-customers fast enough.
Their laughter, a welcome release from the stress, finally subsided. Frank set aside his plate, all traces of cheeseburger gone. Now that he’d eaten he wanted to go home and sleep for twenty-four hours. Make that a week. He yawned, a prodigious crack-your-jaw yawn, exhausted by the day’s frantic action and bone-crushing tension.
A ring-tone sounded. Vobitch took out his cell phone and answered, then listened, poker-faced.
Emotionally drained, Frank leaned back against the padded seat. Kelly’s father and oldest brother had flown in from Chicago. He was glad the cops in her family had come down to support her, but that meant he wouldn’t see her till Monday. Seventy-two interminable hours.
After Stoltz went down he’d wanted to hold her, wanted the reassurance of physical contact after his agonizing fear that Stoltz would kill her. But Belinda was screaming and Stoltz was twitching on the floor and four cops had burst into the room. Then, chaos.
Vobitch closed his cell. “They found the Goines kid up in Jackson, Mississippi. A businessman flew home from a trip, found a body in the trunk of his car in long-term parking.”
It didn’t surprise him, but he felt bad for the parents. Marcus had done something stupid, dealing dope and getting mixed up with AK, but he didn’t deserve to die. “AK swore he didn’t kill Marcus. Maybe he was telling the truth. If AK wanted to dump a body, he wouldn’t go to Mississippi to do it.”
“Sounds about right to me. Chalk up another victim to Stoltz.” Vobitch grabbed the check and slid out of the booth. “Let’s get out of here. You need to go home and crash.”
_____
He went home, took a hot shower and fell into an exhausted sleep. The next morning he woke up at five and went for a long run. When he returned to his apartment at six, the sun was peeping through the trees and his phone was ringing. The New Orleans Massacre had made the national news. He fielded calls from his daughter, his ex-wife, his father, and Kenyon Miller.
Even Dana Swenson called from Omaha.
Not a word from Belinda.
At noon, he got in his car and left. He needed to be by himself for a while, needed solitude to process the previous day’s horror.
He got on the I-10 and headed west. At one-thirty he blew past Baton Rouge, crossed the Mississippi and drove through the Atchafalaya swamp.
But his mind kept flitting from one flashback to another. Hideous sights and horrible sounds. Belinda’s terror-filled eyes. The shots from the hospital roof. The mind-blowing image of Stoltz holding a gun on Belinda and Kelly.
A Herbie Hancock CD got him to Lafayette. A Clark Terry CD got him to Lake Charles near the Texas border. At a rest stop, he filled the gas tank, bought a sandwich and a container of orange juice and got back on the road.
More flashbacks. Kelly, her face a grim mask of determination, her Glock aimed at Stoltz. He couldn’t get that one out of his mind.
Had he arrived five minutes later, Kelly would be dead. Then Stoltz would have raped Belinda and killed her.
He made his mind go blank. He swigged some OJ and ate his turkey sandwich as he zoomed down the highway. His father’s call had come at nine-twenty this morning. “Are you all right, Frank? I saw the news on CNN. Looked like a blood-bath.”
He didn’t want to discuss it, but his father had wormed the story out of him. And in the end Judge Salvatore Renzi said: You did the right thing, Frank. I’m proud of you. A reward better than any service medal or commendation.
He balled up the sandwich wrapper and chugged the last of the orange juice. A minute later he was crossing the sky-high bridge that swooped into Texas, overlooking oil refinery smoke-stacks and the rows of storage tanks that bordered the city of Beaumont.
His cell phone rang. He checked the ID. He’d almost left it home. Good thing he hadn’t. “Frank,” Kelly said softly. “I can’t talk long. Dad and my brother are in the other room. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“I’m glad,” he said, his voice husky. “I’ll see you Monday, right?”
“You bet,” she said, and her voice had the lilt in it that he loved. “Come to my house after work. I’ll be waiting.”
_____
On Monday morning Belinda walked into Frank’s office at nine o’clock. A ceiling fan swirled cool air around the room, but her hands were damp with sweat. This would be difficult, but she was determined to do it. She owed Frank an apology. No. She owed him her life.
He sat at his desk staring at a computer monitor. A large black man with a shaven head sat at another desk. They looked up as she approached.
“Belinda,” Frank said, and smiled. “How are you doing?”
The other man rose from his chair. She could tell he recognized her. “I gotta go interview a witness,” he muttered, and hurried out of the office.
