Crime & Counterpoint (3 page)

Zach usually never dined up here on the second floor by the wrought-iron guardrail.
Usually
, if the guys managed to wrangle him into coming, he’d settle downstairs by the neon Bud Lite sign and drink steadily – whiskey and/or beer, depending on how soft his day had been. Every so often, they’d nudge him in team spirit for his football expertise while the ESPN commentators gave theirs, which only hurt as much as a razor to a bullet wound.

During commercials, the guys discussed the unobtrusive pianist like she was a stripper. And then while Budweiser pushed its sweating bottles, one or more of his “friends” – notably his partner Rick – would get up to tip her a ten-spot just to earn a smile, a closer look, and a few phrases of trite flirtation. Zach wasn’t much of a piano-music kinda guy, but for one reason or another, her playing kept him sedated.

Distracted.

“Dammit, Zach,” David Ericson exploded urbanely. “I just admitted that I cheated on your mother even before your sister died. Doesn’t that earn me some credit?” He flicked his Wall Street fingers across the firm jawline he’d passed to his strapping son and glared across the linen-covered two-seater.

Burning inside with controlled flames, Zach picked up his wine glass and took a slug, grimacing as the pungent, aged grapes went straight to the back of his tongue. A $110 glass of shit.

“You’re not saying anything,” David prodded, slight annoyance hedging his words.

“The steak was overseasoned,” Zach replied evenly.

David looked at his son, noting the red welts on his knuckles, and chucked his cloth napkin, rattling nothing except the tenuous thread between them.

“Is that the only reason you wanted to see me? After all these years,” Zach said coldly. “To
confess
?”

David’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “What other reason is there?”

Zach thought he caught something underlying, something deceitful. And the tone… it was assumptive and lacked the humility necessary to make him believe. Deciding to pull the plug on this evening before he did something irrevocable, he took out his wallet.

“What are you doing? I told you I’d pay for dinner.”

Zach shook his head and counted out fifty, setting the bills carefully by the candle.

“Your insurance money isn’t going to last forever, son. You need to be more conservative. If you’d have let me invest it –”

“I don’t need your help.” Zach pushed his chair back and stood, revealing all six-foot-three of sculpted iceberg. His diamond-hard eyes caught the candlelight fire of the table next door and irradiated with an extra measure of fury. He shrugged on his well-seasoned leather jacket and flicked the collar, already taking a step forward.

“Now hold on.” David rose to his feet as well. Quietening further, he spoke in terse, measured tones. “I’m trying here, son.”

His father’s touch made him want to kill someone – preferably himself. “Didn’t wish me happy birthday.
Dad
.”

Guilt seeped into David’s blue-green irises. The man
had
forgotten. Of course. With one brief glance at the fifty, Zach went on his way, fully aware of how red his father’s face had turned.

Sidestepping a waiter with a tray held high over his head, Zach took the spiral staircase down, descending into the primary hub of Saturday night activity. His hand glided along the guardrail, gathering heat as it went.

The main floor had a moderately classy feel to it, particularly with the live ivory cascading over the atmosphere in a smooth, easy-to-digest layer. It was always cacophonous, however, with the clattering silverware, clinking glasses, and roar of a packed crowd all jabbering at once. But as Zach tramped through the fully-occupied tables, he didn’t even notice the people or the piano music, too riled, too heated in his blood. However, a particular false note punctured his quagmire bubble, and he stopped just before reaching the restaurant’s exit.

His ears pricked. Toneless caterwauling accompanied by square, pudgy chords. What the hell was that?

“Hey, sweetheart,” the drunken slab of blonde roast beef said. “Lemme teach you to play some rock.” And that’s how she’d ended up next to this vibratory Billy Joel, smooshed up against the maroon wall, trying not to be seen. His lightly-oiled hands greased up the keys as he plunked out a song she’d never cared to learn. He was a four-chords kind of guy who had no real performance cred – unless playing for his mother’s garden club counted. But the way his nearby corporate friends cheered him on told her he was definitely the office rockstar.

“Come on, piano girl, I know you’ve heard this song.” Wanna-be Billy changed keys clumsily and started in the middle of some Elton John song.

