DIVA (34 page)

“That’s your problem. Call the police. Let them handle—”

“Wait, you don’t understand. He had a gun. If you give me back my job, even for a few hours a day, I can pay him and everything will be fine.”

The acid in his gut came to a full rolling boil. She was making him beg. How could she do this to him? How could she be so mean?

“I don’t want you working for me. Ever since I got home from New York you’ve done nothing but upset me. If you don’t stop calling, I’ll go to court and get a restraining order.”

Red-hot pokers of rage ripped his gut.

After all he’d done for her, the bitch was threatening him.

“Belinda, how can you say that? I’m your biggest fan. I’ve gone the extra mile for you. How can you be so ungrateful?”

“Stop calling me. Stop watching my house. I don’t want to talk to you.”

Humiliation flamed his cheeks like a blowtorch. “Your fans won’t think much of you when I tell them how mean you’ve been to me.”

“
I’m not being mean
!” she shouted.
“Leave me alone!”

He felt something sticky and examined his hand. Bright red blood smeared his fingers. He touched his cheek. Thanks to her hateful words he’d scratched the zit beside his nose until it bled. How could she be so cruel? Didn’t she feel even a shred of sympathy?

“I didn’t mean that, Belinda. I’d never do anything to hurt you—”

“Don’t call here again. I don’t want to talk to you ever again. I don’t want to see you again, either. Not ever. Find someone else to bother.”

A click louder than a gunshot on a rifle range sounded in his ear.

A message of utter finality. The Diva never wanted to talk to him again.

Never wanted to see him again.

Vengeful thoughts flitted through his mind like furry gray bats.

_____

To escape the withering firepower, Frank dove underneath the porch, muscled forward on his elbows and scrambled out the other end. Miller, crouched beside the house, crawled closer and said, “AK’s goons left their car at the station. We got ‘em boxed in.”

“Fine, but AK hit one of the uniforms.” He heard sirens, more backup and medics to tend the wounded. “You think it’s just the three of them?”

“Christ, I hope so.”

“I think I winged AK in the shoulder.” He got on his radio. “Attention all units, this is Renzi. Officer down on Burgundy between Esplanade and Kerlerec. Get SWAT over here. One subject is wounded. They’ve got automatic weapons. Miller and I are in pursuit.”

Static on the radio. Then Vobitch: “SWAT’s on their way, Frank. Stay put and wait for them.”

“Tell them to hurry. Out.”

He looked at Miller. “Fuck waiting. Did you check the van?”

“No. Too busy chasing AK’s goon—”

Miller broke off at the sound of automatic fire. They bolted toward the street. As they reached the corner of the house a blue-on-white squad with two uniforms inside flashed by, siren screaming, light bar flashing.

A burst of gunfire. The windshield of the squad car disintegrated.

“Fuckers are two houses up, across the street,” Miller said. “I saw the muzzle flash.”

The patrol car doors opened like butterfly wings, and the driver dived to the pavement. Blood dripped down his face. He pulled his weapon and crouched behind the car door.

Frank motioned to Miller, and they circled the adjacent Creole cottage, footsteps muffled by weedy grass. He registered motion at a window as a curtain fell back into place. Christ, there were people inside. If AK took hostages, this would be a clusterfuck.

More gunfire. They ran toward the street and stopped at the corner of the house. Diagonally ahead to their left, two uniforms knelt beside a patrol car, firing at a house across the street.

“AK, I’m hit! The motherfuckers hit me!”

“One down,” Miller said. “Look!”

AK and Dead-Eye raced across the street. No sign of Spider. AK had no weapon, clutching his shoulder with one hand. Dead-Eye sprayed the squad car with his AK-47. One officer flopped on the ground and his partner squirmed over to help him. Crouched beside the house, Frank and Miller fired continuously at AK and Dead-Eye, but they were zigzagging targets.

AK shouted something and they split up. AK veered east, away from them, Dead-Eye ran north toward the Shell Station.

“Take Dead-Eye,” Frank said. “I’ll go after AK. Be careful!”

Miller took off as ear-splitting sirens filled the air. Frank rammed a fresh magazine into his SIG. If he cornered AK, he wanted a full clip. He vaulted a low split-rail fence between two cottages, entered the backyard and stopped. Blood smeared a six-foot rustic pine fence, no telling what was on the other side. AK might not have his AK-47, but that didn’t mean he was unarmed.

