Spur of the Moment

by David Linzee

  Bryson’s building was a new one, with walls of granite and glass. It was tall enough to be topped with a flashing red light on a mast to warn off the helicopters approaching Granger Hospital’s rooftop, a couple of blocks away. The lights were on in the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse. She guessed that was where Bryson lived—why wouldn’t he choose the penthouse? It crossed her mind that her best chance of getting up there would be to climb the side of the building. Shrugging away the hopeless thought, she stepped into the revolving door.

  A man entered from the opposite side. She wouldn’t have paid any attention to him, if he hadn’t given the door such a push that she had to hasten her own step. She gave him an irritated glance, but his head was bowed. His dark hair was cropped so close his pale scalp showed. He was wearing a T-shirt that revealed a left arm covered with swirling tattoos from shoulder to wrist. As they passed, she just had time to register on his bicep the face of a beautiful girl, crying black tears and drooling a rosary, the crucifix between her teeth.

  She stepped into a lobby of spare elegance, whose main feature was a vase of exotic flowers on a marble table shiny enough to reflect them. She walked past it to the reception desk. There were two young men in uniform, one sitting at the bank of television monitors, one standing with his hands on his hips. They were grinning, or rather their teeth were bared, because they didn’t look happy at all. Their faces were flushed, and they were shaking their heads and muttering.

  The standing one noticed her. “Yes, ma’am, can I help you?”

  “I want to see Keith Bryson.”

  “Another one!” said the young man to his mate. He turned to her. “That guy wanted to see Keith Bryson too, which is funny, because he doesn’t live here.”

  “I know he does.”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “I’ll pay you fifty dollars just to call up to his flat and give my name, Rad—”

  “The other guy offered twice that. But Mr. Bryson still doesn’t live here.”

  “Look, this is terribly important. I’m just asking—”

  “You’re wasting your time.”

  “We don’t have to put up with this,” said the sitting man, who surged to his feet. The expression on his face made her back up a step. “This is private property. Go now, or we will escort you out, you got it?”

  Renata turned away, her cheeks burning. She’d thought that at least it would be Bryson himself, on the phone, who refused to see her. No chance even to use any of the arguments she had thought up. Hard luck that tattooed bloke had put the guards in such a filthy mood.

  Pushing through the door to the street, she was just in time to see a smudge of white across the street—the tattooed man’s T-shirt. It disappeared as he got into his car. The engine started up.

  Who was he? He seemed to want to see Bryson as badly as she did. As the car passed she had a good look at it: a four-door sedan, light gray or tan.

  The car’s taillights brightened as it reached the next intersection, where the signal was red. Renata found herself running. She jumped into the Jaguar and twisted the key. Amazingly, the decrepit engine awoke on the first try. The signal turned green and the gray or tan car turned right.

  She followed. This was Kingshighway, a six-lane road, and traffic was fairly heavy. She couldn’t see the other car. But then the truck in front of her changed lanes and there it was, last car in a queue stopped at a light. She lifted her foot off the accelerator, realizing she was closing in much too fast. She was going to pull up right behind him.

  What did she have in mind? Jump out, run around to his window and knock on it, suggest they compare notes about how to reach Keith Bryson? The decision was taken out of her hands. The light changed and the car pulled away.

  Keeping the car in sight occupied her fully, leaving her no time to plan. Driving on the right side of the road was difficult enough. Following somebody was beyond her. A car got in between her and the gray or tan car, and it would have to be one of those enormous SUVs St. Louisans were so fond of. She could not see ahead at all. She swerved left and the car in her blind spot honked its horn. Now there was room on the right. She changed lanes and stamped on the accelerator, startling the aged Jaguar. It coughed and surged forward. Again, the gray or tan sedan was pulling away as a light turned green.

  As she was prone to do, Renata was having second thoughts. Even if she managed to get close enough to draw his attention by honking and waving, and induced him to pull over and talk, he was probably going to turn out to be a reporter who knew no more than she did. Assuming he didn’t have some other business with Bryson completely irrelevant to the murder. Assuming it was even the same gray or possibly tan sedan that she was following.