She shuddered though his body heat and the mist of red wine burned through the thin fabric of her clingy, strapless dress. This gig had gone from easy, low-stress money to a high-profile ordeal.

“
Goodbye Norma Jean… Though I never knew you at all
…”

People all over the main dining floor peeked around dividers, craned their necks like ostriches, and gawped openly like this was a burlesque. Several ‘check please’-ed their fingers in the air. She had no escape save to go under the Kawai grand but – who was she kidding? – nothing save a $10,000 diamond ring would make her drop her Park Avenue propriety and dive.

“
They crawled out of the woodwork… And they whispered into your brain
…”

Just as her embarrassment couldn’t have heightened further, a dangerous specimen in faded Lucky jeans and beaten leather happened by. She recognized him as a grudging regular who always sat at the bar, never spoke to his supposed buddies, and certainly never greeted her. But now, it seemed he was on approach.

“
They set you on the treadmill… And they made you change your name…
”

She soaked in the captivating indigo of his eyes, stubborn cleft of his chin, J. Ferrar outcropping of dark stubble and wanted to pass through the floor. She’d never seen him this close, and by all indications, he wasn’t happy.

“
And it seems to me you lived your life like a candle in the wind
…”

He bypassed the table of corporate cronies stuffing their faces and spewing encouragement and slowed to a stop at the edge of the piano. His masculine fingers casually feathered the instrument’s beveled edge. Nice hands, except for the ugliness of them. Cuts, bruises, welts. But his face? Unmarred.

Billy didn’t quit playing, but he did suspend his cat-killing pipes long enough to ask, “Gotta request?”

“Would you mind leaving the girl alone and taking your talents elsewhere?” The height-endowed man gestured towards the rest of the patrons. “Not everyone here appreciates them.”

Her heart melted. She felt his deep voice rumble the base of her stomach. But Sir Elton’s thin tenor quickly obliterated the pleasurable sensation.

“Whaddaya mean not appreciate?” He leaned back, hands still plunking out simple arpeggiated chords, and looked around the tall shadow at his buddies for corroboration. “You guys ‘preciating it?”

“Yeah!” they all garbled obnoxiously, raising their glasses.

“They’re not the only paying customers,” the stranger returned in that same black velvet tone.

Now, Piano Man’s smile erased, and the candle in the wind blew out. “Fine.” He stood up, gratified to find he nearly matched the darkly handsome intruder inch-for-inch. “Happy now, buddy?”

“Very.” There was a controlled demon in that disyllabic reply.

Shelley didn’t,
couldn’t
, take her eyes off the brooding hulk. Her heart picked up speed. She felt her sprites stirring as she watched him turn, fully-prepared to leave in peace.

Mr. Ebony-and-Ivory must’ve had the same case of heartburn. “Hey! No tip?” he ragged even though he was already sauntering back to his table, from where the good ol’ boys issued assuaging, ego-stroking remarks.

Having regained her bench and space, she scooted back to center and waited to see what would happen.

Her dark knight calmly took out his wallet – Shelley looked away – and walked back to the piano where a shapely decanter sat on the closed lid. He dropped a twenty into it and replaced his wallet to leave again.

But Rockstar took offense and went after the big-tipper, taking a commendable swing.

However, his drunken hook met with a deflecting iron palm, injuring his “piano-playing” hand. Before he knew it, has arm was pinned behind his back and he was restrained against the instrument. He let out a whimper, thoroughly indignant. He tried to break free.

“Just let it go, man,” one of his comrades advised quietly.

“No, it’s fine. Try again.” The dark-haired stranger reached into his well-worn coat and withdrew something. “Go for an even two counts of aggravated assault.” He flashed a badge for the men to see.

He’s a cop?!
Shelley’s spirit filled with dismay. Sheltered in her corner by the heavy instrument, she watched the miscreants issue grudging apologies.

As the officer turned away, he glanced at her in passing only. But it was enough. She beheld his soul-damaged eyes; they gripped her powerfully. Her thighs squeezed together and her fists balled on her lap so tight her tawny skin was white at the knuckles. She didn’t want to feel sorry for him, but she did anyway.

He stalked off, exiting the glass doors, leaving her unbelievably bereft.

