Bone Song (5 page)

He looked back at the plane. The journalists were dispersing, the dignitaries were in the limos, and now the ordinary passengers were beginning to descend the steps, allowed to disembark.

No one was waiting to take their photographs or ask them what it felt like to be here.

There were outriders on low-slung motorbikes, officers with helmets and leather jackets, over-and-under spitguns clipped to the sides of their fuel tanks. They swung in on either side of the motorcade.

All the cars slid into motion. Donal watched in every direction.

He had wanted a helicopter overhead, but the fog was even better, providing visual cover from rooftop snipers: not so much here as when they reached the high midtown skyscrapers.

Except that in those architectural canyons the fog would be thinner.

Damn it.

Opportunities to make the hit were everywhere.

The diva's limo pulled up before the Exemplar. Here, not just journalists but fans had gathered on the sidewalks. Donal's nerves tightened as he exited his car fast and held his badge out for the uniforms to let him through.

“Nice to see you, Lieutenant,” said one of them, a gray-haired veteran whom Donal recognized. “Looks like everyone's here to get your autograph.”

“It's your picture they're taking.” Donal gave a half salute while scanning the windows high up across the street. “Okay, here goes.”

The diva was exiting her car, and the officers linked arms against the increasingly chaotic pressure of the crowd, as those farther back jostled. The dancing flames above the steps cast golden highlights on the diva as she stopped to wave at the crowd—
don't stay in the open, damn it
—and then ascended the steps so she was under the decorative canopy in front of the door.

Even here a Seeker round would pick her out through the obstacles. Donal waved at the doormen to usher the diva indoors. One of them bowed and murmured a greeting as he gestured inside, and the diva seemed to flow into the foyer.

Inside, Donal's own men were already posted at vantage points. He began to feel happier.

While the diva took the elevator—operated by a human attendant, suitably humble-looking—Donal went up the stairs three treads at a time. By the time he reached the third floor, his breath was coming in big, loud inhalations, and his body had sprung a layer of sweat: reacting to the promise of a hard run.

But the diva's suite was on the forty-seventh floor, too high to sprint, so Donal walked along the corridor to the laundry elevator, where Levison was already waiting, holding the brass door open. Levison had come here ahead of the cavalcade, and he was looking almost sleepy as he said, “Which floor, sir?”

But he had already pressed 47 and was hauling the door shut before Donal had finished stepping inside. The elevator car lurched, ascended a few feet and rattled, then rose more smoothly as it gathered speed.

“Nice to see you looking calm,” said Donal.

“If Commissioner Vilnar's got every confidence in you”—Levison spoke with a straight face—“then who am I to argue?”

“You're absolutely right.” Donal pulled his Magnus a quarter way out of his shoulder holster, then pushed it back in. No problems there. “In your place, I'd be calm too.”

“And what about you?”

“I'm scared shitless. I'm looking forward to the whole thing being over, the diva off somewhere else on a plane, heading to Rio Exotico or someplace.”

“Ah.” Levison nodded as the dial needle swung through 40 and the elevator's ascent slowed. “That's why the rest of us are relaxed. When you're strung out, everything's in control.”

“That's nice to know.”

The elevator car clanked to a halt, and Levison hauled the brass door open. “Looks like we're ready.”

Twelve uniforms were posted along the corridor. Detectives on the floors above and below were already in place. Two of Donal's squad opened the door of the suite across from the diva's and grinned.

“Hey, boss, Lev. You want anything from room service?”

“For Hades's sake . . .”

“Just kidding, Donal.”

“Where's the—”

“She's coming now.” Levison touched Donal's arm. “Here.”

They walked down to the main elevator bank just as the diva's elevator arrived and the golden doors slid open. She stepped out, Maria daLivnova, diva extraordinaire.

The hotel's general manager, Whitrose, was beside her, fawning.

“Um, Miss daLivnova, you'll have met Lieutenant, um, Riordan? In charge of the . . . arrangements for your visit.”

