The Music Trilogy (46 page)

The limousine took them to the Airport where the crew of the Black Angel was standing by. Only Adam Spencer was in uniform. Bianca was in her evening dress, and Eric wore the suit he had on at the concert.

“Double date?” Davina winked.

“Well, they
are
twins,” Eric said.

"Adam,” Davina said, “get us to Paris, and please break the sound barrier as you're doing it.”

♫

PARIS

CHAPTER 30

Monique looked frail and vulnerable in her hospital bed. Jacques wanted to run to her and hold her. The doctor, who had anticipated this, held him back. "She has to remember you first," he cautioned.

Dr. Charles Charpentier explained that the brain was like a computer that you could not enter until you had the correct password. Once they knew the password, Monique would start remembering. But how would they find that password? An old memory could be the password. But he warned them that it should be a happy memory. Were she to recall a trauma, this could perhaps cause permanent amnesia. He admitted that the brain was still mysterious even to him, and he specialized in this. "You must remember to talk about only good things because as she starts remembering, the bad memories will also come back and we don't want to speed that up."

"
Bonjour, Monique
," the doctor said. "I brought some friends to see you.”

Monique of course did not know them. She hadn’t the slightest idea of their shared pasts.

"Hello, Monique," Davina said, extending her hand, trying to keep calm amid the anxiety and happiness enveloping her.

Monique shook her hand. "How do you do."

"This is Jacques Laffitte."

"
Enchanté, Monique
," Jacques said and kissed her hand.

"
Enchantée
," she said, smiling.

"I seem to have seen you somewhere," Monique said to Davina. “I think I saw your picture in a magazine. You're a singer, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am, and Jacques is my manager."

"How fascinating. Please sit down.”

"If you'll excuse me," Charpentier said. "Monique, these people are your friends and they’re here to help you."

"Yes, that's right," Davina said. "As a matter of fact, we've been friends since we were very young."

It was like telling a five-year old that she would one day become the president of the United States or be the first to visit the planet Venus.

Every day for the next week, Jacques and Davina went to the hospital to talk to Monique, to tell her about the good memories they shared. One day, Monique asked Jacques why he kept staring at her.

"It is because I love you,” he said. “You are my wife.”

Monique laughed.

"What’s so funny?" Jacques asked.

"I'm sorry, but for the past days I have been imagining things... well, you know what I mean. It feels like I’ve fallen in love. It seemed funny to me."

"
La petite mort,
" he said. He hoped that maybe a hint of intimacy would jar her memory.

But suddenly Monique raised her hands, grabbed her head and started screaming. She thought her brain would explode.

"Oh, my God, what have I done?" Jacques jumped out of his chair. Before either he or Davina could get a nurse, the episode passed.

“It’s alright,” she said, "I just had a flashback. It's like a dream, you see. When I remember things, I see a lot of colors.”

Jacques and Davina were quiet, each of them trying to think of a good memory that would not set off Monique.

“Sometimes I see you,” she said to Jacques. “But you are not very clear. But I can tell you are wearing something gray.”

“Your wedding?” Davina suggested. “Jacques, you were wearing gray tails and a gray top hat.”

Perhaps Monique was making progress but it seemed almost trivial. Every time they thought she was close to remembering, it seemed that she was far indeed from it. Jacques was frustrated to the point of tears. Davina kept reassuring him. “She’s close, Jacques, I know it, I can feel it.”

But how close? Would it take another day, another month, a year?

Davina held him as he cried. "I'm sorry,” he said, “I guess my nerves are just on end."

"No Jacques, you are wrong. You have finally become your old self again, trying harder than ever. You know now that Monique is out of danger and you’re impatient to have her back again, and crying is the best medicine for you, you big oaf."

"
Merci, chérie
, I could not survive without you."

"Nonsense. Now come on, we’ve got to keep trying."

Davina was determined, as determined as she had been about anything in her life. When it seemed that they were both out of ideas, she brought a guitar with her to the hospital. Monique was delighted. She had heard some of Davina’s songs and read about her in magazines.

Davina strummed a few chords and began to sing one of Monique’s favorite songs:
Mademoiselle de Paris...
"

To everyone’s surprise, Monique joined in and didn't stop until the song was finished. While she remembered the words and the tune, she could make no other connection. She was surprised to learn from Davina that they used to sing together, that, in fact, Monique was an accomplished guitarist.