Shortly after, the corporate meat bags swaggered off, not tipping her, not in the least contrite. They stopped Ramone, the owner himself, as he maneuvered his sausage roll frame towards them. Shelley tried not to listen.

“Is this the way you treat all your customers?” piano man shouted in drunk agitation.

Ramone put his hands up, desperate to deescalate the situation. “Sir, please. I’m really sorry. What can I do to make this right?”

“This is fucking ridiculous! I don’t care if he is a cop, I’m the governor’s son. When I get back to my firm, I’m going to sue you. I’m going to sue that bastard. And his little pianist friend over there!”

Her heart stopped completely and then quadrupled it in cut-time. 

She grabbed her purse and coat and jumped to her feet. Her heels carried her past the entourage still stirring trouble. They didn’t notice her, but Ramone tried to flag her down with chunky fingers – likely so
she
could apologize. However, she ignored him like she had regal privilege to do so and bowled over a waiter with a large tray of dirty dishes.

CRASH!

But even that didn’t stop her. She sailed through the glass doors, leaving everyone astonished.

Carter Richards looked up from his black, fruity-dry porter as the door to the dark pub opened for the twenty-first time since he’d arrived. Yeah. He’d been counting. At last, the rogue he’d been waiting for stepped through those greased wood panels. He glanced at his Breitling watch – Columbia Law grad present from the folks – and expended an annoyed sigh.

Being a fast-rising assistant DA in the New York County District Attorney’s Office didn’t lend itself to vast amounts of free time, but there were a few reasons for which he cleared his demanding schedule. And one of them was on approach. More often than not the sight of Zach caused the habitual ‘what now’ question to scroll across his mind. But a friend closer than a brother was hard to come by. Even if he was loaded down with a courthouse full of crap.

“About time,” Carter muttered, once the arrival had ordered at the bar and came close enough to hear. “You stiffed me at the scene. Again. I don’t know why I ever bothered getting you this job.”

“It’s been eight years. Time to let it go, don’t you think?” Zach replied as he calmly slid into the oxblood booth opposite Carter. Where before he had been so cozily shadowed, he was now at least half exposed by the light of the Tiffany pendant lamp above their table. “But thanks for that, by the way. I’m living the dream.”

Carter shot Zach an older brother kind of look and then chased it with a swig. As he set down the stein, hard, he saw plainly the condition of Zach’s powerful, albeit destroyed hands. “That from earlier?”

Zach’s eyes glazed over. “Mostly.”

Carter cocked his brow and studied his long-time friend. Same age, different aces. Twisting his lawyerly lips, he sat back and put an arm across the back of his side of the booth. “Heard your grandmother sold the Victorian.”

Zach winced. “She told you?”

“Uh, no. James did.” Carter eyed him. “You haven’t called her, have you?”

Zach dropped his gaze. “I was busy.”

“But you had time to see your dad.”

Zach ran a thumb along the edge of the rough-hewn wood. “Can we talk about something else?”

Carter shifted and sighed. “Alright.” He picked up his iPhone and scrolled through a new message. “File your report yet?”

“Come on,” Zach groaned, throwing his head back. “You’re killing me.”

Carter rolled his eyes. “You know, some cops actually prefer to do it while it’s
fresh
.” Setting the phone down, he gripped the handle of his beer. “No report, no indictment, Z. I’m
not
doing your homework anymore.” Downing the last vestiges of his third tonight, he set the empty 16-ounce glass down and glanced at Zach who had a strange far-off look about him. The corner of Carter’s mouth lifted ruefully. “The Professor was barely conscious, by the way.”

Zach merely shrugged. “He’ll be fine in a couple a days.”

Carter took a breath and exhaled roughly, checking his watch again. “Don’t get me wrong. One less maniac on the streets and all.” He frowned at a text he received and started tapping off a reply as he spoke. “But he’s not your link to the Red Fisher.”

“What about the fact that I picked him up in one of
his
establishments?”

