Winner Take All (42 page)

I
T WAS NOT UNTIL
M
ARCUS
was turning into his drive that he finally managed to get an answer at one of the man’s numbers. “Dale? It’s Marcus.”

“I can’t talk now.”

“This is important. Vital.”

“Oh, and this isn’t? You think selling my house for a million less than it cost me to build is fun? Or maybe how I’m cashing out my entire portfolio and losing almost as much as I’m getting?”

“Dale, listen to me.”

“No, Marcus. The time for listening is over. Kedrick was right. The case was hopeless from the start. There’s only one way to get my baby girl back and that’s what I’m doing.”

“You’re right.”

“You’re not talking me around, I’m going ahead with this …” Marcus’ words finally sank home. “What?”

“The case was a nowhere job to begin with. All it did was bring them close enough to the brink for us to have this shot.” Marcus gave it a moment, then said, “Are you with me now?”

“Yes. But we have to hurry. I’m waiting to hear from the mystery buyer’s bank.”

“All right. I want you to think back to the break-in.”

“You mean, the one here at the house?”

“Tell me everything you remember.”

“Now is not the time.”

“Believe me, it’s never been more the time. Please.”

“It was just your basic burglary. They were here when I got in.”

“Here where?”

“In the house. Where else? You think I’d hammer them because they were walking across my backyard?”

“So you found them in the house. Where exactly?”

“On the landing leading to Celeste’s bedroom.”

“That’s it.” That was the point he had half remembered.

“It’s the same stairs that lead up to the master bedroom. The safe’s bolted to the floor in my closet. Where else would they be?”

There was nothing to be gained by sharing suspicions. “I’m coming down.”

“To Wilmington?”

“Yes. Keep your mobile switched on. I may have something important.” Marcus hung up before Dale could argue.

Marcus did not want to be going to Wilmington. His heart was already covering the distance to New York. Every time he spoke with Kirsten, the draw was stronger. He had not known such a sense of impatience since he was sixteen and just another hyperhormonal high school jock with nothing more than football and Carolina cheerleaders on the mind. The connection was so potent he could feel it radiating like a carnal scent, flavoring the office atmosphere.

He dialed the judge’s office in Wilmington. “Judge Perry, this is Marcus Glenwood.”

“I thought we had us an arrangement. You weren’t to ever bother me again.”

“Things change.”

“I’ve got me five minutes between two felony trials, and that’s the best you can do?”

“I need an introduction to the Wilmington district attorney.”

“I am astonished to hear I am the best reference you can find to our local constabulary.”

“The one and only.”

“Sir, your confidence in me is utterly unfounded.” When Marcus did not rise to the bait, he added, “In case you have missed it, I do not like you. Nor do I think much of your tactics.”

“Which tactic would that be?” Marcus lashed back. “The one that
says every individual convicted of a felony in this land has the Constitutional right to legal representation?”

There was a silence from the phone. Netty’s head poked in around the door. Even his secretary realized it was not sensible to be yelling at a sitting judge.

But Marcus was too far gone to care. “Wait, no, it must be my
other
tactic you’re thinking of. The one where I have a man arrive on my doorstep and beg for help. This after all your local lawyers proved too cowed by Wilmington power brokers to realize the man is innocent of everything except wanting back his baby girl.”

“The DA’s name is Wilma Blain,” the judge replied. “You two should get on like a house on fire.”

Marcus slammed down the phone. He spoke to Netty before she could comment on his actions or state of mind. “Get the Wilmington prosecutor’s office on the line for me.”

She started for the door, then asked, “You doing all right?”

Marcus hefted his mug. His coffee was stone cold. “I’m worried about Kirsten.”

“You’re nothing but a bundle of nerves and frets.” She walked over to the desk and took the mug from his hand. “More caffeine is the last thing in this world you need.”

A few moments later, Netty called from the other room. “DA’s office on line two.”

“Marcus Glenwood for Wilma Blain, please.”

A half minute of seventies retro-rock, then, “This is Blain.”

“Marcus Glenwood. I’m an attorney operating out of Rocky Mount, mostly in the Raleigh—”

“I know who you are.” The woman’s voice was almost as deep as a man’s, and sounded both black and rapid-fire intelligent. “We might be working out of a sleepy backwater town, but we’re wide awake in this office.”

“I have come across something related to a case I’m involved in that might interest you.”

“Who referred you to me?”

“Garland Perry.”

“Judge Perry gave you my name?” She sounded genuinely surprised.

“He did.”

“Are you sure he was on the proper medication at the time? I’ve never gotten a thing from that man but a full-on runaround.”

“This matter is urgent, no matter what Judge Perry might think.”

“Ain’t they all.”

“Do you happen to recall a break-in at Dale Steadman’s residence, I’m not sure exactly when it would have been—”

“Seven weeks, give or take a day.” All business now.

“You’re familiar with the case?”

“You might say so. Tell me something, counselor. This have anything to do with the missing child?”

“Possibly.”

“What about the still pending investigation into the demise of Charlie Hayes?”

Angry sorrow ground down his voice. “I sincerely hope so.”

“Not to mention the murder-one beef that brought the big-city detective barging around?”

“You don’t miss much.”

“This is a small town with mostly small-town problems. Happens I like it that way. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“The answer is,” Marcus replied, “I’m calling to hopefully find out that very same thing.”

“Well, now. That’s an answer I like.”

“Why is that?”

“Happens the two gents are still locked up next door.”

“What?”

