by David Linzee
“A Jaguar sedan, registered to Donald Radleigh.”
It was only a few minutes’ ride. They followed the police car into the car park of the Delmar Station of MetroLink, St. Louis’ light rail system. One of the red, white, and blue trains was pulling away as they came to a stop. She could see the curvaceous maroon rump of the Jag in the line of parked cars. Its doors, boot, and bonnet were open. Several uniformed cops were inspecting it. A black man in a suit approached them. He was tall and had a barrel chest that would have done credit to a Wagnerian bass-baritone.
“Hello, Muldaur,” Peter said. “What’s up?”
Ignoring Peter. the man walked up to Renata. “Is this your brother’s car, Ms. Radleigh?”
“Yes.” Looking at it, she noticed that the front wing window was broken.
“An hour ago, a security guard saw a guy trying to steal it. This kind of car attracts attention. He’d broken in but couldn’t get the engine going. He ran off and the guard called it in. We’ve been trying to contact your brother, but no luck. Can you help us?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know where he is,” she said.
Muldaur was wearing sunglasses. She had two small images of herself to gaze at, but she could not see his eyes. “I understand you came all the way from England to see your brother.”
“How did you come to understand that, Muldaur?” asked Peter.
“Spoke to Joel Rubinstein.”
“Solid police work. You’ve done a lot in an hour. Found anything interesting in the car?”
“It’s a crime scene, Lombardo. Searching it is routine.”
“You being called to the scene of an attempted car theft is not routine.”
“I’m not interested in talking to you right now. Ms. Radleigh, you came to see your brother, but haven’t seen him. How come?”
Her twin reflections looked startled and confused. She did not know who Muldaur was, but Peter obviously did, and there was no love lost. She gave a noncommittal shrug.
“You mean he’s missing?” Muldaur asked.
She said, “Well, we haven’t found anyone who’s seen him since last night.”
“Your brother is a missing person. And instead of reporting him to the police, you chose to entrust the investigation to a former reporter for a defunct small-town paper?”
“He’s not missing,” Peter said. “His lawyer was in contact with him a few hours ago.”
“Can his lawyer produce him?”
“Probably not.”
“Get back in your car. We’re going to Seventh District to file a report.”
* * *
It was dark by the time the police were finished with them.
Renata was sitting on a wooden bench in the grimy lobby of the police station when a door opened and Peter appeared. They had been questioned separately. In fact she hadn’t laid eyes on him in a couple of hours.
He came up to her but did not sit. “We’re free to go.”
“Such lovely words.” She rose and followed him out to the car.
As he got in behind the wheel, Peter said, “From the questions they asked me, it sounded like you decided to tell them everything.”
“I didn’t exactly decide. Oh, Peter, I’m a mezzo-soprano, not a lawyer. I’m rubbish at fencing with the police. I hope I didn’t put you in difficulties?”
“No. I mostly leveled with them about who we talked to today and what they said. When they asked me about what happened in London, I said I had no personal knowledge so I wouldn’t answer.”
That’s a good line. I wish I could’ve used it.”
“How did they react to what you told them about London?”
“They weren’t interested in the murder of Neal Marsh. Or of the man who chased me by the canal.”
“Unsurprising. Those crimes happened four thousand miles outside of their jurisdiction.”
“The real estate deal did interest them. They were disappointed that I could tell them so little about Don’s boss. I didn’t see that man Muldaur again, did you?”
“No. But I had the feeling a few times that he was on the other side of the one-way glass.”
“Who is he? Police?”
“No, but he used to be. He and Mayor Skinner were rookies together. Later they went to Saint Louis U law school together. When Skinner was chief of police, Muldaur was his right-hand man. When the mayor retired and started a security company, Muldaur was his partner. Now he’s the mayor’s chief of staff. If he’s running this investigation, it’s political. Mayor Skinner wants to get his hands on Don.”
“Why?”
“Obviously the mayor is interested in Adams buying Parkdale. Beyond that I can’t say.”
“I’ve made a frightful balls-up, haven’t I? I started out thinking I could keep Don out of trouble. And now I’ve put the police on his trail.”
“Renata, he didn’t leave you much choice.”
“Telling the police about the things he’s done. The things he’s said. That he tells the chancellor what to do. That this deal is bigger than Parkdale.”
“Don’t feel bad. The cops can’t do much with that kind of statement. It’s too vague.”
“But when you repeat these things to the police and the tape recorder is running ….”
“Are you beginning to doubt that Don is just a pawn?”
“He has no idea what he’s gotten into. He’s being used. The man in London is pulling the strings, telling Don as little as possible.”
“Uh-huh.”
She peered at his expression in the dim light from the dashboard and failed to read it. “You think he’s a full partner in crime—I mean, whatever the crime is?”
“Let’s say I’m rooting really hard for him to justify your faith.”
They reached Peter’s apartment building and parked. He switched off the lights and engine but did not open the door. “Another thing I’m wondering about. Why did he abandon his beloved Jag in a MetroLink lot?”
“Because it’s so conspicuous,” she replied. “He’s lying low. Do you have another idea?”
