DIVA (20 page)

A folder on the desk held receipts for the Cincinnati flight and the hotel. They had booked separate rooms. That didn’t fool him. He knew they were lovers. He’d put an end to that soon enough. Then he would show his beloved the orgasmic delights of having sex with someone who adored her.

Someone who knew how to fuck her.

A snifter full of M&Ms sat on Ziegler’s desk. He picked it up and threw it against the wall. The glass shattered and M&Ms scattered across the floor, a multi-colored
fuck-you
. Another dish held Hershey miniatures. He flung the candy on the floor and shut off the light.

He’d been here forty minutes. After entering the house, he’d used the code Ziegler had given him to disable the alarm. Let Ziegler take the heat for failing to arm the security system. No one could blame it on him.

He had the perfect alibi.

CHAPTER 20

Sunday, 5 November

The resonant voices of the African Baptist Gospel Church choir rolled over him like a tidal wave. Made him think about Chantelle.

His stomach cramped and his eyes welled up.

Praise the Lord!
sang the choir, sending a shiver down his spine.

Beside him in the wooden pew, Uncle Jonas was clapping on the backbeat, swaying to and fro like the rest of the congregation. Dressed in their maroon and gold robes, the choir did their best to belt out a joyous hymn, only twenty-five strong now, unlike the fifty-voice choir before Katrina.

When the church reopened, he’d tried to persuade Chantelle to sing in the choir, but she wouldn’t. “Got no decent clothes, Antoine, got no money to buy any. Besides, I don’t want folks to see me. Somebody drops a dime they’ll send me to Houston to be with my Mom.”

Goin’ to . . . CLAP Praise the Lord.

Goin’ to . . . CLAP Join the Lord.

Goin’ to Heaven, Al-le-lu-lia, goin’ to . . . CLAP Be with the Lord!

Was Chantelle in Heaven, he wondered? Uncle Jonas thought so.

He blinked back tears and began clapping. He couldn’t cry now, not in front of the Reverend Samuel Goines. He stared at Marcus, sitting beside his mother in the front pew. Marcus, the rat.

When the music ended Reverend Goines left his elegant carved-wood throne on the altar and marched to the pulpit to deliver his sermon, an imposing presence in his flowing gold robe, his kinky gray hair neatly combed, the pecan-brown skin on his face clean-shaven.

Today’s sermon was Demon Drugs and Alcohol. To Antoine they all sounded alike, the Reverend shaking his finger at folks in the pews.

“Do not allow drugs and alcohol to derail your life,” Reverend Goines thundered in his deep bass voice. “Do not allow those twin devil demons to keep you from the good graces of the Lord!”

Antoine wondered what Reverend Goines would do if he found out his son was dealing drugs. Drugs supplied by AK, which meant AK had a hold on him. Marcus was probably the one who’d told AK about Antoine talking to a cop. For the next forty minutes, he meditated on this, sitting blank-faced beside his uncle, shouting
Amen!
at the proper intervals, all the while feeling the heat of anger rise inside him.

When the service ended, the congregation filed into Fellowship Hall next to the sanctuary. Uncle Jonas headed for the coffee urn. Antoine hung back and leaned against a side wall. He didn’t drink coffee, had no appetite for the home-baked cookies and frosted slices of sweet bread that filled the platters on the table beside the big shiny coffee urn.

His mind was on Marcus.

The last stragglers entered Fellowship Hall, followed by Mrs. Goines, Marcus, and Reverend Goines. The Reverend saw him and said, “Morning, Antoine, how you doing today?”

He summoned a smile. “Doing just fine, thank you, sir.”

The Goines family forged deeper into Fellowship Hall, greeting one clump of parishioners after another, Marcus glancing around, casual-like. Antoine knew what he was doing: Keeping an eye on Antoine Carter. A spurt of anger stabbed his gut. He strode across the room to Marcus. The little rat’s face was set in a belligerent expression, but traces of fear showed in his eyes.

“We need to talk,” Antoine said in a low voice. “Outside. Now.”

He strode to the side door, went out on the porch, leaned a hip against porch railing and waited, vengeful thoughts churning his mind.

A minute later Marcus came out the door in his navy-blue Sunday-go-to-meeting suit. Acting cool, but wary-eyed.

“What you been telling AK about me?”

