DIVA (26 page)

Early this morning she had driven to the train station to meet the funeral director and make sure Jake’s casket was safely aboard the train. His parents would meet the train at Penn Station. Dean had insisted on riding with the casket. She would fly to Long Island tomorrow. The funeral service was Monday at eleven. Later that afternoon she would fly back to New Orleans.

The phone on her bedside table rang, jangling her nerves. On the way to answer it she glimpsed her image in the wall mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot, and gritty from lack of sleep.

“Hello, Belinda. How are you feeling this morning?”

Mr. Silverman. The man was beginning to annoy her. This morning when she went out to get the newspaper, she’d found a box of muffins on the doorstep. Still, he seemed concerned about her and eager to please, running errands. Maybe she would rehire him.

Jake worked his ass off for you and what did he get in return?

“Thank you for calling. I’m a bit tired, but I’ll be okay.”

“Stress is bad for your immune system. You should take some extra vitamin C.”

She tried to quell her annoyance. He sounded like Mother, nagging her to eat right and be sure to get eight hours sleep a night and drink plenty of milk so she’d have strong bones.

“Did you get the muffins I left for you?”

“Yes. Thank you. That was very thoughtful of you.” She’d thrown them in the garbage.

“I’m going out to run some errands. Do you need any groceries?”

The thought of food made her gag. All she’d eaten for two days was chicken soup. Mother’s cure for everything. Her mother, dead and gone for thirteen years. Unlucky thirteen.

“No. I’m getting ready to fly to New York for the funeral.”

“You must be feeling sad and lonely. I can drive you to the airport.”

“Thank you, but that’s not necessary. I prefer to drive myself.”

After a short silence, he said, “All right, but be careful. You know what happened the last time you drove home from the airport.”

A chill skittered down her spine. She remembered all right. Someone had forced her off the road, one in a series of ugly events: weird fan mail, a whispered voicemail threat, a creepy note on her doorstep, a burglary. And Jake’s sudden death. All within weeks of the thirteenth anniversary of the accident that had decimated her family. Would this unlucky year never end?

She gave herself a pep talk. She was no ordinary woman. She was Belinda Scully, a survivor, a confident performer with an unshakable will.

“I’m packing for my trip, Mr. Silverman, so if you’ll excuse me . . .”

“When will you be back?”

“Next week,” she said firmly, and hung up. If he didn’t know when she’d be back, he couldn’t call and pester her.

You only care about yourself. And your career.
Dean’s stinging rebuke.

She clenched her teeth. Silverman was annoying but he was right.

She was stressed-out, not eating right, not sleeping. And the only person who seemed concerned about her was Barry Silverman.

_____

On his way back to the station Frank cruised through the Bayou St. John neighborhood. Setting aside his blissful anticipation of dinner with Kelly, he turned onto a side street and focused on Antoine Carter. According to the clerk in the NOCCA office, his parents were still living in Houston. Prior to Katrina, they had driven there with Antoine and his eleven-year-old sister to stay with relatives. When NOCCA reopened, Antoine, a scholarship student, had returned to New Orleans to live with his uncle, Jonas Carter.

He parked across the street from Jonas Carter’s house, a shotgun double with mocha-brown shingles and gleaming white trim. Twin driveways bordered the house, Antoine’s bronze Ford Tempo in one, a black Ford 150 pickup in the other. The window shades were down, and not to keep out the sun. The sky was still overcast after the heavy rain that had pounded the area.

Was Antoine was inside grieving for his girlfriend? Or hiding from AK?

He lowered the car window, hoping to hear Antoine practicing. No music, just chirping robins and squawking blue jays. He continued down the street at a leisurely pace, picturing the NOPD artist’s sketch: a young black male with dreadlocks, large wide-set eyes and a broad nose. Like Antoine.

The Lakeview Residents Association was hounding NOPD. Lakeview had been decimated by Katrina. Only a third of the residents had returned. Many were still living in FEMA trailers. Others occupied re-built homes surrounded by gutted houses with knee-high weeds out front. Few businesses had reopened. Lakeview residents didn’t want thugs robbing the few that had.

His eyes flicked to the rearview. A dark-blue Lincoln Town Car was behind him, driven by a young black male, another one riding shotgun. Impossible to tell if anyone else was in the car.