  Traffic was thinning out. The character of the neighborhood had changed, something that happened fast in St. Louis. The streetlights were dimmer. There were fountains of neon and arc-light marking gas stations, but only darkness elsewhere. She was passing vacant lots and abandoned buildings. Groups of young black men, wearing hoodies even on this warm night, were standing around on the street corners.

  Enough of this, Renata decided. She slowed and put on her turn signal, preparing to turn around and head back to Webster Groves. Before she could, the gray or possibly tan car displayed its boxy profile again as it turned right. She had been following the right car, then. She couldn’t resist taking the same turn.

  There were no taillights ahead of her. Then she noticed that the car was parked at the curb. Here was her chance. She drew up beside it. But there was no one in the driver’s seat.

  She looked around. Where could the man have gone? There was nothing here: a chain-link fence surrounding a vacant lot on one side, a building with empty holes for windows and a collapsing roof on the other. This was very odd. She considered parking and waiting to see if the man would reappear. But it was damned scary around here and she didn’t want to linger. She would take down the car’s license number and go home.

  Leaving the engine running, she climbed out and went around to the back of the car with her notebook and pencil. There was no streetlight here and her headlights were no help. She bent down, squinting at the plate.

  A sudden pain at the back of her head and blackness closed in.

  Chapter 29

  The gray or tan car drove along the access road across the highway from Lambert St. Louis Airport, passing a row of chain motels. It turned into the cheapest of them and parked under a security light on a tall pole, which revealed it to be a faded silver, with a few freckles of rust.

  The driver got out and tucked Renata’s purse under his tattooed arm. In addition to the girl biting a rosary that Renata had noticed, the swirling ink also depicted a skull, a red rose, and a leafless tree silhouetted against a sunset. The man ran to the building and pounded his fist on one of the guest-room doors. A jet was passing low overhead, drowning out his knock. He shouted, “Bistouri! It’s me!”

  The door was opened by a tall, narrow-shouldered man, wearing a T-shirt and the pants of a dark suit. The tattooed man rushed past him into the room. “Something’s going on. We gotta … gotta reconsider this situation.”

  Bistouri shut the door. “Did you get in to see Bryson?”

  “What? No.”

  Bistouri sighed. He was in his forties, with a long face under a dark widow’s peak and a graying moustache. There were heavy bags under his eyes. “So how hard did you try, Shane?”

  “Never mind about that. Somebody tried to follow me.”

  “Is my car okay?”

  “Your fuckin’ limo is fine.” Shane dug in the pocket of his jeans and threw a set of keys at Bistouri, who deftly caught them.

  “What is that?” he asked, indicating the purse under Shane’s arm.

  “It’s hers.”

  “Hers?”

  “It was a woman following me. I didn’t realize that till after I hit her. She was real tall.”

  “You hit her? How hard?”

  “She was still breathin
g. Will you just shut up for a minute and let me tell the story?”

  Bistouri sat down on the end of the bed. The small room was very neat. The only signs of occupation were a suitcase on a rack and a copy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch on the night-table, with a pair of reading glasses on top. Shane looked around for a chair, but there wasn’t one. He evidently didn’t want to sit next to Bistouri. He remained standing, clutching the purse, as he told the story. He was breathing hard and his dark eyes were wide with alarm. They looked enormous in his bony, pale face.

  “And the purse?” Bistouri asked. He reached into his suitcase and took out a pair of cheap latex gloves.

  “Her car door was open. I could see the purse lying on the seat, so I grabbed it.”

  Bistouri put out a hand, now gloved. Shane gave him the purse and he opened it and extracted the wallet. Shane moved to look over his shoulder.

  “That’s some weird license. You ever seen anything like that?”

  “It’s British.”

  “British? What’s some British person doing here?”

  “Well, she must be from Scotland Yard,” said Bistouri in a mocking, sing-song tone. “Christ, you’re dumb. See the name? Radleigh?”