Frank rose to his feet, gave her a hug and gestured at a chair, inviting her to sit. “How are you doing?” he said again.
“I’m not sleeping very well, but I guess that will pass.” She perched on the chair beside the desk. “I wanted to come and thank you
in person. You were right, Frank. I should have taken your advice and stayed in a hotel—”
“Don’t beat yourself up over it. None of this was your fault. Stoltz was fixated on you. He was a military man, ex-Army. He knew what he was doing, planned the whole thing, every step of the way.”
She clasped her hands together, mustering her resolve.
“Kelly saved me. She was afraid he’d kill you. Kelly loves you.”
Frank stared at her, slack-jawed. She almost laughed. But that would be rude. She didn’t intend to be rude to anyone else ever again.
“She does, Frank. Even if she hasn’t figured it out yet.”
Seemingly flustered, he shuffled papers around his desk, which surprised her. She’d never seen him the least bit flustered before.
At last he said, “What are your plans? Will you stay in New Orleans?”
“No. One of my cousins called. She heard what happened and invited me to stay with her for a while. She lives in Baltimore. After that I’m not sure. I need to think about it.” She needed to think about a lot of things.
“I’m glad you’ve got family to help you get through this,” Frank said. “That’s important.”
“Yes, it is.” She’d been without family and friends for a long time. Too long. “What about you, Frank? This must have been terrible for you.”
“I’ll be okay. I’ve got my daughter and my father.”
“And Kelly.” She rose from the chair, relieved that the conversation she had been dreading was over. “Thank you for everything, Frank. Can I call you sometime to see how you’re doing?”
“Sure. Call me from your cousin’s. Maybe you’ll fall in love with Baltimore.”
She smiled but said nothing, left the office with her back straight and her head high. She walked through the foyer and out into the sunlight.
The police had returned her custom-built flute, the flute Stoltz had forced her to play and then destroyed. She would never play it again, would have another one built, one that didn’t involve hideous memories. She had cancelled her remaining performances for the year. In January she would resume her career with a new manager. But she would not allow it to dominate her life.
Recalling Frank’s words, she smiled. She didn’t want to fall in love with Baltimore. She wanted to fall in love with a man who loved her for herself, not her professional achievements. Guy St. Cyr had sent her an email asking if she was all right. She hadn’t answered it. Not a word from Ramon.
_____
The instant he entered Kelly’s house they melded into a bear hug. “God, I missed you,” she breathed in his ear.
“Mmm,” he said, holding her close. “Feels like forever since I touched you.” He kissed her, a long deep satisfying kiss. “Great to be alive, isn’t it?”
Her eyes searched his face. “Yes.”
“I’m glad your dad and your brother came down.”
“Me, too. But I worried about you, alone in your apartment.”
“I wasn’t home alone,” he said, and saw her grin at his play on the movie title. “I got sick of answering phone calls and questions so I drove to Houston. Did some thinking.”
“Come tell me about it. I got us a nice bottle of red.”
They went in the kitchen and he opened the wine. Kelly was wearing a pair of her big-Z earrings, silver etched with turquoise. He set their wine glasses on the table and sat down. She came over and climbed into his lap.
Things were definitely looking up. “You trying to get a rise out of me?”
She mussed his hair. “Yes, but you’ll have to wait till after dinner to do anything about it.”
“Who says?” He raised her shirt and caressed her back.
“Me.” She brushed his lips with a kiss. “I’ve been thinking too. When Stoltz came in that room, I thought it was all over. All that stuff about seeing your life flash before your eyes? That’s bullshit.”
He knew exactly what she meant. Life-and-death situations altered your perspective on life. If you survived.
She gazed at him, eyes tinged with sadness. “Then everything changed. Belinda changed. She stood up for me. She knew Stoltz was going to kill me. She kept telling him to let me go and she’d do whatever he wanted. He told her to suck his dick.” Kelly stuck a finger in her mouth in the universal puke-gesture. “It made me sick. I wanted to kill the son-of-a-bitch. I didn’t care if he shot me. I wanted him dead.”
He pulled her close, felt her heartbeat thrum against his chest.
“Now I know how you feel, Frank. Those times when you get that I’m-gonna-get-the-bad-guy look? That’s how I felt about Stoltz. He said he’d let me go if Belinda gave him a blow job. What a crock. If you hadn’t come in the room when you did, I’d have shot him myself.”