He slowed down to see what they would do. The Lincoln settled in ten feet from his bumper. He turned right at the next corner. The Lincoln followed. He took the next right, stomped the gas pedal and raced to the next intersection. The Lincoln sped after him.

In the rearview, he saw a black kid lean out the passenger side window. Holding a shotgun. Adrenaline blasted his heart rate. What the hell? Broad daylight on a Saturday and a car full of gunslingers was after him?

He stomped the accelerator. Gripped the wheel with one hand. Dug out his SIG-Sauer. Not that he'd shoot at them. That was Hollywood nonsense. There were too many civilians around. Holding the weapon reassured him, but his heart drummed his ribs like the hooves of a runaway horse.

Thirty yards ahead of him, a maroon Toyota turned a corner and approached him. He blew past it. Glimpsed the woman driver’s face. Saw astonishment, then fear. In the rearview, he saw her pull over.

The thugs kept coming. The Lincoln was gaining on him. He wheeled left and rocketed down a street, hoping some little kid on a bike wouldn’t zoom out into his path. Hoping the street didn’t dead-end at a canal.

Blam! A slug ripped into the trunk of his car. Cursing aloud, he took the next left. Floored the accelerator. Zoomed past an elderly black man carrying groceries into a house. At the next cross street, he slowed and checked the rearview. No Lincoln. He turned left again and completed the circuit back to where the thugs had begun chasing him. The street where Antoine Carter lived with his uncle. No sign of the Lincoln.

He holstered his weapon and waited for his heart rate to return to what passed for normal. Twelve days ago he’d caught AK and his goons in the NOCCA parking lot, threatening Antoine. Last week, he had pulled Antoine out of class to interview him.
You gonna get me killed,
Antoine had said.
I’m not the only NOCCA student that knows AK
. Was Marcus the other student? Had Marcus told AK that Detective Frank Renzi had interviewed Antoine? Someone had. Why else would AK’s thugs be watching Antoine’s house?

Seething with anger, he headed for Iberville. New Orleans housing projects were no different from the projects in Boston. Ghettos of poverty, race and crime, ruled by vicious punks with no regard for life. An image flashed in his mind: eleven-year-old Janelle Robinson lying dead on a grungy carpet, killed by a cop’s bullet—his own or his partner’s—a black girl caught in the crossfire of a bust gone bad. His gut twisted in a sickening freefall.

Bile rose in his throat as he pictured the tears on the chocolate skin of Janelle Robinson’s face. Chantelle had been caught in the crossfire too. He couldn’t imagine how scared she must have felt, all alone in that apartment, knowing addicts used vacant units as crack houses, copping drugs from the evil excuse for a man that ran the place. AK-47, the King of Iberville.

It took him less than ten minutes to get there. He got out of his car and examined the trunk. A hole was punched through the metal beside the Mazda logo. Anger burned a hole in his gut, and his mind seethed with ugly thoughts as he marched into the complex to the building where Chantelle had lived.

He leaned against the door and waited.

Crawl out from under your rock, scumbag. I know you’re here.

Sure enough, a minute later AK sauntered around the corner of the next building. “Wha’s up, my man?” Flashing his gold-toothed smile.

“I just played a game of tag with your homeboys.”

“That right? Y’all have a good time?”

“What were they doing in Antoine Carter’s neighborhood?”

AK’s eyes hardened and his smile faded. “What was
you
doing there?”

He stepped closer, invading AK's space, looming over the shorter man. “Seems like every time I get anywhere near Antoine you and your homeboys turn up. Why’s that?”

“Me and Antoine, we
buddies
.”

“Were you
buddies
with Chantelle Wilson, too?”

“Who?” Frowning. “Oh, the bitch got killed a couple weeks ago?”

It took all his willpower not to throttle the bastard.

“No. The girl someone murdered to keep her from talking.”

AK backed up two paces. “Talkin' ‘bout what?”

“The Lakeview murder. Why did you push that woman out of the car?”

“Did no such thing. Who tol’ you that?” AK said, eyes cold as ice and hard as granite.

“We got the getaway car. We got evidence.”

“You got evidence why don’t you arrest me?” His gold-toothed smile reappeared. “You got no evidence. You got nuthin’, ‘cuz I got nuthin’ to do with what went down in that lily-white neighborhood.”

