DIVA (32 page)

The adjacent house was silent and dark, no light showing inside or out. His heart pounded as he crept up the steps to her back door. He stood still. Listened. Heard nothing. The Diva was fast asleep upstairs.

He peeped through the window beside the door. The kitchen was dark. Darkness was his friend. He’d chosen the back door for his entry. It had only one lock. The front door had a Yale lock and a two-pronged deadbolt. It also faced the street where anyone driving by might see him.

Holding the lock pick in his right hand, gripping his right hand with his left, he guided the pick into the lock. Earlier he had greased it with lard. That would lubricate the lock mechanism and muffle any metal-to-metal sounds.

The pick slipped in easily, no telltale clicks.

Although he had done this many times in the service of his country, his nerves chattered like castanets. His biggest concern was the alarm. After he opened the door, he would have only twenty seconds to disable the security system. He worked the pick, felt the tumbler give and pushed.

The door opened with a faint
chink
. He stepped inside.

His heart was a wild thing in his chest. He quickly closed the door and turned to the alarm system keypad on the wall beside the door. A red light blinked insistently, keeping time with his pounding heart. If she had changed the code, he was fucked.

With a gloved fingertip, he punched in the code. Held his breath.

The red light winked out and the green Ready light came on.

He let out the breath he’d been holding. Now he wouldn’t have to use his clippers to cut the wires. Special Ops Rules: Always have a fallback plan. Cutting the wires would have allowed him to escape before the security service called to ask why her alarm was ringing.

But not enough time to complete his mission.

Her kitchen smelled of coffee and cinnamon, and he had a sudden urge to smoke. During his military days he’d smoked a pack a day. Cigarettes were cheap at the PX, but not in the civilian world. Four years ago they got so expensive he’d quit. He needed the money for more important things: following Belinda, flying around the country to attend her concerts, moving to New Orleans after she decided to relocate here.

Silent as smoke, he drifted through the kitchen to the hall. No need to worry about the motion detectors with the alarm disabled. Now he could focus on his mission. A drumbeat of anger pulsed his temples. None of this would have been necessary if The Diva had deigned to answer the telephone and talk to him. But she hadn’t. Worse, when he’d called at eight and nine and ten, the phone rang, but nothing happened, no voicemail, nothing.

The Diva had disconnected her telephone.

He could not allow her to dismiss him like that.

He tiptoed down the pitch-dark hall beside the stairs. Testing each step lest the wood creak and wake her, he crept up to the second floor landing. Her bedroom was across the hall, six feet away. He stood there, motionless. His years in Special Ops had made him ultra sensitive to sounds and odors. Her bedroom door was open.

Even from here he could smell her sexy perfume.

Intoxicated by her scent, he stepped into the room.

The curtains were open, and light filtered in from the streetlamp outside her house. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he was able to pick out her dresser and her bed. Still he waited, enjoying the sweet sexy smell of her, the faint sound of her even breathing.

His vision sharpened. Now he could see her clearly. She had thrown off the sheet and lay on her side, curled up in her pale-blue satin baby-dolls. Exquisite. He licked his lips, enthralled by the tendrils of coppery hair spread over her pillow. Her cheek gleamed ivory in the streetlamp’s pale light. Her left hand rested on her stomach. His eyes drifted to her crotch, imagining her pubic hair, a dark triangle below her hand. Imagining her nipples, pink and erect. Pure fantasy of course. Her genitals and nipples were hidden beneath the pajamas. But soon he would see them.

See them and fondle them and lick them.

The idea excited him so much he almost forgot why he was here. He edged to the bedside table. And saw her cell phone. Just like he’d figured. His darling Diva couldn’t bear to sleep without a phone beside her. Thinking it would keep her safe.

She shifted her position and moaned softly.

His heart hammered his ribs. He froze. Held his breath. Let it out when her eyes remained shut. She stirred once more, then relaxed, her breathing even, too deep in slumber to wake up.

He moved closer. Close enough to reach out and touch her.

Oh, how he wanted to touch her. Transfixed, he gazed at her naked legs, her ivory-skinned face, her pink sensual lips. Her magnificent Victorian had a double-locked front door and a state-of-the-art security system with motion detectors and electronic contacts pasted to every window.

