Spur of the Moment

by David Linzee

  But if you must die, if the fearful word

  is written by fate …

  She was approaching the group of smugglers squatting by the campfire. One of them was looking at her. That was wrong. Nobody should be looking at Carmen now; she should be utterly alone. Her concentration faltered. The smuggler turned back into Ray, and Carmen into Renata. What was his problem tonight? But the number was reaching its climax. She put her back to Ray and face to the audience, and gave herself to the music as Carmen gave herself to death.

  la carte impitoyable répétera la mort.

  Encore! Encore! Toujours la mort!

  the pitiless card will repeat death.

  Again! Again! Always death!

  Chapter 73

  “Lombardo, I have no idea what you’re accusing me of.”

  “I believe that, Doc. At least I believe you’ve been trying really hard not to think through the consequences of your behavior.”

  “I don’t recall what I said about Stromberg-Brand in my messages to Ray. Probably nothing.”

  “That I don’t believe. This was two years ago. Only four years after you lost the Blix chair to Stromberg-Brand. I mean, after she and Patel stole it from you.”

  Chase shifted uncomfortably. He had stopped looking at Peter. “I certainly wouldn’t have gone into any of that.”

  “We’ve read some of your emails to patients.” Peter gestured at the computer across the room. “Remember, we were here Tuesday night. We know how they go. You care for them. You’re fighting for them. But you have enemies.”

  “This is pointless. I can’t remember what I wrote to Ray.”

  “ ‘The stars were aligned.’ Does that ring a bell?”

  “What?”

  “You explained it all to us down at the med center, the first time we met. If you’d gotten the chair, you would have gotten the postdocs, the collaborators, the grants. You would have cured Chagas Disease, if not for Helen Stromberg-Brand.” Peter leaned forward. “And what Ray thought was, my daughter would be alive today, if not for Helen Stromberg-Brand.”

  “Get out of here, Lombardo,” said Chase, but there was no force behind the words. “It’s no use tormenting me. I have no idea what you’re accusing me of.”

  “Of being self-indulgent, Doc. Of rubbing salt in the wounds of a man whose wounds were too deep.” Peter stood up. “I don’t know what section of the penal code covers that. I’ll let the police figure it out. Better lawyer up.”

  Chase said nothing. Peter left the apartment.

  Carmen was feeling better. Her superb vitality had banished the premonition. Now she and Frasquita and Mercédès were singing of how they would fool the customs men, who were just men after all and would fall victim to their charms. Some smugglers joined in. It was a fast, intricate ensemble, requiring her to nail her cues, but Renata knew the score so well that she could do it automatically. The trick was to take the lower line intended for Carmen rather than joining Mercédès in hers. Once again she was being distracted by Ray.

  He ought to be upstage with them. She was supposed to pick up a backpack of contraband and hand it to him at the end of the number. Otherwise she’d have to carry the bloody thing off-stage or it would be in the way in the next scene, when Micaëla was singing her big number.

  She turned and looked downstage. Ray was still squatting by the campfire. He had forgotten his blocking, which he’d never done before. Was it stage fright? At that moment he raised his head and their eyes met. It wasn’t the audience he was afraid of. It was she. But why—

  Oh God. Why hadn’t she listened to Peter? Bryson wasn’t the killer.

  In a split-second it all came together in Renata’s head, the key memories falling into place more neatly than Bernhard von Schussnigg’s giant cards had ever done. Tuesday morning in the costume department, she had told Ray about the man Luis Reyes had seen walking down Helen’s street the night of the murder. Ray had told her Don was the killer, that it was too much of a coincidence that this man should happen to come along in the brief period that Helen was alone in her house.

  But it wasn’t a coincidence at all. On Saturday night in the pavilion she had seen Ray, clinking a glass for silence before Congreve’s speech. He had been standing six feet away when Helen had stood and said, I want my house to myself. He had recognized his opportunity. The man Luis Reyes had seen had been Ray, walking away from the house after killing Helen Stromberg-Brand.