“MetroLink goes to the airport. The contracts are signed. The money will soon be on the way to the offshore bank—”
“No. He hasn’t finished the job.”
“What else is there for him to do?”
“I don’t know. But he’s still here.” They opened the doors and got out. Renata peered around her in the darkness. “I’ve had the feeling all day that he’s just ’round the corner.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Next morning, Peter changed the sheets. In the night they had made, as Renata put it, utter beasts of themselves. He was surprised not to find scorch marks. She was in the kitchen making breakfast. He smelled warm bread and brewing coffee. She was humming, something she did quite unconsciously. As one would expect, she was a world-class hummer.
Clamping a pillow under his chin as he wiggled it into a pillowcase, he had an inner burst of pure happiness. An unutterable thought struck him: all Don’s troubles were worth it, if they brought Renata here. For a luxurious few minutes he daydreamed about the future, when she would be an administrator at some American opera company and he would write advertorials and they would live together all the time.
At breakfast he said, “I’ll be spending the day in Parkdale. Adams PR is running a bus tour of the neighborhood for media people and local urbanists.”
“You’re going to make some money? Lovely.” She was peeling an orange. “I know you’re relieved. The Don problem is in the hands of the police. You’re hoping they catch him.”
“Maybe jail would be the safest place for him.”
“Yes, well, I can’t take such an … objective view of the situation. And I certainly can’t mooch about the flat all day, alone with my thoughts. I think I’ll go down to Saint Louis Opera. Chat up some people. Maybe they’ll offer me a part next season.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.” She made an effort and smiled. “And do remember to dress
properly for the Adams people. No mixing plaids and checks.”
Peter went out to a stiff wind and leaden skies. Indian summer seemed to have ended. He returned the WeCar to the garage and caught a bus. Adams Medical Center had an excellent shuttle bus system, and a loop to Parkdale had just been added. His first stop when he got there was Don’s apartment building. As he expected, an unmarked police surveillance van was parked across the street.
Peter reported to work. His role was limited to glad-handing and passing out press releases. A professor from the Urban Studies Department stood at the front of the bus and did the narration. Seeing a crew installing a blue-light security phone, he told the driver to pull over. Everyone climbed out to inspect it. Joel Rubinstein, hunched in an old army fatigue jacket, sidled up to Peter.
“Hope I didn’t do the wrong thing by answering Frank Muldaur’s questions about Renata yesterday.”
“No, it’s okay. What brings you here?”
“That’s a good question. Habit, I guess.”
“You ought to be sleeping late this morning.”
“I tried. But I’ll have to learn how.” His long gray hair was loose and the wind was blowing it around. He looked forlorn.
“C’mon, Joel. You’re one of the idle rich now. Get used to it.”
“You’re right. I ought to be trading in the truck for a BMW. Hiring a wealth manager. Instead of walking around here, watching other people working on my buildings.” He laughed. “My buildings.”
“You’ve left them in good hands.”
“I know. I’ve been saying that a lot. This is the best thing that could have happened to Parkdale. One landlord controls the whole area. And not just any landlord, but Adams University, which has the highest principles and the deepest pockets. But I have to tell you, I was just watching some guys repainting the front door of one of my buildings gray and green, and I didn’t like it.”
He shrugged and walked away, his head down against the wind. Peter re-boarded the bus. They drove to a vacant lot, where Hannah and the assistant dean of students explained how it was going to be made into a community garden whose beds would be offered to the students moving in next spring. Both women had to hold down their skirts against the wind. How odd to see Hannah wearing a skirt, Peter thought. As he fell in behind the urbanists and reporters to climb back on the bus, she approached.
“I want to talk to you.”
“Have you heard from Don?”
“No. From the cops. How could Renata go to the cops?”
“She didn’t. They came to us.”
“Well, she shouldn’t have cooperated. I trusted Renata. I helped you guys yesterday. I even gave you Don’s key.”
“I’ll make sure to get it back to you.”
“A lot of good that will do. Renata told me she believed in him. That he wasn’t a criminal. So why’d she sic the cops on him? You tell her from me—”
Peter firmly raised his hand, palm out. “There’s no need to tell her anything. She already feels as bad you could possibly want her to feel.”
He turned away and got back on the bus. It headed for the main drag where the tour was to finish, in typical Adams style, with an ample repast. They pulled up in front of Herb’s BBQ restaurant. Herb was out front, in his pink pig suit, waving a sign advertising his special to passing cars. He removed its head to welcome them. They regaled themselves with ribs, beans, and potato salad, followed by ice cream sundaes, which Ethan brought over from Cold Comfort.
Afterward, Peter saw the party off and caught the shuttle back to the medical center. He went to his old office, Medical Public Relations, with a vague idea that he ought to report to someone. His former colleagues welcomed him back, but nobody was much interested in the bus tour, or for that matter in Parkdale. Life at Adams U was fast-paced, and the PR department was gearing up for the arrival this evening of Sheikh Abdullah, the favorite nephew of the Sultan of Kutar, who would confer with the chancellor about the new Mideast campus. Peter borrowed a computer to write a report on the bus tour and email it to Roger Merck, then headed for home.