The Diva thought she was safe. She wasn’t. Ignoring his pleas, she had thwarted his repeated attempts to talk to her. Now she would pay.

He took the cell phone off the bedside table and slid it in his pocket. Moved silently to her dresser. Studied the sensuous curved bottle beside her jewel case. Mambo for Women by Liz Claiborne. Upon learning this was her favorite perfume, he had gone to the Liz Claiborne website and read the description:
Mambo captures the flirty spirit of the women who wear it.

Exactly! The Diva was flirty. The personification of the sexy sales pitch: succulent Mango, seductive red Hibiscus, romanced by Vanilla and Musk. Succulent and seductive. The sensuous curved bottle beckoned, seducing him. Another keepsake to cherish. Tempting, but she would miss it right away.

He edged back to the bed and admired her high cheekbones. Her magnificent breasts, round and prominent, pressed against the fabric of her baby-dolls. Her arched light-brown eyebrows were much nicer than his reddish-brown ones. Burning with desire, he watched her. His groin ached and his throat was dry and parched. He licked his lips.

No. He mustn’t touch her. Not yet. But soon.

He crept to the door, padded downstairs to the safety of her kitchen, and powered up her cell phone. With a faint chime, the faceplate lit up. He chose Menu, then Account.
Please tell me the number
.

It did. He memorized the number, pressed Contacts and scrolled through the names. There weren’t many. Five men were listed.

One was Frank Renzi. His rival. Her new savior. Or so she thought.

He memorized Renzi’s number, too.

A sudden flash of swirling blue light burst through the kitchen window.

He froze. A police car outside her house.

He flattened himself against the wall.

Sweat dampened his forehead. He waited.

When the flashing blue light went away, he peeked out the window. Saw the cruiser continue down the street. That was a relief. But why was a cop car flashing a light on the Diva’s house?

He’d been in here too long. He had to return the cell phone to Belinda’s bedside table, reset the security alarm and get out of her house before the police cruiser came back. He crept upstairs and entered her bedroom.

Spellbound, he stared at her.

Illuminated by the pale light of the streetlamp, the Diva lay in her bed, blissfully unaware she was being watched. He could take her right now. His need was palpable, a heaviness in his gut, a tight feeling in his chest, a monstrous ache in his groin.

He wanted to touch her. Wanted to lick her. Wanted to fuck her.

But that would ruin his plan. He wanted to fuck her all right, not just tonight, every night. Forever.

Endless days and nights with the Diva.

She stirred and murmured something, an indistinct mutter.

His heart hammered his chest like a howitzer.

Get out before she wakes up!

Special Ops Rules: Get in and get out. If things go bad, run like hell.

But there was no need to panic. She had gone back to sleep.

Silently, he left the room and went downstairs.

In the kitchen, he re-armed the security system, stepped out into the darkness and closed the door. Euphoric, he walked away. A perfect mission.

His heart sang like an operatic soprano soaring above an orchestra. Watching the Diva sleep within the supposed safety of her house gave him an incredible sense of power. Better than any high he’d ever experienced.

He was in control. She wasn’t.

A feeling like no other.

CHAPTER 32

Wednesday, 15 November

His cell phone jolted him awake. Not his Belinda phone. That one played a lovely bit of Mozart. His other phone was blasting Wagner’s
Ride of the Valkyries
. He sat up on the futon and looked at his watch. Ten-thirty.

Fuck-all! He was due at work an hour ago.

When he answered, his boss screamed, “Where the hell are you? I got three pissed off customers calling me, asking where’s their ride.”

“I’m on my way. I had a flat tire and—”

“Flat tire, my ass! Why the hell didn’t you
call
me?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll be there in a jiffy.” Groveling and hating it.

“No you won’t, asshole. You’re fired. Your services are no longer required.”

A resounding click and Mr. Nasty was gone. And so was his job.

He flopped back on the futon and rubbed his eyes. What would he do for money? He was damn near broke. He struggled to his feet and stretched his arms over his head. Disgusting odors wafted from his armpits. After his hours-long vigil outside Belinda’s house last night, he’d been too tired to shower when he got home, had instead fallen into a deep sleep.