Carter’s shoulders drooped. “A mounted bass doesn’t constitute hard evidence.” He gesticulated in frustration, iPhone clenched in one fist. “Based on everything we’ve dug up, no one with a criminal rap has any direct connection to the Czech and that goes double for your catch of the day. And supposing you’re right that Rybar Cervenka is the Red Fisher, that means he now knows who you are, has your
face
” – he stabbed a finger at Zach – “captured on his security cameras, which, let me tell ya, were all over the property.” Deflating a bit, he picked up his empty glass absently before setting it down again and continuing on his soap box. “And furthermore, I find it hard to believe that such a well-respected socialite is the head of a notorious Eurasian syndicate. But if Cervenka is, I’m willing to bet he’s got all our connections fleshed out already.”

“Oh come on,” Zach protested, talking over Carter. “You’re just being paranoid.”

“Paranoid?! You kidding me? We know how guys like this operate. They show no restraint, they’ve no convictions –”

“So stay out of it,” Zach retorted. “I’ll do it myself.”

Carter snorted mirthlessly. “It’s like I’m talking to a brick.” He paused and quieted. “I just want you to step a little lighter.”

Just then, Zach’s lager arrived via a waitress – a pretty young thing. Easy to love if petite, busty, and blonde were all the desired ingredients.

“Anything else I can get you?” she asked, focus lingering on Zach.

“We’re fine. Thanks,” Carter supplied. Zach didn’t even bother looking.

“Alright, then.” She fluttered their check onto the table. “Here you go, boys.”

Zach made to withdraw his wallet, but Carter waved him off. “It’s on me,” he said, handing off his MasterCard like a cigarette.

She smiled, gaze lingering on Zach. “Be right back.” Her ponytail of honey-colored hair swished as she sailed away.

Carter’s gaze followed her. “She’s into you.”

“I don’t have time.”

“You have nothing but time. That’s why
I’m
getting ulcers.”

Zach picked up the stein and raised it towards Carter. “Well maybe you should quit drinking.”

Carter hit the solid table with a fist. “Damn it! That swaggering bullshit doesn’t work with me.” He stabbed a finger at Zach. “Just accept the fact that someone gives a damn about you, and –” Groaning, he sat back and shook his head in defeat. “Ah forget it, just drink your damn beer.”

Complying, Zach took a swig of the biting, cold brew and felt it snake all the way down his esophagus. It both cooled and warmed, settling comfortably in his gut. His broad shoulders released a smidgen of their tension – just enough for his neck to catch a break.

When he sat back, he found Carter’s eyes on him and read a world of knowing amusement in them.

“Better?” Carter inquired.

In answer, Zach drank lustily, taking several long gulps until there was only a shallow burnt amber pool at the bottom. Then, he gripped the handle of his stein tightly, thinking. “Cervenka’s been smuggling narcotics into this country, paying for them with illegal arms that he’s getting from who knows where. And that shithole today? Where do you think those girls came from?”

“Oh, so now you wanna tack on human trafficking, too? If no one else has been able to figure out who the Red Fisher is or find any legitimate dirt on Cervenka, what makes you think you can?”

Zach glared. “With or without you, I
am
going to continue investigating him.”

Nodding as if he knew this already, Carter exhaled in defeat. “I’ll think about it. But not tonight, huh? I’ve got a hearing in the morning. Need to go over my opening statement. Though I gotta say… it’s my best yet.” He grinned and rapped his fist on the table before scooting out of the booth.

A vague smile tugged at Zach’s mouth. Carter’s usual braggart confidence was in full swing – entertaining at the very least.

Carter shrugged into his tan trenchcoat, smile still in place. “You gonna be okay?”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Carter.”

“You need something.” He adjusted his collar over his navy Ralph Lauren suit. “Happy birthday, man.”

Zach barely smirked and dropped his gaze. “Thanks,” he said quietly. Carter gripped his beefy shoulder encouragingly and left.

Alone, Zach just stared vacantly at the empty seat, thoughts beginning to attack already. But a moment later, his phone buzzed with a text, beating away the demons. Hoping to God it wasn’t his dad, he took it out.

Sender: Unknown.

Message: Black Orpheus Shipping. Harlem River. Container 23-875-1c.

His body tingled. Warily, he looked around, senses on high-alert. Ready to lunge out of the gate, he stood and trekked out, morbid eagerness to his step. No reason in leaving a perfectly good tip waiting.