Crime & Counterpoint

by Daniel, M. S.

  David’s eyes flickered and widened.

  “You know why? Kazanov sent three guys to kill you.” Zach growled, every fiber wishing he’d never interfered. “I took them down. I saved your worthless life. But after what you did, no lawyer is gonna be able to save you from me!”

  Furious, Zach roughly released his father and stalked out. David’s face filled with remorse as the door slammed. Meekly, he looked at Rick and pointed to the briefcase.

  “I’d like to open it now, Detective.”

  Zach emerged from the Central Park precinct building, tired, bitter, hungry but not interested in food. The cold air stung his face, hands, and ears, but he didn’t register the discomfort; the flames inside were all-consuming, bursting forth from his eyes.

  Right hand jammed into his pocket, he trudged towards the parking lot, the late-night traffic blistering by, blaring their red and white headlights. But as he neared the spot in which he’d parked his BMW, he caught sight of Vienna. She was still here. Waiting for her ride by all appearances. Or…

  Was she waiting for him?

  His hackles tingled in warning. She looked his way, and his gut clenched. She was absolutely breathtaking. White-gold hair. Flawless ivory skin. Sadness that hid behind armored blue eyes. If only he could rid himself of the image of her and his father, she’d be a welcome distraction.

  “Hello,” she said. “I see you were brought in for questioning too.”

  Really? Could it be that she had no idea he was a detective? Or had she been told to play the innocent card? He chose to see how far this would go without lying. “Do you need a ride?”

  She looked him over, tilting her head coyly. “Won’t that girl I saw you with at the reception mind?”

  “She wasn’t with me,” he replied.

  Something in her eyes shifted. “You’re David’s son, aren’t you? I can see the resemblance.”

  “If you don’t want me to take you home, just say so,” he countered with more bite.

  She stepped towards him. “You don’t like your father. You hate him.” She neared enough for him to smell her rosebud fragrance. Too innocent, too sweet. “It’s not good to hold it in,” she crooned just above a whisper. “Anger’s like poison.”

  His stomach churned, and his blood heated.

  “You could take it out on me,” she enticed solemnly. “I wouldn’t mind.”

  He considered her proposal until the prospect of being where David had been sickened him to his core. “But I would,” he seethed.

  She didn’t seem surprised. “Because you’re in love with her.”

  The statement brought on fresh pain. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Actually. I do.” She took a step back and looked away sadly. “Don’t worry,” she continued. “I’ll be fine. You’d better go.”

  Zach frowned and checked his watch. She was right. He sent her a terse goodbye and slid into his Z4, worried now that he was going to keep Shelley waiting.

  44

  “You must take the ‘A’ train… If you wanna go to Sugarland in Harlem…”

  Shelley belted the vocals while her hands worked in tandem to lay out the harmony and interject tasty fills in the key of C. The peppy, bright, swinging number had couples dancing on the crescent floor.

  “…If you miss the ‘A’ train… You’ll find you have missed the quickest way to Harlem…”

  Jean did something particularly spicy on his upright, and Shelley threw him a smile, mouth nearly kissing the mic. He winked at her and kept plucking away low tones as they took it to the bridge.

  “Hurry get on now it’s coming… Can’t you feel those wheels a turnin’… All aboard… Get on the ‘A’ train. If you wanna go to Sugarland in–”

  The band cut out in fine-tuned synchronicity, yielding to the all-too familiar Ellington intro break played, of course, by their very own pianist. And then the orchestra kicked back in with a smoking tenor sax solo for which the rhythm section changed styles and laid down a hot Latin funk beat to fuel the man’s fire. It was as if the group had planned it. But judging by the smiles passed around – from the drummer to the congero to the timbalero to the pianist to bassman Jean to the Pat Metheny-type guitarist – they most certainly had not. It was just the electricity in the air. Impromptu magic.

  Shelley beamed, her every fiber thriving on the spontaneity, the unspoken congruence, the free-spirit passion. The perfect love without words.