Her mouth quivered and her eyes gleamed with tears.
He cupped her face in his hands and brushed her lips with a kiss. “I’m glad you understand me better, but I’m sorry you had to go through what you did to get there. I’m having flashbacks, are you?”
“Yes, but it will pass. Dad and my brother talked to me about that. They’ve been through some shit in Chicago. This morning I told Vobitch I want to transfer back to Domestic Violence. I’m done with Homicide.”
She tilted her head and her big-Z earrings swung to and fro. “You think I’m a quitter?” she said, gazing at him, solemn-eyed.
“Are you kidding? After what you went through? Kelly, you’re one of the bravest women I ever met. You’re great with rape victims and battered women. Domestic Violence is lucky to get you.”
She picked up her wine glass. “Well, now that we got that out of the way we can relax and have dinner.”
He took the wine glass from her hand and set it on the table.
“Dinner can wait. I can’t.”
Her lips curled in a smile and her eyes crinkled at the corners. “You know what, Frank? Every now and then you come up with a great idea.”
#####
SUSAN SAYS
If you enjoyed Diva, I would really appreciate an honest review on Goodreads and whatever Amazon site you purchased it. Thank you!
Wish there were more? There is! Keep reading for an excerpt of the next Frank Renzi novel, Natalie's Revenge
If you'd like to know when my next book comes out, sign up for an email alert at http://eepurl.com/ExkX9 I promise I'll never use your email for anything else.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
In her travels, Susan Fleet has worn many hats: trumpeter, college professor, music historian and award-winning author, to name a few. The Premier Book Awards named her first novel, Absolution, Best Mystery-Suspense-Thriller of 2009. Feathered Quill Book Awards named her third novel, Natalie's Revenge, Best Mystery of 2014. Susan divides her time between Boston and New Orleans, the settings for her Frank Renzi mystery series. Visit her at http://www.susanfleet.com
Send her an email; she would love to hear from you!
More crime novels by Susan Fleet
Absolution
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003MNH7JY/
Diva
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0056ASYCU/
Natalie's Revenge
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009EAWCDK/
Jackpot
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00FCCO4EE/
Non-fiction eBooks by Susan Fleet
Women Who Dared: Trailblazing 20th Century Musicians
Violinist Maud Powell and Trumpeter Edna White
http://www.susanfleet.com/women_who_dared-vol1.html
Dark Deeds: Serial killers, stalkers and domestic homicides
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CLS62D8/
Dark Deeds, Serial killers, stalkers and domestic homicides, Volume 2
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00I0D1YW2
Susan blogs about true crime at http://darkdeeds.susanfleet.com/index.html#.UhUfUj-YFaI
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Diva was an exciting novel to write. During my research, several people offered expertise in various areas and I am very g
rateful to them. To better understand the world of flutists, flute playing and flute repertoire, I spent a delightful afternoon with New Orleans flutist Anne Chabreck. Anne also owns two dwarf rabbits. I had fun watching them and even got to hold one.
The Bear, a former NOPD Homicide Detective, shared his recollections of the difficulties New Orleans police faced in the dark days after Hurricane Katrina. New Orleans attorney and former prosecutor Michelle Magill Smith explained how juveniles are treated within the Louisiana legal system. My conversation with security consultant Monty J. Curtis, president of the Corporate Intelligence Group, about stalkers and stalking scenarios was also helpful.
I also consulted The Gift of Fear, by security expert Gavin De Becker, which aided my understanding of the stalker mindset and the difficulty of deterring them. Mozart in the Jungle: Sex, Drugs and Classical Music, by oboist and Julliard graduate Blair Tindall, shed light on the cut-throat competition encountered by students at Julliard and in the professional music world.
However, this is a work of fiction and I have taken a certain amount of dramatic license. Any errors in the book are mine alone.
Heartfelt thanks to my fellow writers Carolyn Wilkins and Jaimie Bergeron, whose comments and suggestions after reading my early drafts improved the book tremendously.
And most of all, I thank you my readers for choosing Diva. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. Many of you wrote to me after reading, Absolution. I hope you’ll do so again. Please visit my website www.susanfleet.com and drop me an email. I’d love to hear from you.
COPYRIGHT PAGE
DIVA, a Frank Renzi Mystery
Copyright © 2011 by Susan Fleet All rights reserved.
Second Edition published by Music and Mayhem Press in 2012
Print edition ISBN: 978-0-9847235-2-2