The little rat’s eyes hardened. “Ain’t been telling him nuthin'.”

“Yeah? Then how come he jumped me the other day, accused me of talking to a cop?”

“I dunno. Got nuthin' to do with me.”

“Georgette told you they called me down the office on Friday, right?”

Marcus rolled his fleshy lips together and glowered at him.

“Don’t be spying on me for AK. You do, I’ll blow the whistle on the drug deals you got goin’ on that street corner near NOCCA. Your daddy won’t be too happy about that.”

“You do and I’ll tell AK, AK take care of you.” Marcus gave him a nasty look, turned and went back inside.

AK take care of you
. A chill ran down his spine like a jug full of ice water.

Big mistake, threatening Marcus. Should have kept his mouth shut. Damn that cop anyway, wanting him to snitch, saying they’d protect him.

The cops hadn’t stopped AK from killing Chantelle.

Wouldn’t stop AK from killing
him
, either.

_____

Humming a fragment of her Gershwin encore, she unlocked the door, wheeled her suitcase into the foyer and stopped. Her neck prickled.

Why wasn’t the alarm on?

Then she saw the M&Ms scattered over the floor in the hall, felt the eerie quiet of her house. She ran to the office and gasped. Sheets of paper, M&Ms, Hershey’s mini-bars, and shattered glass from Jake’s brandy snifter littered the floor. Someone had trashed her house. What about her flutes?

Her heart slammed her chest and the sour taste of fear flooded her mouth. She ran upstairs to her bedroom closet, shoved her clothes aside and knelt down in front of the large steel safe in the back of the closet. Her hands were shaking so badly it took her almost a minute to dial the combination.

Offering up a silent prayer, she opened the safe.

And saw her flute cases just as she’d left them. Weak with relief, she struggled to her feet, left the closet and looked around. No trash strewn around her bedroom, but one of her pillows lay on the floor, missing its pillowcase. She studied her bureau. The drawers were closed, but the lid of her jewelry box was open. Had someone stolen her jewelry? A few pieces were quite valuable. But she didn’t have the strength to check them.

Sinking onto her bed, she rocked back and forth, overcome with hysterical laughter, laughter that ended in a choked sob.

Her stomach cramped, a vicious knife-like pain. Why was this happening now? She took a deep breath to steady her nerves and marshaled her thoughts. And her courage.

Get a grip, she thought. Lots of houses get burglarized in New Orleans, especially since Katrina. Over the weekend someone must have seen her dark house, assumed no one was home and taken advantage of it. But in the back of her mind, a question nagged her. Why wasn’t the security alarm on?

Should she call Frank?

When she’d called him after the car accident, he’d been angry with her for not reporting it to the police. This time he would be furious. She gritted her teeth, picked up the phone on her bedside table and dialed 911.

____

“I called the police,” she said, “but they didn’t seem too hopeful about catching the burglar.”

Frank said nothing, just looked at her. She felt safer now that he was here, a virile presence in her kitchen, leaning against the sink in a tan polo shirt and faded jeans, exuding vitality and strength. His dark probing eyes were incredibly sexy, regarding her steadily now.

She sank onto a chair at her butcher-block table, fighting the push-pull of sexual attraction and the irritation that festered in her mind. To break the silence, she said, “What good did it do to report it?”

He came to the table and sat down opposite her, his expression unreadable. “Someone broke into your house. That’s a crime. Now there’s a record of it. The alarm was off when you came in?”

“Yes. I don’t understand it. Jake always arms it before we leave.”

“Are you and Jake the only ones with the code?”

“A cleaning woman comes in once a week, but she doesn’t have it. If I’m not here to let her in, Jake does. Mr. Silverman has the code, too. He’s my new security man.”

“What’s his first name?”

“Barry.”

“Did you check his credentials?”

“Yes. Well, I didn’t, but Jake did. He’d been working for a London businessman. When Jake phoned him, the man was very enthusiastic. I forget his name, but Jake could tell you. Mr. Silverman is from New Orleans. He lives here.”

“Uh-huh. And you know this how?”

“That’s what he told me. Why? Does it matter?”

Frank gazed at her, clearly irritated. “I need to see his credentials.”