“No, I've not had the pleasure.” Her gaze on Donal was amused, nothing more.

But she stopped his lungs and maybe his heart.

So beautiful . . .

And a target, unless he did his job properly.

“Honored, ma'am.” Donal made himself speak. “If we could talk some more about the security prec—”

“A glamorous detective. For me. My, how I'm touched.”

Then she swept past him, followed by her two female assistants. Both women were employees of the Théâtre du Loup Mort, assigned by the management. They'd been in the limousine at the airport to meet the diva. Donal had interviewed both of them; afterward, Levison, who was much better at forming a rapport with strangers, had talked to them individually. Neither seemed to be a security risk; both of them were already looking as stressed on the surface as Donal felt inside.

Glamorous detective.

Donal watched the door to the diva's suite swing shut. He blew out a breath.

That'll be me, all right.

The first performance changed everything.

Donal was standing in the shadowed interior of a box on the top level. Commissioner Vilnar was one of six dignitaries seated officially inside it.

Down below, armed officers were obvious outside the actual performance hall; in here, two department snipers in plainclothes were in another box, their rifles at their feet. Levison was seated in one of the stalls. Other members of Donal's team were scattered among the audience.

The visible presence outside presented the first layer of deterrence, but Donal assumed that a trained killer might spot the two snipers: their grim gazes continually swept the audience below. Neither one looked like an opera lover, despite the tuxedos.

They were the second, also visible, layer. The third layer was Donal's squad. If Levison hadn't told him, Donal would not have guessed that the overweight gray-haired lady with the diamonds and fur stole was Sergeant Miriam Delwether, one of the department's finest shots.

This was the opening night, and if there was to be an attempt on the diva's life, this would be the most dramatic time to stage it.

The lights went down, shadows growing unevenly inside the auditorium, and Donal was alert for any shifts of movement, any gleam of reflected light—
there.
He had to force himself to relax—
just opera glasses
—and to keep scanning, looking for any sign of a weapon being brought to bear.

Onstage, the production swirled into life. Colorful costumes were bright, almost blazing at the edge of Donal's peripheral vision: the
Mort d'Alanquin
's opening scene took place in a royal court amid pageantry.

None of it helped Donal's vision to remain dark-adapted. He continued to scan the audience.

Donal was half aware of the dancing onstage. As the scene progressed, the cast tended to stand still more and the singing became more important. When the diva stepped out onto stage left, at the entrance to the royal court, Donal's gaze snapped back and forth across the auditorium: stalls, circle, boxes, flicking to the stage itself, then back to the seats below.

And then she opened her mouth to sing.

Oh, my Death . . .

The diva sang, her voice pure and crystalline, pulling the audience to her with her innocent inquiry:
“Is this where the great king holds judgment?”

When the solo was finished, the diva lowered her head as waves of applause washed through the auditorium. Donal rubbed his hand across his face and realized he had been aware only of her for the past several minutes as the aria proceeded.

Minutes that could have been a lifetime.

Just keep focused.

It wasn't only the danger to the diva. If bullets started flying through the audience, if his own people opened fire, he would be held accountable. And if someone important died and their relatives claimed blood money, it was Donal, not Commissioner Vilnar, who would be served up as payment.

But during the next solo from the diva, Donal—though he kept pushing himself to look elsewhere—kept returning his gaze to her, like an exhausted man whose chin keeps falling to his chest no matter how often he jerks it back upright, trying to maintain wakefulness.

So much for security.

During the intermission, Donal faded out of the box. He went downstairs and made his way backstage, past two hulking uniforms he knew well: the Brodowski Brothers. In the weight-lifting room, their fellow officers called them the Barbarians.

“All clear, guys?”

“Sure, but I think Al cried during the last song.”

“Like you didn't.”

Hades, they were as bad as him. Donal climbed up a flight of wooden steps and stepped through the heavy overlapping curtains.