  She broke Ray’s gaze and turned toward the audience to sing her next phrase, wondering if her face had given her away. If he knew that she knew.

  Peter came out the door of Chase’s apartment building. He took the phone out of his pocket to call Detective McCutcheon. Switching it on, he saw that there was a message from Renata: “Come to the theater as soon as you get this, my love.” The beautiful voice brimmed over with excitement. “I’m singing Carmen. They won’t make you pay for your seat this time.”

  He stood frozen as his thoughts raced. She was in the theater with Ray Costello. Call 911? But he was five minutes from the theater. He could get there more quickly than he could explain.

  He ran to his car and jumped in. Reversed out onto Big Bend Boulevard. Brakes squealed and horns honked behind him as he swung the wheel, shifted gears, and stamped on the accelerator.

  Renata was standing in a spotlight. Nine hundred people were staring at her. Ray couldn’t harm her now even if he wanted to. She thought ahead to her exit, only a minute or so away. They were all clearing the stage for Micaëla. Ray was a good ten paces downstage at the fire. He would join the smugglers and exit downstage left. She, Frasquita, and Mercédès would run down the ramp upstage right. It turned into a passageway underneath the stage. She just had to make it to her dressing room. Lock the door and call the police.

  She and her friends finished their song. They hugged and walked upstage. The smugglers left them, moving downstage. The music grew softer. The lights dimmed.

  She’d forgotten that lighting cue, forgotten the stage went almost dark before Micaëla entered. She looked over her shoulder. Ray wasn’t following the other smugglers. He was coming toward her. She turned away from him. Mercédès and Frasquita were already running down the ramp. Renata went after them, running flat-out.

  The applause began as she left the stage, descending the ramp. Even in the darkness under the stage she could see Mercédès’s back, clad in the orange tube-top, only a couple of paces ahead. She was thinking that this was going to be all right when Ray’s hand clamped down over her mouth and his other arm wrapped round her waist. Her feet left the floor as he swung her off the ramp, then half-dragged, half-carried her down a dim, narrow side corridor. She wriggled and kicked and tried to bite. He slammed her head into the concrete wall. Lightning flashed behind her closed eyelids. She was dazed for a moment, incapable of resistance.

  Peter skidded to a halt at the main doors of the theater, startling the two parking attendants, who arose from their chairs but did not approach. Flinging the door open, he ran into the lobby. It was empty. The performance was still going on. He ran toward the nearest auditorium door. Pulling it open, he heard applause, an ovation just dying down. He could hear music but there was no one on stage.

  An usher was approaching.

  “Has anything happened?”

  The usher just looked at him, wide-eyed. He wondered fleetingly what his expression must be like. He ran down the dark aisle, tripping and nearly falling full-length over unexpected steps. A woman walked on stage. A spotlight illuminated her: she was not Renata. She began to sing.

  Je dis que rien ne m’epouvante—

  I say that nothing will terrify me—

  She broke off as Peter ran up the steps and onto the stage. The conductor froze and the orchestra collapsed into silence. There were murmurs and exclamations from the audience. The singer stared at him as he ran past her into the wings.

  “Where’s Renata?”

  Everyone just looked at him, except for a tall black
man who approached him with arms outspread, saying in a calm tone, “Renata’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not. I’m—”

  “You’re Peter Lombardo. I saw you on the news. I’m Mike Joyce. You think Renata’s in danger?”

  “Yes. Where is she?”

  “She just exited down the ramp a moment ago. She’s probably in her dressing room.”

  “Help me find her.”

  Mike looked confused but did not hesitate. Gesturing to Peter to follow, he ran down the steps.

  Ray had his hands under her arms and was dragging her backward down a corridor of sleeves. They were in the costume storeroom, a dark musty room filled with racks of garments in plastic bags. There was no reason why anyone would come in here during a performance. Her head struck concrete again, not so hard this time. She found that she was sitting, leaning against the wall, her legs stretched out in front of her.