“I doubt I could find them for you now. You saw the office. I’ll ask Jake to find them when he comes in tomorrow.” She raked her fingers through her hair. “Why didn’t the policemen dust for fingerprints?”

“This is New Orleans not CSI. Tell me about Jake. Has he got a beef with you?”

“Of course not. Jake’s my dearest friend. He helped me get through the accident and—” Hearing the tremor in her voice, she broke off. She would
not
cry, damn it!

“Somebody trashed the office. Not what you’d expect with a simple B&E. Are you and Jake getting along okay?”

“Yes. For the most part. Would you like something to drink?”

“No thanks. What’s up with you and Jake?”

“I’ve got orange juice and Arizona Iced Tea.”

“Belinda, what is it that you don’t want to tell me?” Gazing at her with his incredibly sexy eyes, eyes that would probe her soul if she let them.

Her palms grew clammy. She didn’t want to tell him that Jake was abandoning her. She didn’t want to tell him any of her other secrets, either.

“What’s going on with you and Jake?”

“Well, he’s moving to New York in January, but that’s hardly grounds for suspecting him. Besides, he was with me in Cincinnati.”

“Why is he moving to New York?”

“Jake’s a fantastic organist. He’s got a Masters from New England Conservatory.” She faked a smile, though her heart was a lump of lead. “He wants to pursue other opportunities. Isn’t that how the saying goes?”

“Okay. Tell me about Silverman.”

“I met him at the reception after my concert in London. He said he’d been working a security detail for a British businessman and if I ever needed a security driver, he’d be happy to do it. He gave me his card.”

“You met him at a concert. And he just happened to be a security guy and gave you his card.”

An angry flush flooded her cheeks. “Yes, and it’s a good thing. After the NOCCA concert Friday night, a drunk accosted me in the parking lot. Mr. Silverman ran him off.”

Frank’s mouth quirked in annoyance. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

Why didn’t you come backstage after the concert?
Then you could have protected me.

“It didn’t seem that important.”

“Describe the drunk.”

“A big white man, big and scruffy looking. He looked like a lumberjack, dark beard, evil eyes. And a very foul mouth.”

“Get Jake over here. Silverman, too. I want to talk to both of them.”

_____

First thing Monday morning Frank called London, sitting at his desk now with a phone clamped to his ear. Opposite him, Kenyon Miller frowned at his computer screen, not liking what he saw apparently. Meanwhile, the voice with the Brit accent droned on. Mr. Smythe-Jones.

Y in the middle, E at the end,
the
pompous ass had explained.

As if he gave a shit how the guy spelled his name. Vobitch would flip when he saw the phone bill, ten minutes to London and counting, the Brit rhapsodizing about Barry Silverman, who’d taken excellent care of his security, blah, blah, blah. He tried to picture the man, envisioning a fat old geezer with white hair sprouting from his ears. “Mr. Jones—”

“Smythe-Jones.” The bigshot Brit correcting him.

“Uh-huh. What sort of business do you run?” Aware that Miller was listening now.

The line crackled with silence. Then, “I’m an entrepreneur.”

He winked at Miller. “What sort of entrepreneur? Selling guns to Middle East rebels?” Miller gave a silent laugh and a thumbs-up, egging him on.

“Certainly not!” came the indignant reply. “I invest in stock futures, that sort of thing.”

“Stock futures. That why you need security? You make a lot of money?”

“Detective Renzi, p’raps you haven’t heard, but on
this
side of the pond, we’ve had several businessmen kidnapped for ransom. One bloke had a finger hacked off.”

“Kidnapped for ransom and a finger hacked off,” he repeated for Miller’s benefit. “Were there any attempts to kidnap you when Silverman was guarding you?”

“Not a one. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. His work was spot on for two years. Look here, Detective, I’m expecting a call from Tokyo, so if you’re
quite
done . . .”

“Okay, Mr. Smythe-Jones, thanks for your time.” He cradled the phone and rubbed the scar on his chin. Something felt wrong. The pompous Brit was just a voice on the phone, could be anybody. He needed to talk to Silverman. He’d interviewed Ziegler at Belinda’s yesterday, but not Silverman. Belinda had phoned him and left a message, but Silverman never called back.

“Hoo-ee!” Miller said, his eyes gleeful. “Smith-Jones? What’s up with that? Take the two most common names in the world, hook ‘em together?”