  She threw herself into the music, letting all else fade to silent turmoil. It would be there waiting for her when she played her last notes for the night, but right now? She had her escape.

  But as the smoke poured out of the saxophonist’s lacquer-worn Mark VI and his fingers rapidly depressed the pearl-inlayed keys, Shelley caught the glint of the main doors as they opened. Vaguely curious, she glanced over, wondering who could be coming in so late. Surely Zach wouldn’t be stupid enough to just waltz in.

  However, it wasn’t him. It was a dazzling woman in red. For a moment, she was unspeakably disappointed until she realized it was the same lady from The Plaza – the blonde whom every man had been drooling over. Except Zach.

  A man who clearly was not Ron Hightower III accompanied her. A tux-clad gentleman with a black goatee and silvery streaks in his head. He had a streamlined, hard face. No room for compassion or benevolence.

  Shelley thought he carried with him that intangible lure of danger. Like Zach.

  Like her father.

  The thought of him brought on a fresh wave of nausea. No matter what Zach said, she knew daddy better.

  So consumed was she by these thoughts that she nearly missed her cue. Fortunately, Jean called her name just in time, and she smoothly dropped back in with her vocals at the top. “You must take the ‘A’ train…”

  Vienna eased onto a bar stool next to the man who was her benefactor and sponsor in this country. Ivan Ivanovich Kazanov. Whether his hand on her hip benefited her in the least was a matter subject to inquiry.

  He took pride in her, however. Her beauty, the way she drew attention, the manner in which she carried herself. She was the perfect instrument to carry around when distraction was warranted. And he had no interest in being a spotlight guest. Not here. Not anywhere.

  “Ptichka,” he said to her in Russian, “you have been made to suffer tonight. I pray it was worth it.”

  “You should have let me do the hit,” she replied, keeping her back to him.

  He drew a finger down her spine, tracing the curvature. “I do not wish for you to dirty your hands,” he whispered into her hair. Taking her left hand, which was as delicate as a rose petal, he kissed it lingeringly. “Your father would not like it.”

  “My father abandoned me,” she said with feigned apathy. “I doubt he cares what happens to me.”

  “I care,” Ivan replied, grazing her shoulder with his lips. “I care a great deal.”

  To that, she said nothing and gave no reaction. But her sapphire gaze swept over the interior of the club as if she was searching for a weapon. “What are we doing here, anyway?” she questioned, reverting to English – her purest form of rebellion.

  He persisted in Russian. “Cervenka said he had a gift. A peace offering.”

  “Did you tell him that the detective was there?”

  “I told him. Yes.”

  “And?”

  “He was suitably surprised and would like to discuss the matter.”

  Vienna harrumphed with poise. “I don’t understand how it could have happened. How he–” Her eyes suddenly widened as they settled on the stage and the girl at the grand piano. Slowly, she slipped off the stool, causing Ivan to aim a stern glance at the back of her golden head. But Vienna left her escort and moved through the linen-covered tables to get a better look at stage right. And when the pianist’s face turned, Vienna saw her clearly.

  The Suburban was still there. Lying in wait in the darkness. Repaired windshield, clearly. Wanting to stay out of trouble, Zach
slipped from the parking lot to the obscure back of the club, avoiding hidden cameras. Even as he passed by the spot in which he’d taken the lives of two men, he could almost make out remnants of that night. A dark splotch on the side of the building, soaked into the cement foundation, made him remember vividly.

  Quickening his step, he entered the club via the unlocked loading dock. The backstage area vibrated and rumbled with the driving music. Good, he thought, they were still going. He had a few minutes. As before, he felt his body and soul release its tension and settle into the groove. He could make out Shelley on the chiming hammers. He wished he could just go in there, sit at the bar, and drink several shots of whiskey.

  Or just listen to the rest of the set.

  But unfortunately, the Red Fisher had beckoned.

  So though a secure, coded door on the far left of the stage area, Zach went, having received the six-digit alpha-numeric key via text from Cervenka.