A softball-sized rock lay on the ground near a downspout on the house. He ran over and grabbed it and lobbed the rock over the fence.

Bam-bam-bam. Three shots in rapid succession hit the fence.

On his hands and knees, he crawled to the spot where the fence met the house. Put one eye to the two-inch gap.

AK sat on the ground, back pressed against a tree trunk, legs splayed. Bright red blood soaked his white shirt. The maggot held a semi-automatic pistol in one hand, clutched his shoulder with the other.

He heard more sirens. Help was on the way, SWAT probably, and more patrol cars. He could call in AK’s location and wait for backup.

But screw that. He wanted to take the fucker himself.

“Put the gun on the ground and put your hands on your head.”

“Fuck you!” A bullet shattered one of the pine slats.

“You’re surrounded by cops. Put the gun down.”

“That you, Renzi?”

“Right. Give it up, AK. Put down the gun.”

“What then? You gonna shoot me?”

“Not if you put down the gun.”

But he had no way of knowing if the bastard did or not. He saw a loose knot in a pine board two feet ahead of him, crawled forward and punched it with his fist. The knot fell into the yard.

Blam!
A shot penetrated the wood above his head.

“Drop the gun, AK. I can see you. If that gun’s not ten feet away from you in five seconds, you’re gonna lose your fucking gold tooth.”

Five seconds passed. Ten. Fifteen seconds of silence. He gave it another thirty seconds and cautiously peeped through the knothole.

AK’s head lolled forward on his chest, eyes closed. His right hand lay in his lap, fingers curled around the semi-automatic. Tempting. AK was holding a recently fired gun, GSR on his hands. No wits, no worries.

The King of Iberville had slaughtered Chantelle and disfigured her face, had suckered Antoine into a crime he would never have committed on his own. Now Antoine might be dead. But if he shot AK, he would be no better than the lawless little maggots that were roaming the streets, administering their twisted brand of justice and terrorizing innocent people.

He hauled himself upward, rolled over the top of the rustic-pine fence and dropped to the ground on the other side. AK opened his eyes. Raised his blood-smeared hand. Tossed the semi-automatic on the ground.

“Don’t shoot, man. I give up.”

CHAPTER 34

10:02 P.M.

“Today New Orleans police arrested the man they believe robbed a Lakeview convenience store last month,” said the television reporter, a somber-eyed woman with long dark hair and a narrow face. “Twenty-two-year-old Atticus Kroll has a lengthy arrest record, but no convictions. The woman taken hostage during the robbery later died.”

Speaking over footage of the bullet-riddled NOPD surveillance van, she said, “Kroll’s arrest came at significant cost. One police officer died and three others were wounded, one seriously. Another man, believed to be a member of Kroll’s gang, also died. Police have not released his name.”

When footage of NOPD officers taking AK and Dead-Eye into the lockup appeared, Frank grabbed the clicker and shut off the television.

“I hate when they put my picture on TV.”

Beside him on the sofa, Kelly curled a leg underneath her and faced him. “They were shooting at you with fucking AK-47s. It’s a miracle you’re alive.”

He felt a flick of anger, then a twist of guilt. He didn’t consider it a miracle, but he felt bad about Chuck Duncan. Thirty slugs had penetrated the surveillance van. Duncan had died at the hospital.

With an angry motion Kelly drank from a bottle of Bud Light and set it on her coffee table. “These little shits kill people for no reason.”

And drag innocent people into their muck-filled orbit, Frank thought, recalling Antoine’s terror-filled eyes when he threw a blanket over his head to shield his face from the cameras and hustled him into Miller’s car.

“AK and his thugs were gunning for us. I think AK’s posse saw the van drive past Iberville and tipped him off. Antoine said Chuck saw AK coming, pushed him on the floor, climbed forward and got behind the wheel.”

“And they shot him. Jesus, he’s got a wife and three kids.”

“He didn’t deserve to die, and I’m sorry he did. But at least we got AK and two of his thugs off the street.”

Her mouth quirked. “Right. Spider’s dead, and Kenyon captured Dead-Eye while you were doing your hero act with AK.”