Frank gave him a hard-eyed stare—
I’ll get you, scumbag—
and
returned to his car. AK and his thugs were watching Antoine. Sooner or later they’d kill him, just like they’d killed Chantelle.

Now he had to call Marcus’s parents. His gut churned like a blender chopping nails. Talking to Marcus and his folks right now might be a bad idea. Any bullshit from Marcus and he’d blow up. And blow his chances of tying Marcus and his drug deals to AK.

Screw it. He’d call them tomorrow after he had a chance to calm down.

After he celebrated his birthday with Kelly O’Neil.

CHAPTER 26

Saturday 7:45 P.M.

“I wasn’t sure I could do this,” Kelly said, lying on her side facing him, her eyes luminous in the glow from her bedside table lamp.

Frank snuggled closer, relishing the feel of her skin against his. They’d been in bed for an hour, an exquisite exploration of touching, tasting and melding. So far he’d seen her in gym shorts, work clothes, and a miniskirt. Naked was better. Her body was gorgeous, long and lean, rounded breasts above a trim waist, tanned muscular legs. And she was a fireball in bed.

He traced a finger down her cheek to the curve of her jaw.

“But you did. So?”

“So it was very good, Frank. Scary good.” Gazing at him with those irresistible eyes, sea-green and deep as the ocean, sucking him closer.

“Nothing to be scared about. Just enjoy.”

“Enjoy isn’t the problem.”

He caressed curve of her waist. “What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know. Like, where do we go from here?”

Were all women like this, he wondered. First time in bed with a guy, they wanted a roadmap for the next five years.

“I’m happy you liked me enough to invite me over for dinner,” he said, adding with a mischievous grin, “So you could seduce me.”

She mock-punched his arm. “That’s what I like about you, Frank. Your quirky sense of humor.”

“Damn. Here I was thinking it was my sex appeal.”

“Oooh,” she teased. “Fishing for compliments?”

“No, but I’ll give you one. You’re comfortable with your body. Lots of women aren’t.”

Her expression grew thoughtful. “Like your wife maybe?”

He could see her mind working. Any police force was a hotbed of gossip. She had to have heard the rumors about why he had resigned from Boston PD and moved to New Orleans. “Ex-wife,” he said.

“Okay, ex-wife. So? What happened?”

Reflexively, he fingered the scar on his chin. He didn’t want to talk about the painful weeks and months when he had functioned only by burying himself in the Boston crime scene. “It’s complicated and I refuse to trash my ex-wife. Let’s just say we had certain incompatibilities. I was seeing someone else. Someone I cared about a lot. Evelyn found out and filed for divorce.”

“There’s a mouthful. If you weren’t compatible, why didn’t you get a divorce?”

“I couldn’t stand not seeing Maureen every day. That’s what happened with two of my friends. You get divorced and start out thinking you’ll see your kid every weekend and then there’s reasons why you don’t and I couldn’t . . .” He stopped, feeling the knife-sharp pain all over again.

Kelly touched his cheek. “You don’t have to explain. I get it. You loved your daughter more than you loved your wife and you couldn’t leave her. Your daughter.”

A great weight came off his shoulders. “I couldn’t abandon Maureen. Not then, not ever.”

“Where’s Maureen now?”

“Now? All grown up. She’s twenty-four, doing a residency in orthopedic surgery at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore.”

“Impressive. You must be proud of her.”

He smiled. “Yeah, Mo’s great. I wish I could see her more often, but we’re both busy, you know? Since Katrina it’s been tough for me to get up there. But we talk on the phone.”

Kelly nodded, but her eyes had that speculative look again. “That’s what scares me. You’re divorced and my husband is dead. I don’t think I could go through that again. I mean, I worried about Terry, patrolling the mean streets of New Orleans and all, but then he’s driving home on a rainy Saturday night and . . .” Her eyes welled with tears.

He pulled her close, felt her heartbeat against his chest. “You didn’t deserve to have—I’m not going to say your husband—that’s too impersonal. You didn’t deserve to have the man you loved get killed in a senseless accident. But he was and I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Wow. A soft-hearted tough guy that knows how to charm women.”

He grinned. “Want to go for round two?”

She kissed his lips. “Not so fast, Renzi. Time for dinner.”