DIVA (17 page)

“That it does.” Now she was fishing, and he was dodging.

“Private detail?” Smiling faintly, a knowing look in her eyes.

“Something like that.” Annoyed by the interruption, he sipped his beer, casting about for a way to get the conversation back on track.

“I’m going to re-interview that rape victim next week,” Kelly said. “Want to come along? I think she’ll be okay with it if I tell her in advance.”

His heart thrummed his chest. “Tell me when and I’ll be there.”

CHAPTER 17

Monday, 30 October

He played a two-octave C-Major arpeggio and flexed his fingers, stiff and achy from schlepping luggage for asshole clients. Something he’d never do again, thanks to Belinda.

Her suitcases he would gladly carry into any hotel in the world.

After last night’s concert she’d seemed a bit down but she hadn’t said why. She wasn’t ready to confide in him. Not yet, but soon. Soon they’d lie in bed together and he would stroke her silky hair as she whispered her secrets. Her deepest darkest desires. Desires he couldn’t wait to fulfill.

A spurt of anger ruined his fantasy. Her car was outside in the driveway, repaired and ready to go. But he was her driver. They were a couple now, going places together every day. He couldn’t allow her go out without him. Now that he’d rescued her from that drunk she had to know that she needed him to keep her safe. He’d paid the Minnesota biker forty bucks to fake the attack. The asshole didn’t know a flute from a football, didn’t know Belinda Scully from Britney Spears, but he’d delivered his lines well enough.

His fingers roamed the ivories of the Steinway and settled into the introduction of the Saint-Saens
Sonata for Violin and Piano
. He hadn’t played it since he’d accompanied his sister for her Eastman School of Music audition. It was a bravura piece, full of tricky rhythms and rapturous melodies. Muscle memory got him through the introduction. His technique was rusty now, but fifteen years ago it hadn’t been. Rachel had played okay, though her puny sound didn’t do justice to the melodies. Even so it got her into the exclusive school. He would never forget her spiteful words when she got the letter.

Piano players are a dime a dozen. They all want to be soloists and wind up playing rehearsals for ballet companies. You’ll never make it as a musician, but I will. I’ll be playing in a big orchestra.

Gritting his teeth, he launched into the Beethoven sonata he’d practiced for his Boston Conservatory audition. But even the marvelous sound of the Steinway couldn’t erase Rachel’s malicious taunt. His bitch sister. Always the favored one, ever accurate in her predictions.

He hadn’t even been accepted at Boston Conservatory, never mind the more prestigious New England Conservatory.

Swept away by Beethoven’s passionate music, he bent over the keys, reveling in the sound, his right hand playing the melody, his left hand thundering the bass line.

“What are you doing in here, Mr. Silverman?”

Startled, he jerked his hands away from the keyboard. “Goodness, Belinda, you startled me.” She looked lovely this morning, coppery hair swept behind her delicate ears, held by silver clips on either side.

She gazed at him without speaking, her sapphire-blue eyes accusing.

He ripped off an E-flat Major arpeggio, fingers flashing up and down the keyboard. He ended with a flourish and smiled at his beloved. Soon he’d be playing arpeggios up and down her body.

“What a gorgeous piano! A lot of the top soloists prefer a Bosendorfer or a Schimmel, but I still like a Steinway better, don’t you?” Tossing off the big-name builders to show that he knew what he was talking about when it came to pianos.

“I prefer to have you wait in the foyer if I’m not ready to leave.”

He maintained his smile. “I haven’t touched a piano in years. But I played quite well when I was younger. One time I accompanied a violinist and helped her win a big audition with the Debussy
Violin Sonata in G minor
.”

Her expression softened. “Really? That’s quite a difficult piece.”

“It sure is. I had to practice my ass off.” He covered his mouth in mock-horror. “Forgive my language. I hope I didn’t offend you.”

She rewarded him with a smile. “I think I’ve heard that expression a time or two.” She looked at her watch. “We’d better go. My appointment’s at nine and I don’t want to be late.”

Then
why weren’t you ready when I got here at eight-thirty?

“Don’t worry, Belinda, I’ll get you there on time.” Testing her first name again to see how she’d react. Nothing. Not even a polite smile. “Have you considered doing a Busoni transcription? His second violin sonata is a really meaty piece.”