“What do you mean, hero act? I was doing my job.”

He hated it when people second-guessed him. His ex-wife had done it for years:
Why do you take these dangerous assignments? If you cared about me and Maureen, you’d stop trying to be a hero.
Conveniently forgetting that she’d known he was a cop when she married him.

“Why didn’t you wait for backup?” Kelly said. “AK wasn’t going anywhere, bleeding the way he was. He could have shot you!”

And I could have shot him, Frank thought. He was glad he had resisted the temptation. Split-second decisions made in the heat of battle could give you nightmares for the rest of your life.

She touched his cheek. “I was worried about you.”

“I base my decisions on the situation. You’re a cop, Kelly. You should understand that.”

“I understand the cop part, but I’m not sure I understand you. You act like you’re the only one that wants to get the badasses off the street. I do too, but I don’t go one-on-one with an armed killer when other cops are around.”

“Lighten up, okay? It’s the testosterone factor.” He grinned. “Back in the dark ages, the guys inherited the go-for-the-jugular-gene.”

No smile, but her expression softened. “What did the girls get?”

“They got to go home with the hero and make love and enjoy life.”

They didn’t expect the hero to hide from the bad guys.

“I did that before, Frank. That’s not how it turned out.”

Acid roiled his gut. She couldn’t forget what happened to Terry. Now she was afraid it might happen to him. If this continued to be an issue, they were in serious trouble. Cops were trained to run toward danger, not away from it. His basic nature was to take risks, not play it safe. He wasn’t going to stop doing what made him feel most alive, flirting with danger and winning.

“I can’t change who I am, Kelly. I took a risk today and lived to tell the tale.” He traced her lips with his finger. “You might do it too someday, if someone you care about is in danger. We all take risks. You took a risk when you invited me over for dinner last Saturday. That turned out okay, didn’t it?”

A smile played over her lips. “I can’t argue with that.”

“No reason to argue. This was a rough day. We’re alive. Let’s enjoy it.”

She pulled him close and said, “You’re right, Frank. Let’s enjoy it.”

______

Belinda shut down the computer and yawned. Almost eleven. Where had the time gone? Still, this had been a productive day. After lunch she had emailed her prospective business agents, noting the dates she would be in New York to interview them. Then she’d phoned the managers of the orchestras she would solo with during the holidays and asked them to send the rehearsal schedule.

She was taking charge of her life and it felt good. Her confidence was growing. It was like learning a new solo. The first time through, there were mistakes, but after hours of practice she perfected the piece.

This afternoon she had played the Zwilich and the Gershwin twice, perfectly. Anticipating the reaction to her performance, she smiled. The Louisville audience was certain to love both pieces.

She rose from the desk, made sure the curtains were closed, shut off the light and left the office. Checking the curtains was now a nightly habit. The only unpleasant part of her day had been the call from Silverman, begging her to answer, saying it was an emergency.

Nonsense. It was a ploy to get her to talk to him. And she had.

In no uncertain terms she had told him he couldn’t have his job back. His threat to tell her fans she’d been mean to him was ludicrous. And she had no intention of taking out a restraining order. According to an article she’d read, that might make things worse. No, she had handled it perfectly.

Calmly and politely, she had told him she didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t want to see him ever again. Well, maybe not so calmly. She recalled raising her voice at one point, something she tried not to do, even when she got exasperated with a clerk over a bill.

But Silverman was worse than any clerk, begging and pleading, saying he needed money. How pathetic. She pictured his acne scarred cheeks, pale blue eyes and frizzy brown hair. Silverman clearly had problems with women. She couldn’t believe she had ever considered rehiring him.

Frank had left a message asking her to call him. She hadn’t. She wasn’t going to obsess about Frank and his girlfriend. Frank was history. There were plenty of attractive men out there. She might even meet one in Louisville.

She checked to make sure the security system was armed, shut off the lights in the foyer and went upstairs to her bedroom. Encased in clear plastic, her royal-blue performance gown hung from the hook on her closet door. She still hadn’t decided which of the outfits spread out on her bed to bring to Louisville. She picked up the aqua pantsuit. A silk outfit might be too light and frothy. Kentucky could be cold in November.