  Shane looked blank.

  “Like the guy they arrested for the Stromberg-Brand murder.”

  “So she’s trying to help him? She’s his wife?”

  “If she was, she probably wouldn’t be trying to help him. Not after he balled Stromberg-Brand. His sister, maybe.”

  “Why would she want to see Bryson?”

  “Everybody wants to see Bryson. But she had no more luck than you did, obviously. I’m not worried.”

  “No? Well, I am. Why did we have to come to St. Louis to see Bryson, with this murder investigation going on?”

  “It’s not going on. The cops arrested the Radleigh guy. Case closed.”

  “We could wait for Bryson to go back to California. Talk to him there.”

  “You’re in no hurry for your money? I am. Take some of your calm-down pills and go to bed. You’re gonna try Bryson at his office tomorrow morning. And wear a jacket or something. That fucking tattoo. You might as well have your name written down your arm.”

  “Why me?”

  “We’re holding me in reserve.”

  Bistouri was continuing to inspect Renata’s wallet. He took a five and two singles out of it and tucked them in his pants pocket, then dropped the wallet back in the purse.

  “Right now, though, you’re gonna get rid of this.”

  “The trash can is right there.”

  “Go at least ten miles from here. And don’t throw it out the window. Stop, get out, drop it in a storm sewer.” He lobbed the car keys to Shane, who let them bounce off his chest and drop to the floor.

  “Hey. I’m tired. I’m not doing this.”

  Bistouri pulled a cellphone out of the purse and shook it at Shane. “These things can be tracked.”

  “By the NSA maybe. Not the local cops.”

  “You waste your time worrying about the wrong things, Shane. Some risks you got to take, but don’t get sloppy. It’s little shit like this that will screw you up.” He dropped the phone in the purse, zipped it, and held it out to the younger man. “Just do what I tell you for the next couple of days. All we need is a few minutes face to face with Bryson, and you’ll never have to peddle pills again.”

  Shane glared at him but said nothing. After a moment he snatched the purse from Bistouri’s hand and bent down for the keys. Then he went out, slamming the door.

  He stalked across the parking lot, still scowling, to Bistouri’s car. Reaching it, he hesitated, looked back at the room, and walked on. He passed a low steel barrier that demarked a lot for larger vehicles. Passing an RV, a four-door pickup, and a couple of cargo vans, he stopped beside a delivery truck—rectangular, flat-roofed, about twelve feet high. Bending at the knees, he gave Renata’s purse an underhand lob. It landed with a clunk atop the truck. Smiling at his triumph over Bistouri, Shane walked back to the motel.

  Part IV

  Tuesday, May 25

  Chapter 30

  Renata was awakened by the telephone. It was the general director’s secretary, saying he wanted to see her. They were sending a car for her. It would arrive in fifteen minutes. The coercive courtesy was typical of Phil Congreve, she thought as she fumbled the receiver back onto its cradle.

  It was impossible for the moment to get out of bed. She strove to gather her thoughts. What did Congreve want with her? To tell her off for the television interview yesterday, probably. On Sunday he personally had ordered her not to speak to the media. It was especially inappropriate that she should protest her brother’s innocence while Congreve was disowning him. How odd, how unlike her it was that the immediate prospect of being chastised by the head of SLO did not make her anxious. There was nothing like a spot of assault and battery to put one’s fears in proportion.

  She’d had a bad night. When the shot they had given her at the emergency room wore off, she awakened in agony. Oddly it was not the wound in the back of her head that hurt the most. She had fallen hard, on the right side of her face, and her cheek and forehead were afire. Fortunately the doctor had given her some pills, and she was eventually able to get back to sleep lying on her left side.

  In the interval there had been a revolting episode of self-pity. Tears ran freely from her closed eyes, making a damp spot on the pillow, and she was sobbing and moaning in the most appalling way. The feeble sounds inspired feeble thoughts: I don’t want to be in the middle of America, alone in this bed, with sole responsibility for my jailed and disgraced brother.