“Busoni. Goodness, you’re quite knowledgeable about chamber music.”

Waving a self-deprecating hand, he rose from the piano bench. “I’m no expert, but you really should consider the Busoni
Violin Sonata
. It’s a marvelous piece.” Rachel had made him learn it so she could play it on her senior recital in high school, hoping to outdo another violinist. She hadn’t.

“I’m too busy right now, but I’ll think about it.”

“It would be fun if we played some duets. The French flute sonatas on your CD, perhaps. Your recording is fabulous, much better than Rampal’s. I’ve got all your CDs, and I’m a quick study. If you lend me the music, I’ll practice them. We’ll have a lovely time.”

She trilled a laugh and tossed her long coppery tresses. “My accompanist plays for all the top soloists in New York. He’s got a Masters from Juilliard and he teaches at Yale.” She turned to leave. “But thanks for offering, Mr. Silverman. I’ll keep you in mind.”

Bullshit. She wouldn’t keep him in mind. She wouldn’t even use his first name. He was nothing to her. A cipher.

His cheeks burned with embarrassment. Thankfully, she didn’t notice.

Intent on leaving, she took her briefcase off the table in the foyer and rushed out the door. Seething, he watched her sashay down the walk to his van. After all he did for her, the little courtesies that weren’t part of his job, complimenting her appearance, praising her performances, rhapsodizing over her CDs, not to mention saving her from that drunk.

And what did he get in return? A derisive laugh when he invited her to play duets and patronizing jibes to put him in his place.

Her accompanist had a Masters from Juilliard; he didn’t.

Her accompanist taught at Yale; he was her chauffeur.

He watched her tug at the door of his van. Normally, he would have rushed to assist her, but not today. Let The Diva open that heavy door herself and see how she liked it.

But as he watched her struggle with the door, his heart melted.

He hurried down the walk to his van.

“Let me help you, Belinda. That door’s much too heavy for you.”

______

Oblivious to other students piling into their cars and peeling out of the lot, Antoine trudged through the NOCCA parking area. His mind was a fuzzball. Probably flunked his advanced harmony test last period, unable to concentrate, imagining Chantelle’s beautiful almond eyes and the feel of her silky-smooth skin beneath his fingers, seeing her glorious smile the last time he made her come. Something he’d never do again.

His throat closed up at the sound of a far-off train whistle. For some reason, the whistle reminded him of what Uncle Jonas said after Grandma died, said she was in Heaven and when Antoine died he’d meet up with her on The Other Side. Antoine wasn’t sure he believed it, but it was the one thing he’d clung to for the past week, the one thing that gave him hope, had to stuff a pillow in his mouth every night so Uncle Jonas wouldn’t hear him cry himself to sleep.

Eyes blurry with tears, he arrived at his car and got out his keys.

“Yo, Antoine!”

His heart jumped into his throat, fluttering like a captured bird. He focused on holding onto his keys, fingers cold and numb, felt like he’d been juggling ice cubes for an hour.

AK appeared at his elbow, smiling his evil gold-toothed smile, had his two homeboys with him, Spider arching his neck to flaunt his spider-web tat, Deadeye draping his forearm on the roof of Antoine’s car to display the mean-looking dagger-tat, dripping red blood.

“W’as up, my man? Cat got your tongue?”

AK doing his big-man act for his homeboys.

Fear and loathing did battle in his mind. His heart hammered like a machine gun. He wished he had one so he could blow AK away.
Why’d you kill Chantelle?
he wanted to scream. But he was too scared.

“Ain’t nobody got my tongue. What you doin’ here?”

“Here to make sure you not runnin’ your mouth to no cops.”

Desperation and fear jazzed his mind. Had someone seen him talking to that NOPD cop last Friday night?

“Ain’t talking to no cops.”

“That ain’t what I hear.”

“You heard wrong.” Hot pokers of hatred burned the fear from his mind. “Why you do that to Chantelle? She wasn’t gonna say nothing.”

AK smiled his evil smile, challenging him with his eyes. “Do what to Chantelle?”

What could he say? Why’d you murder the girl I loved with all my heart, the girl that made me almost as happy as when I play my saxophone?

“Maybe the girl stepped outta line with somebody.” AK leaned closer, huffing halitosis breath at him. “You better not get outta line, Antoine, or you know what’ll happen?”