  Ray crouched beside her and his hands began to close around her neck.

  “No, Ray. You can’t get away.”

  “I have a better chance with you dead.”

  She could feel his fingertips probing through her hair, locking and tightening against the nape of her neck, his thumbs pressing into her windpipe. But he was hesitating. She could still talk. “You don’t want to do this to me.”

  “I have to. I’m not going to jail for killing Stromberg-Brand. I’m not sorry.”

  His eyes were locked on hers. Even in the dim light she could see them harden as he talked himself into it. His thumbs dug in.

  Descending the stairs was like going down into a rush-hour subway station. They shouldered their way through a pack of costumed performers who had just left the stage. In the corridor, a woman was standing in a doorway, a dress over her arm, looking the other way.

  “Kim, have you seen Renata?”

  She turned to them and shook her head. “She’s supposed to be here for—”

  Mike continued down the corridor. There was room to run now and he and Peter did, shouting “Renata!”

  The corridor narrowed and dimmed. Up ahead, two young women in bright mini-dresses were standing in uncertain postures.

  “Iris, where’s—”

  “She just disappeared.”

  “She was right behind us coming down the ramp,” said the other woman.

  Mike plunged down a corridor turning to the left and Peter followed. The first door they came to was ajar. Still calling Renata’s name, Mike pushed it open and flipped on the ceiling lights. Racks of clothing in plastic bags, neatly arranged in rows, filled the room. Peter dropped prone so that he could see under the hanging garments. Movement caught his eye. Several rows down, at the back wall, he saw struggling limbs.

  He jumped to his feet. Sweeping garments aside, he plunged through to the next aisle, and the next. At the third he knocked the whole rack over and had to clamber over a mound of plastic-wrapped clothing, barely keeping his feet. Against the wall he could see Renata’s legs, kicking at the back of a man kneeling over her.

  “Mike!” Peter roared as he ran down the aisle. Now he could see that the man’s hands were around Renata’s throat. He threw his arms around the man’s torso under his arms, pulling him back with all his strength. Mike’s hands came into view, grabbing the man’s wrists, breaking his grip. Peter fell backward, taking the man with him. Panting, they scrambled to their feet. The man tried to get by him and Peter hit him in the face. Hard. A shockwave of pain ran up Peter’s arm. The man dropped to his knees.

  Blood was running from Ray Costello’s mouth to his chin, dripping onto his American flag T-shirt. He looked past Peter, who turned and saw that people were pouring into the room.

  “Call the police!” Peter shouted, louder than he needed to.

  “They’re on the way,” someone in the crowd answered. Most of them were moving to surround Renata and Mike, who was kneeling beside her. She was coughing and massaging her throat. She caught his eye and nodded reassuringly before people got between them.

  Ray Costello sank down on his haunches. He looked at Peter with narrowed eyes, recognizing him. “I almost killed Renata for nothing, didn’t I? You knew.”

  “I found out about Michelle.”

  Ray nodded. “I was afraid somebody would.”

  “It wasn’t true, what Chase told you.”

  “Sure it’s true. Medicine’s a racket like everything else. Only Dr. Chase was different. That party Saturday night, that was the first time I met him face to face. He remembered me. He remembered Michelle.”

  “That meant a lot to you.”

  “Everybody else forgot her. Expected me to get over it. Dr. Chase is a fine man. But nobody at the party noticed him. They were all too busy kissing Stromberg-Brand’s ass. And she loved it. I kept thinking, she doesn’t even know who I am. Or what she did to my daughter.”

  “Then you heard her say she was going home alone. It was your chance to kill her.”

  “I wasn’t planning to kill her. I just thought she ought to know who I was. But she wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t let me in the door. She thought I was just some crazy old man who wasn’t worth her time. She wasn’t afraid of me, not even when I pushed my way into the house. She just ordered me out. I wasn’t taking orders from her. That big bowl was sitting right there on the table.”

  Ray hung his head. He was through talking.