  Alone. She imagined how lovely it would be to have someone lying beside her, stroking her hair and murmuring consolation. But did men even go in for that sort of thing? Not the ones who’d shared her bed. They’d been roll-over-and-snore types.

  This morning she was better, she told herself. The pain in her face was down to a dull throb. But her whole head felt wrong. Her teeth did not seem to meet the way they used to. Her eyeballs didn’t quite fit their sockets. She was aware all the time that the pain had been caused by the deliberate action of another person, which made it twice as bad. She supposed that if you were a policeman or a soldier, someone who dealt in violence, you got used to it. But it was a new thing in the life of a mezzo-soprano, and Renata was frightened.

  Exhausted as she had been when she got home last night, she had gone round the house to make sure all the windows and doors were locked, and turned on the security system that Don usually ignored. She feared that her assailant was going to come after her.

  A uniformed policeman had questioned her in the emergency room. Woozy as she felt, she knew that if she told him the truth, she would initiate a chain of events that would end with being questioned by a sleepy and bad-tempered Detective McCutcheon: What makes you think this has anything to do with the Stromberg-Brand murder? What do you expect to happen when you follow a strange man into north St. Louis?

  So she told the policeman that she had been lost and had pulled over to read a street sign. She had not seen the man who hit her. There was nothing valuable in her purse but a cellphone, a few dollars, and a Visa card. The policeman said her assailant would be disappointed with the haul, if it was any consolation to her. Then he lent her his phone to cancel the card.

  A horn honked. The company car was here already. Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself upright and swung her feet to the floor. It belatedly occurred to her that tonight Carmen would open. On every previous morning of an opening night in her life, the evening’s opera had been her first thought, before she even opened her eyes.

  Chapter 31

  Arriving in his office at Medical PR, Peter Lombardo hung up his sports jacket and turned on his computer. A couple of hundred emails had come in overnight from reporters in Europe and Asia, wanting to know more about this wonder drug in which Keith Bryson had invested. He sat down and tackled them. He had resolved that he was g
oing to be the impeccable PR man today. He would waste no more company time on Ransome Chase. He had no evidence against the hot-headed doctor, and he wasn’t going to look for any. If his conscience bothered him, he would go to the payphone across the street, call in an anonymous tip to the Clayton police, and consider his duty done. Of course they would ignore it, but that was their problem.

  He worked his way efficiently through twenty-seven emails. Then something unaccountable happened. His mouse dragged his hand down to the icon for his browser, and within seconds he had his headphones on and was listening to Renata Radleigh sing “Voi Che Sapete” on YouTube one more time.

  Peter was an expert internet researcher, and by now he knew a lot about her. He knew, for instance, that she was playing Cherubino, who was not a woman pretending to be a man as in Shakespeare, but simply a man. There were a lot of parts like that, called “trouser roles,” in opera, and they were played by mezzo-sopranos. The joke was that a mezzo’s career was “britches, bitches, and witches.” When not playing men, they generally played villainesses. The stars of the show, the heroines who sang of love and died in a weeping tenor’s arms as the curtain fell, were played by sopranos.

  This was the nineteenth time he had listened to her sing “Voi Che Sapete.” Unlike most of the arias he’d heard, it was short and didn’t involve a lot of wailing. Cherubino, a teenager whose hormones were seriously out of control, asked two older women to teach him about love.

  The earphones here were higher quality than his speakers at home, and her voice sounded even richer, deeper, and smoother. She acted a swaggering young man very plausibly, but that didn’t prevent him from seeing that she was a beautiful woman. Her blue eyes sparkled. Her smile got to him—more than once he had caught himself idiotically grinning back at her.

  It was a good thing that nobody had uploaded to YouTube the interview she had done on the local news yesterday. The contrast would be too painful. How worn and tired and worried and sad she looked. It must be pretty tough to stand up for her brother, when everybody else in the St. Louis metropolitan area thought he was guilty as sin ….