He knew better than to answer. Big mistake, mouthing off at AK.

Weevils of fear gnawed his stomach. Then he saw Spider and Deadeye back away from his car, their eyes fixed on someone behind him, their expressions wary.

“What’s shaking, AK?” said a deep resonant voice. “Had to bust my hump to catch up with you. You gonna apply to NOCCA?”

AK’s eyes hardened, lumps of coal focused on the man who’d spoken.

Antoine knew who it was, recognized the voice right off.

“Just having a conversation with my buddy Antoine,” AK said. “What’s it to you, Mr. Po-leece-man?”

AK still doing his tough-guy act, Antoine noticed, but not as confident as before, looking like he wanted to split but trying hard to be cool.

“Renzi,” said the voice. “Detective Frank Renzi. Let’s go over to the Eighth District Police Station, AK. I’ve got questions for you.”

“Not ‘less you carryin’ paper sez I got to. Me ‘n my homies got business to take care of.” AK jerked his head at Spider and Deadeye, signaling them to head out. “You got paper says I gotta go with you?”

Antoine held his breath, praying the cop had a warrant. Anything to let him get in his car and drive away so AK wouldn’t find out he knew the cop. Or that the cop knew him. If AK found out Renzi knew him, he was dead.

“You afraid to talk to me, AK?” Renzi said in a hard voice.

AK’s face turned to stone. No gold-tooth smile now. Without a word, he swaggered after his homeboys, waiting for him in a souped-up Lincoln Town Car idling noisily in the street beside the NOCCA parking lot.

Praying for a miracle, Antoine remained rooted to the spot.

“Don’t turn around, Antoine,” Renzi said softly. “Make like I don’t know you, get in your car and drive to the New Orleans Art Museum. I’ll be right behind you so don’t try and run. Don’t answer me, don’t look at me, just get in the car and drive away.”

He got in his car, grateful the cop understood the situation, but dreading the idea of talking to him. Didn’t want to wear out his head remembering which lies he’d already told the man, which lies he was about to tell him.

Ten minutes later they were sitting on a stone bench under a weeping willow tree in the NOMA sculpture garden. What was left of it anyway. Sculptures still there, but broken tree limbs and debris littering the formerly tidy walks. Before Katrina, he and Chantelle used to come here and smooch as they wandered through the peaceful garden. Not peaceful now.

He clasped his hands together to keep them from shaking. His insides were already shaking, and not from the chill in the October air.

“What was going down back there?” Renzi turned to face him, lay his arm along the back of the bench and crossed his legs.

Relaxed and confident
, Antoine thought,
now that he knows I know AK
.

“We just talking.” He clenched his hands so they wouldn’t do something stupid like fly into the air. Planted his feet so he wouldn’t run away.

“Looked to me like AK was threatening you.” Renzi put a hand on his shoulder. “Talk to me, Antoine. I know Chantelle was your girl and I know you’re hurting. I want to put the bastards that killed her in jail, don’t you?”

He nodded, afraid to speak, afraid his voice would jump an octave and betray him.

“I think AK was involved. What’s his connection to Chantelle?”

“Chantelle was living in Iberville,” he muttered, and turned away so he didn’t have to look into the eyes of his relentless interrogator.

“So? What did she do to cross AK?”

“I dunno,” he whispered. Knowing Chantelle had done nothing to cross AK, knowing her mere existence posed a threat to the King of Iberville.

“What was she doing in Lakeview that night?”

“Don’t know nothing ‘bout that either.” Praying God didn’t strike him dead for lying.

Renzi’s fingers dug into his shoulder. “A woman died, Antoine. Someone pushed her out of the getaway car. Who pushed her out?”

He shook off the man’s hand. “What you asking me for?”

“The cop that got shot is out of intensive care, getting better every day.”

“That’s good,” Antoine said. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Chantelle was worried about him too. Why was that?”

His heart pounded and his palms got sweaty. Had Chantelle told Renzi something? He doubted this but couldn’t be sure. He wanted to ask what else Chantelle said, but he couldn’t, not without admitting he knew why she was in Lakeview. Because he’d made the biggest mistake of his life, helping AK rob that store, thinking he was protecting his girlfriend.

What he’d done was get her killed.