A shuttle would take him most of the way. As he boarded, he spotted the Bob Marley hair and Brooks Brothers sport coat of Professor Imani Baraku. He was sitting alone at the back. He looked at Peter but did not smile. This was unusual.
“Imani? Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all, provided we talk about football.”
Peter swung into the seat beside him as the bus started off. “I guess that must mean you’re busy following up Don Radleigh’s little hint.”
“Who do you think should start for the Packers at QB?”
“The chancellor won’t back out of the deal. More is at stake than Parkdale. That’s what you said yesterday. Have you found out anything since?”
“Peter, you work for Roger Merck.”
“Ah, you have.”
“We were discussing the Packers.”
“Sorry, my game is baseball. How about some general university gossip? What do you think of Sheikh Abdullah arriving this evening?”
“You’re not going to draw me on the Kutar Campus. That’s above my pay grade.”
“Some of your colleagues on the faculty are awfully passionate. They think it’s a bad deal.”
Baraku shrugged. “Reeve calls it the ‘world’ university. But it’ll be in Kutar, a country with a population of four hundred thousand, who have a per capita worth of seventeen million dollars. Not because they earned it. Not because they have ideas or skills or do work. Just because they’re sitting on a lot of oil. They drive their air-conditioned SUVs to shopping malls while people of color imported from other countries do all their work for them. But their Sultan is a benevolent despot. He knows the oil will run out. Then his people are going to have to work. They’ll need ideas and skills. He wants Adams to supply these things.”
“Sounds like a great deal for Kutar. What about for Adams?”
“Obviously, not all my colleagues are convinced. But the chancellor is working on them.”
“Are you out to get the chancellor, Imani?”
“Peter, I’m out to keep roofs over the heads of the Parkdale tenants. That’s all. Now, if you won’t talk about football, let’s talk about reality TV.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It was starting to rain as he reached home. Renata was just back, taking off her coat. She had dressed up for her visit to the Saint Louis Opera, in a deep-red dress with a wrap bodice that hinted at the splendors of her bosom.
“You look great.”
“Oh, thank you. I’ve had a splendid day. Mike Joyce—you remember him, the head of production—took me to lunch and said there was a good chance for a part next spring.”
“Which opera?”
“I daren’t talk about it yet. I’m afraid I’ll jinx it. Anyway, I have to practice now.”
“Oh.”
This was an issue for the couple. Renata, though candid in conversation and uninhibited in bed, was very shy about practicing. She preferred to be alone with her voice. Since she practiced for a couple of hours every day, this was an inconvenience. During their weeks together last summer, he’d felt obliged to go out, whether he wanted to or not, so she could practice. Once he asked her why he was forbidden to hear her sing an aria, when in a few weeks she was going to sing it to a thousand people.
“Then it will be ready,” she snapped.
After that he made sure to decamp whenever she brought out her keyboard.
She was bringing it out now, so he said, “I’ll, uh, take a walk.”
“Oh, Peter, no. It’s started to rain. Just go about your business and ignore me.”
Evidently she had made a resolve. He could tell that she felt uncomfortable, so he turned his back, sat at the computer, and started on his email.
She went into the kitchen, where for a long while she made sounds like baby talk. Then she played notes in ascending order on the keyboard and sang crisp though meaningless syllables. Her singing voic
e, which made her normal speaking voice seem like a pale shadow, strengthened and deepened. Eventually he could not resist tiptoeing over to peer around the doorframe.
She was standing at the counter, a glass of water and the keyboard before her. Her eyes were closed. She sang the same passage repeatedly, shifting her stance or altering the way she held her head. Sometimes she made extraordinary grimaces or pressed her fingers into her throat or cheek. Between attempts she muttered criticism or encouragement in Italian. She didn’t know that Peter was in the doorway. Or that she was in the same world.
He went back to his desk. She had told him once that she’d switched from piano to voice because it wasn’t enough for her to be the musician; she wanted to be the instrument, too. She gave her all to the making of sweet sounds—mind, heart, and body. He sat down and gazed blindly at the screen, entertaining somber thoughts. His fantasy of this morning faded. It seemed unlikely that Renata would give up singing to be an administrator.
Later, as she cooked dinner—she was a very good cook—he watched the local news. If Don was under arrest, they might as well hear about it, but happily there was no mention of him. Instead there was the arrival of Sheikh Abdullah at Lambert-St. Louis Airport. He was shown descending the steps from his private jet, with the wind whipping his white dishdasha and ghutrah. Hearing that he was the sultan’s nephew had made Peter expect a young man, but he was portly and gray-bearded. Reaching the tarmac, he shook hands with Philip Reeve while a line of assistant provosts and vice-chancellors looked on, smiling.
Then came an interview with Reeve, recorded in the studio. He spoke of the “global networked university,” “the campus for the new century,” and “the education of world citizens.” The very phrases that Peter had heard mocked by Dean Carmichael regained their promise and vigor when spoken by their originator. He conjured a bright image of the youth of the world starving for knowledge and Reeve hurrying to their rescue. Still, he did not seem overbearing or arrogant. Forehead grooved with worry, eyes blue as the heart of a gas flame burning bright, he seemed to be pleading: Have faith in me, a better world depends on it.