  The music diminished to underwater quiet as the door shut him in, and he remembered the time he’d ascended the stairs from the foyer entrance to the second floor, the way he’d felt, the uncertainty. The feelings weren’t exactly absent this time, but the burn of wrath kept him armored.

  He reached the top and only took a handful of steps around the curved, dark corridor before he heard a trio of voices approaching from the other end.

  Zach’s pulse leapt. Quickly, he pulled back, sure that his presence had gone unnoticed thus far. He listened intently and knew that Cervenka had guests.

  The panoramic window in Cervenka’s office gave a wide exposure of the front property. Onyx trees waved along the southern perimeter as the wind whistled by the curved plate glass.

  But no one was looking outside. Vienna stood like a statue of Venus, only to be admired, not touched. She seemed more upset than even Kazanov. An internal clock counting down. The seal on whatever lay underneath the flawless skin seemed thin indeed. Quaking.

  Rybar opened the bottom drawer of his massive desk and withdrew a carved wooden box, setting it on the mahogany surface. “Cigars, gentlemen?” he asked bloodlessly. Opening the rectangular box on its brassy hinge, he turned it around for the four men present to partake if they were so inclined.

  “No, thank you.” Ivan Kazanov was staunch albeit polite in his refusal, impenetrable as he sat down in the chair opposite the desk. Elbows resting on the upholstered arms, he tented his fingers, thumbs tapping out a rhythm that vaguely coincided with the one pulsing through the carpeted floor.

  The other three goons of the local arm of the Brother’s Circle declined the offer as well, though Rybar was sure they were merely following suit. Fear of Kazanov’s disdain, no doubt.

  Rybar smiled politely and picked up a Montecristo No. 2 Gran Reserva. Nicely-aged, elegantly pungent, a six-hundred-dollar experience. The gold band caught the dimensional lighting and gleamed like a jewel as he drew the length of the cigar beneath his nose, inhaling the sweet scent of tobacco.

  “I want to get to the bottom of what happened earlier. Vienna,” Ivan gestured with one skeletal hand to his femme fatale, “swears that the detective was there. Alive.” He crossed one leg over the other at the ankle. American style. “How is that possible?”

  The Cubans went away, then, back into their comfortable velvet-lined bed in his desk. And with them, all that remained of Cervenka’s hospitality. “Isn’t that a question you should be asking yourself?” He leaned back in his plush chair and folded his hands.

  Ivan scratched the back of his head in mild irritation. “You have as much riding on this as I do.”

  “Me?” Cervenka questioned, arching a brow. “It’s you who should be concerned. There are many things they might reveal if enough pressure is levied…” He shook his head, clucking his tongue. “How much did you lose to David?”

  “Six million. But it was counterfeit,” Ivan said as if appeasing himself. “Stolen counterfeit at that.”

  Rybar threw his head back and smilingly scoffed. “I see. Well, let’s hope they don’t put it back into circulation. Marked.”

  Ivan arched a brow. “They will.”

  “I grow weary of this game.” Cervenka drew a breath and changed topics. “I called you here, Ivan my friend, because I’m thinking of retiring. And I would like to pass the runs to you and your discretion. Would you be interested?”

  Kazanov adjusted himself in his seat, trying not to appear overly pleased. However, Vienna lit up with a certain convoluted eagerness. Though she said nothing, it was clear from the way her eyes shifted skittishly that she was thinking. Scheming.

  Clearing his throat, Kazanov said, “I would. But we need to tie up loose ends. The detective needs to go. He’s been meddling for far too long. And now he’s getting accurate. The docks, my best sniper, and now the hotel.”

  Suddenly, Vienna lunged upon Ivan with a lioness’ charm. She put her hands on his shoulders. “I think I know who’s been feeding him information,” she cooed.

  Cervenka frowned subtly.

  “Come.” She pulled enticingly on Ivan’s arm, urging him out of the chair. “I’ll show you his weakness.”