Men in brown coveralls were pushing heavy facades—castle battlements—on industrial-size casters. Cast members who had not spent much time onstage were murmuring to one another; the others would be sitting down and rehydrating in the changing rooms.

A lithe young woman walked past, half naked, pulling on a peasant's blouse. Donal swallowed before forcing out a long exhalation.

“Can I help you?” asked a stagehand.

“No . . . Yeah. You see anyone here that doesn't belong?”

“Er, don't think so.” The stagehand glanced at the young actress straightening her blouse, then back at Donal. “Apart from you, Officer. The rest of us are used to this.”

“Must be a hard life.”

“Don't talk so much about
hard.
” The stagehand winked. “Some of the boys might get excited.”

Hades . . .

Donal took a last look around the stage. Up top, beyond the overhead spotlights, a gantry allowed objects to be lowered on near-invisible cables. There was a heavy man up there, script in hand, ready to call down: he was to be the ghost's voice in the next act.

There were also two plainclothes officers, one of whom waved Donal a half salute, which Donal returned.

All clear.

Donal went back out to the Brodowski Brothers. “Guys, it's a good job you're holding the fort out here. It's hell backstage.”

“Why's that, Lieutenant?”

“All those naked actresses getting changed. Bosoms bouncing everywhere. My blood pressure's gone through the roof.”

“Aw, man . . .”

Third act.

The plot was beyond Donal's comprehension, but he wasn't being paid to follow the story. Still, he kept glancing down at the stage.

Commissioner Vilnar was equally entranced. The diva—whether singing solo or as now, part of an intricate duet as she called out the prince for his impetuous treatment of the populace—had captivated Donal along with everyone else in the theater.

Fourth and final act.

The entire company was onstage, enacting the battle scene and then the coming together of both sides to mourn. When the diva sang that heartrending farewell to the slain prince, Donal felt his nerves hooked out of his body, his soul dragged out by talons.

Tears ran in silent floods down his cheekbones.

No shots rang out. No one sprinted onto the stage and ran a dagger through the diva's heart. It was just as well, because neither Donal nor any of the officers, not even the spellbound snipers in the opposite box, could have processed the danger or made a move while that pure sublime sound continued to emanate from the diva's perfect mouth.

And then the aria was ended.

Donal bowed his head in silence. Backing out of the box, he wiped tears from his face with the back of his hand, and by the time he reached ground level he was practically normal. The two detectives stationed at the side entrance to the auditorium were still damp-eyed.

“Be professional,” said Donal as he went through.

“Sir.”

From the side, Donal watched as multiple bouts of applause rose, ebbed, then washed higher once more. The company took bows, but the loudest cheers were reserved for the diva (and secondmost for the prince, or rather the man who sang that part, whose name a quarter of the audience and none of the police knew).

Flowers arced through the air, hurled by enthusiastic operagoers, and Donal winced each time one of the snipers moved up in their box. But neither of them raised his weapon over the balcony's edge.

A young girl brought a huge bouquet, taller than herself, up onto the stage. The diva accepted it and kissed the girl's cheek, which brought a fresh wave of applause.

Finally, the curtain went down and stayed down. The lights came up, the sudden brightness forcing Donal to squint. Happy people, murmuring and chattering, threaded their way up the aisles to the exits, while Donal's tension was strung tight.

He had been relieved in the emotional aftermath of the final aria. But now everyone's guard was down, and this was a danger moment. No one had said the diva had to be onstage for the killing to occur.

“Stay alert, damn it,” he said to the two Brodowskis as he climbed backstage.

“Huh? Right.”

“Got it, Lieutenant.”

There was a press of well-wishers in the diva's dressing room, champagne in a silver rune-chased bucket, woven heptagrams of blue orchids and indigo roses, and a chattering cacophony of congratulations. Levison, in his unassuming way, stood in the background, assisting with the bouquets.

“Thank you so much,” Levison murmured to the florid son of a well-known businessman, owner of the Black Viper supermarket chain.

The businessman's gaze didn't even flicker in Levison's direction.