  Mike was kneeling beside Renata, brushing the hair from her face. She was taking in great whooping breaths, her hand at her neck. He said, “Are you all right?”

  “No,” she croaked. “Can’t do the last act. Sorry.”

  Chapter 74

  Peter was standing at the door of Clayton Police Headquarters. There was no light in the sky yet, and downtown Clayton was so quiet that he could hear a mockingbird singing, probably from the park three blocks away. The bird sounded ebullient and carefree—the way he had been feeling ever since Renata called from the hospital to let him know that the doctors said she was fine, and she was on her way.

  A police car approached down the empty street and pulled over to the curb. Renata, in the front passenger seat, smiled up at him. He stepped forward to open the door. She had barely got to her feet before a uniformed officer came out of the door behind Peter. “Ms Radleigh, Mr. Lombardo, please come with me. Detective McCutcheon is waiting for you. And Lieutenant O’Brien and Chief Schmidt.”

  “Ms Radleigh just needs to change clothes,” said Peter, lifting his arm, which had slacks and a jersey draped over it.

  Renata was still wearing her black silk dress from the performance. She pointed to the bruises on her neck. “I’d like to cover these, if you don’t mind.”

  Peter held the building door for her. “There’s a room over here you can use.”

  They went in and crossed the lobby. An open door led into a little office with a bare desk and empty shelves. Taking her clothes from Peter, Renata noticed that the young cop had followed them. He looked very alert and determined for this ungodly hour.

  “Uh … you’re not supposed to be alone together before questioning.”

  “Don’t worry, we won’t talk about the case.”

  The policemen hesitated.

  “I’m about to take off my dress,” Renata said. “You’d best wait outside.”

  The cop pressed his lips together in annoyance, but went out and pulled the door closed. Peter dropped his eyes to the floor as she unzipped.

  “How charmingly Midwestern of you, Peter,” she said with a laugh. “You know I’m going to be naked in your arms as soon as we can get well shot of the police.”

  “Until then, I’m trying to concentrate. In fact let’s do what we just promised we wouldn’t.”

  “Coordinate our stories? Good idea. One contradiction and they get excited and the questioning goes on and on.”

  “Okay. It began as it ended, with Carmen.”

  “The Lyric Opera, Chicago, May fifteenth. Helen Stromberg-Brand, bored with Carmen, ditches my brother and goes
to see her former research associate, Jeff Csendes. Her conscience has been troubling her about him and she wants to make peace.”

  “Instead she finds an embittered drug addict who tells her how much he hated her. She returns to your brother in need of soothing.”

  “He soothes her. They begin a love affair that lasts long enough for her to sign a check to SLO.”

  “Renata, that’s awfully harsh.”

  “Right. It lasts a couple of days longer. And unfortunately her husband Bert finds out.” She was dressed now, adjusting the turtleneck of the jersey. “Does this hide the bruises?”

  “You look fine. Meanwhile, Helen’s conscience is still bothering her about Csendes.”

  “Or she is afraid he’s going to go public with his accusations.”

  “Well, that too. She hopes that her friend and partner Keith Bryson will be able to succeed where she has failed and mollify him.”

  “Pay him hush money.”

  “Well, that too. Bryson calls and asks for a meeting. Csendes isn’t interested in money. But his friend Shane Komarovsky, who supplied him with uppers and downers, is. He persuades him to meet with Bryson.”

  “Bryson walks into a setup. Csendes has hired a sleazy bugging expert named Lou Bistouri to wire his place for audio and video. Bryson offers money. Csendes doesn’t want it. He wants Bryson to admit that he’s made the key contribution to the vaccine and that Helen has screwed him. Bryson won’t. They get into a fight. Bryson kills Csendes.”

  “Bryson’s bodyguard Schaefer is waiting in the car. He dumps the body in the river.” Peter paused. “The cops tell me, by the way, that they have identified him as Duane R. Schaefer, former sergeant in Special Forces. But they haven’t caught up with him yet.”