  45

  Ominous shadows lurked around the Purple Gazelle late that night, seeking more secrets to swallow. Most of the concert attendees had already departed, and the parking lot was clear except for the few cars that belonged to the thinning staff. Frederick Douglass Street boasted much activity even at just past midnight; each car that zoomed by blinded Shelley with a flash of their moonbeams as she exited the club. With each step, the asphalt grew blacker and blacker until she couldn’t be sure there was any ground there. Her spine tingled.

  Digging her hands into her coat pockets, she distracted herself with thoughts of the earlier wedding, and with melancholy, she wondered how late the reception had gone, who’d caught the bouquet, and if the newlyweds were enjoying their one night at the hotel before they jetted off to Tahiti. And then only did she ask herself what happened to Carter.

  She took out her cell. No texts or calls from him. How had he not even bothered to check if she was alright? He’d seen her run off like everybody else. And knew perfectly well why.

  She shuddered with fresh mortification and that sickening hint of panic as a discomforting breeze blew in her direction, causing unprotected ears to hurt. Instinctually, she huddled into her downy, white coat. The impersonal wind chill stripped her body of warmth, icing her exposed feet clad for the red carpet not a snow storm.

  Quickly, she sent a succinct text to Zach, telling him she was heading to the subway station. She was already out here, and he’d probably been tied up with police business since he was nowhere to be seen. Besides, she convinced herself she didn’t need his protection. Danger followed him. Not her.

  At least she hoped.

  Feeling better on the whole, she was almost to the sidewalk when she heard distant footsteps and scuffling sounds to the right and behind her. She paused and looked around through the thick night. But the moment her eyes adjusted and fixed upon a black Suburban, she somehow sensed that she shouldn’t have looked at all.

  The high beams of the SUV suddenly came on, waking up. The beast stared straight at her, and she could see nothing but bright yellow eyes. Fixated, she stared until the cold wind slapped her face, robbing her of breath. Reasoning that the timing was just coincidence, she pivoted and made it straight for the thrumming curb, fighting her unsteady pulse.

  Veering down the well-heeled sidewalk of Frederick Douglass Street, she heard slamming car doors and the revving of the Suburban’s engine. However, with each step, the noises quickly dissolved into the usual cacophony and syncopated bustle of the city.

  As unfamiliar bodies insulated her on all sides, an inner peace warmed her again for the briefest of moments. She kept pace with the flow of the faceless Saturday night crowd. However, overpowering the almost soothing, disjointed footpath rhythms, taxi cab horns blared so vociferously that she cringed.

  Wondering what was going on, she g
lanced over her shoulder. In front of a line of vehicles, that same Suburban now cruised close to the curb at a snail’s pace, keeping up with her. Her heart leapt into her throat.

  Abruptly, she looked away and forced herself to stare straight ahead. Blend in with the crowd. Praying for strength, she tried to reason with her mind, that this was nothing, just her overactive imagination. But her whole being shook with the immediacy of the moment.

  Her hands, deep inside her pockets, were frigid, but she couldn’t feel them. A glance at a passing store window. The Suburban’s black reflection gleamed at her.

  Not looking where she was going, she bumped into a man on his cell and breathed a weak apology. He didn’t seem to care and went on oblivious to her torment. But the hiccup in her step caused the SUV to stop as well, fully obstructing traffic, crescendoing the blare of car horns to a head-splitting fortissimo.

  Heat poured out of her ears. She couldn’t think for the fear. Call Zach.

  Faint hope began to take root. Until she came to the crosswalk. The signs clearly glowed ‘don’t walk’. She waited with a large group, which gave her some protection as she dialed Zach’s number. She held the phone to her ear. Please pick up. Tears stung until she couldn’t even see the cross-section through her swimming brown eyes.

  But she could see the Suburban as it pulled up to the intersection and sat at the green light while all other vehicles angrily pulled around and zoomed ahead.

  The beast waited for her.

  The windows were darkly-tinted. Too dark to see the men inside. But she imagined. She felt their gaze upon her. She sensed they were biding their time until the opportune moment. The moment where they would roll down that window and point a gun at her.

  A silenced weapon.

  No one would hear. No one would even see in this darkness. She would fall. And no one would know why.