Too deep as it turned out.

He let Oz out of his cage, scooped him up and petted him. “What a sweet boy you are, Oz. Unlike my boss. The fucking asshole just fired me.”

______

When Frank mentioned Kelly’s father, Detective Inspector Ian Attaway was eager to help. Yesterday, when he told Kelly that Smythe-Jones’s phone had been disconnected, she said her father had a friend on the London police force. Last night after work she’d called her father, got the man’s name and phone number, and called him with the information.

Now Detective Inspector Attaway was explaining how Chicago Police Captain Rico Zavarella had helped him “nab the bugger who’d been fleecing British tourists,” a tale of intrigue involving a Chicago street thug ripping off British passengers at O’Hare Airport.

Interesting story, but Vobitch would go ballistic if the call ran too long.

To his relief, Attaway finally wrapped up the story and said, “How can I be helping you?”

“I’m tracking a suspect, might be a killer. He used to be a security driver for Belinda Scully and—”

“The flute soloist? She played a marvelous concert at the Royal Festival Hall not long ago. Has something happened to her?”

“Not yet, but this guy is stalking her. Scully’s manager fired him, wound up dead two days later under suspicious circumstances.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll email you the details. Here’s where I need help. My suspect met her at that Royal Festival Hall concert and said he worked security for some big-shot London businessman, a guy named Thaddeus Smythe-Jones.”

“What a load of crap. Smythe-Jones is a businessman all right. Monkey business.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. The first time I called, he said my suspect was a terrific security expert, satisfied his every need, blah, blah, blah.”

Attaway chuckled. “Smythe-Jones does tend to run on. He used to be a skip-tracer, rounding up dads that skip out on child support, folks with delinquent credit card accounts and such. Five years ago he got into more lucrative pursuits, put up a website and started selling fake ID’s. You know the drill:
Get a New Identity and Start a New Life
.”

“My suspect uses the name Barry Silverman. You think it’s a fake?”

“Almost certainly. These skip-tracers know all the tricks. Must do or they’d never find the blokes. What better man to have in your corner if you want to ditch your old identity?”

“Last time I called Smythe-Jones his number it was disconnected.”

“Probably a pay-as-you-go cell. He tells all his clients to use them, so don’t count on tracing your man through his cell records. But here’s a bit of good news. Smythe-Jones is a convicted felon out on parole. He reports to his control officer every week. Want me to talk to him?”

“That would be great. I need Silverman’s real name and anything else you can get ASAP.”

“Right-O,” Ian said. “I’ll ring you after I talk to him.”

He hung up and checked the time. Eleven minutes. That should satisfy Vobitch. He thought about having another cup of coffee, decided against it. His stomach was too jumpy. Too many worries and unanswered questions.

Having scored the warrant for AK, Vobitch had been jubilant at yesterday’s meeting. The Chief of Detectives had assigned a SWAT team to the operation. Anything to solve the Lakeview case. The homicide detectives from Districts One, Three and Eight had devised a plan. An hour from now they would execute the warrant and grab AK and his thugs. Or try to.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about Silverman. Yesterday he’d put out a BOLO on Silverman’s van. Once entered into the system, the tag and description would be electronically transmitted to laptops in the cruisers and unmarked cars. Every cop on duty would have it. With that many eyes looking for Silverman’s van, it shouldn’t take long to locate him.

Or so he hoped. If Attaway was correct, Silverman had a fake ID. What had he been in his previous life? A murderer? He was a stalker for sure, Belinda being the current object of his obsessive attention. A major worry.

He dialed her house, got shunted into voicemail and left a message for her to call him. Restless with energy, he went outside to get some fresh air.

______

Nauseated by the stench of too many bodies in a confined space, Antoine pressed the cell phone against his ear. Sweat dripped down his face. Detective Renzi sat beside him on a large upended milk crate, a reassuring presence. Stooped over in the van’s rear compartment, two more detectives were eyeballing him, white guys with hard faces. The guy in charge, another white guy, leaned against the back door. He was built like a Sherman tank, had a big hooked nose and laser-beam gray eyes.