“Garland Perry was off fishing the day they came for arraignment. We got us a hotshot district judge, young fellow who was a state prosecutor in an earlier life. This judge was willing to listen when I pointed out the pair had a mess of prior felonies and seven parole violations between them. He invited them to remain our guests until the trial.”

Marcus was already up and moving. “You think I could come down and have a word?”

K
EDRICK
L
LOYD
’
S SECRETARY
was not in the cramped outer office when Kirsten departed. She slipped into the hallway and decided to wander.

But around the first corner she was halted by a voice from behind. “Can I help you?”

Kirsten turned to face a young man in tank top and linen drawstring pants and sneakers. A sweater was bundled around his neck. His smile was lustrous, his poise dancer-perfect. “I was hoping to meet the senior conductor.”

“Are you supposed to be back here?”

“I’m meeting with Kedrick Lloyd.”

His flirtatious attitude vanished. “Right. Sorry, with all these security scares we’re supposed to be extra careful.”

“It’s fine.”

“The orchestra has just finished rehearsals, so you’ll probably find the maestro up toward the stage somewhere.”

She followed the hall up a flight of stairs and around a corner. She stepped to one side as a stream of people poured through the stage door. Up ahead she spotted the maestro reading over the shoulders of three women. The ladies held thick scores with both hands. Violin cases stood at their feet. The conductor had on a herringbone flannel shirt and fitted Cerrutti jeans, and displayed the swept-back hair of a dedicated Romeo. He wiped his face with a thick hand towel as he studied the music.

“Do you still have a fermata after the second beat?”

“It was taken out, Maestro.”

“Fine, fine, just so long as I know.” He had an odd mixture of accents, Italian and something heavier, a liquid German or Eastern European. “Let’s hold to the rigid beat throughout, then. I’ll inform her majesty at the dress rehearsal that she is not permitted to breathe through the entire aria.” He smiled them on their way.

Only when he faced her was his age evident. And the strain of the rehearsal. “Yes?”

“I was wondering if I might ask you a question, Maestro.”

“Did I not see you upstairs in Kedrick’s office?”

“That is correct.”

“And he sent you down?”

Kirsten was unable to hide behind a lie. “He probably would be furious to discover us talking.”

That brought out a smile. “Well then. Perhaps I can find a moment.”

“I’m trying to obtain some information about a singer.”

“Dirt, you mean.” When she did not contradict him, he inquired, “Are you a journalist?”

“I work for a lawyer. We are involved in a very serious court case.”

“Another singer is in trouble with the law?” He shook his head in sorrow. “There is nothing magical about the Met for those of us fortunate enough to work here. Our job is to create magic for those out front. We work the backstage magic machine. One of my predecessors used to ride home by subway after every performance. He had a limo paid for and waiting outside, but he went by subway. Why? Because he felt it was important to remind himself just how mundane and ordinary his backstage world truly was.” He had a most attractive smile. “Myself, I would prefer a note card attached to the door of the limo.”

She realized he was coming on to her, and smiled in reply. “Positioned just above the champagne bucket.”

“You like champagne. Excellent. A sign of good breeding and fine moments to come.” He gave her a moment to continue the flirtation, then shrugged his acceptance of her distance. Another time. “So. Which singer is of interest to you?”

“Erin Brandt.”

His good humor vanished. “But Ms. Brandt is most decidedly dead.”

“That is correct.”

“Still her problems go on?”

“I’m afraid so. And a very good man risks losing everything.”

He inspected her. “Do I want to know more?”

“Probably not, Maestro.”

“
Bene
.” He glanced in both directions, then drew her over to one side. “We are not having this discussion.”

“I understand.”

“We would not be talking at all, except for the fact that Ms. Brandt is now lost to us all.” He scouted the hall once more. “You know I came from the Zurich opera house, did you not?”

“No.”

“Indeed. And from your expression I see you have heard the story of Erin Brandt’s debut. Yes. I was intendant there before coming to the Met. Erin made her debut at a performance that I conducted.”

“How did she sing?”

“Magnificently. Erin Brandt’s singing was never the issue. Nor her acting. It was the
person
I refused to work with.”

“Can you give me something more precise?”

“Not for the record. You understand? I have nothing for you if you wish to make notes or write something public.”

“I am working on background information for a court case, Maestro. Nothing more.”

“Then with you I will share my secret. The diva scheduled to perform that night, she was a friend. A very, very good friend. You understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“She also had a cast bronze stomach. She had many problems. Her voice, her age, her hearing, her legs, her circulation, her … Never become involved with a singer, my dear. They are a most taxing group of ladies. But her stomach was never a problem. Never, never, never. Do you understand?”

“You think Erin poisoned her?”

“Not poison. My friend recovered. She was very ill for three days, then it was gone.” He wagged his finger between them. “And you will remember what I said, yes?”

She offered her hand. “It was very nice not meeting you, Maestro.”

He bowed over her hand, not quite drawing it to his lips. “You really must come by and introduce yourself some other time, signorina. I am certain I would be delighted to make your acquaintance.”

T
HE
DA
CAUGHT
M
ARCUS
on his cell phone just as he was turning onto I-95. “Wilma Blain, counselor. You someplace where you can give me your full attention?”

Marcus tucked himself behind a lumbering Freightliner doing an easy sixty. “Fire away.”

“I’ve done some checking.” The tiny phone turned her voice flat as cold iron. “The fellow who represented the accused at the arraignment is still listed as their attorney.”

The lawyer would have to be notified of Marcus’ arrival, as he was required to be present for all questioning by the authorities. “Do you know him well enough to get him down on short notice?”