Davina knew she was on the right track. She kept strumming and singing and Monique sang with her. The hospital staff enjoyed it. Nurses, interns, and doctors came by throughout the day to hear their impromptu concert. But none of the songs triggered that mysterious area in Monique’s brain.

Monique was tired. She closed her eyes. Davina put her head on Monique’s pillow and started to sing very softly, as she had sung to her in the helicopter leaving Egypt. Davina knew that what she was doing was dangerous, as the events leading up to the song were what put here in the predicament she was now in. “Bashana abaa…”

Monique’s eyes filled with tears and she slowly put her hand up. Davina stopped singing. So did her heart. Had she made things worse?. "Jacques, would you come here please."

He went to her.

"Please kiss me." She raised her arms and placed her fingers around his neck. "I've missed you, my darling husband."

Music had been the trigger that brought everything back for Monique.

Davina left the next day for Miami. Jacques wanted to go with her. “You need me,” he insisted.

"Of course I need you, but right now Monique needs you more than I do, and you need to be with her just as much. Besides, you’ve already set up everything in Miami.”

“I spoke to B.A. this morning. He’s not too happy that we’re going ahead with the Orange Bowl concert.”

“No matter what you say, I won’t change my mind. You are staying in Paris with Monique."

"But, Davina, this is your first concert in the United States and you are not familiar with the American public. And there is the danger with this Grady man. We don't know what that
salaud
is up to. I'm sorry, but I will not allow it."

"Jacques, don't be so damn French! I appreciate your gallantry but I’ll be perfectly alright. The FBI and the entire Miami police force are on the case.” Davina softened her tone. “She needs you
.”

♫

MIAMI

CHAPTER 31

The sultry air of Miami felt oddly disquieting to Davina. She told herself it was because she had been away for so long in very different climates. She enjoyed the soothing sunsets of southern Florida, and the privacy of her home on the Bay.

There were fewer than a dozen homes on the island and these were surrounded by lush tropical foliage and individual security systems, both electronic and human. The island was guarded by its own police force. You had to go over a bridge that was guarded around the clock to get onto the island. As good as the security was, Miami police and the FBI had added their own touches. Two undercover Miami cops were assigned to the villa full-time.

Davina and Alejandro spent their first weekend together in a long time alone on the island. When Rodrigo and Jean joined them, they sailed their new yacht, the
Enamorados
, the Lovers, an engagement gift from Stefanos and Eleni. The boat was quite small compared to the
Aphrodite
, but it was sleek, modern and elegant, and Davina and Alejandro had no desire for a bigger boat.

They cruised off the Bahamas, enjoying the serenity of the ocean and each other’s company. They turned in early in the evenings, each couple retiring to the privacy of their own stateroom.  

Jean had not entirely recovered from her treatment at the clinic in Athens. She seemed frail and easily tired, but she insisted on going out with the others on the yacht. She felt better every day, more renewed and refreshed. Life overflowed with promise and hope. Every time Rodrigo held her or kissed her or told her that she was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, she could feel a healing energy stampeding through her. It made her stronger and stronger.

Davina basked in the leisure of these days before her final concert of the tour, and she thrilled to the caresses of the pastel sunsets and the man she loved. She would know those powerful gentle hands anywhere, those wonderful hands that made her body writhe with pleasure. They played with the thin material of her bathing suit. Her nipples grew firm. Alejandro kissed her deeply, holding her very close. They could feel each other’s heartbeats. He caressed her back and the lovely firm skin awaiting his warm lips. Davina arched slightly backwards as his mouth made contact. He removed her bathing suit to taste every inch of her. Davina, her own hunger growing, kneaded the muscles of his back. He brushed his lips against her flat stomach, sending shivers through her entire being. Nothing else on earth mattered. How could anything else matter?

Simon Grady had grown a full beard, which he kept neatly trimmed and his hair had been cut very short. The metamorphosis was very effective. He told people to call him Sy. On his application for work at the Orange Bowl, he wrote “Sy Goodman.” With a pass, Grady came and went as he pleased without drawing attention. He managed to get the C4 plastic explosive past security into the stadium, and little by little, he put a small package of explosive under each of the four floodlights at the corners of the stage. Now, he had only to connect the charges with det cord. He figured the explosion would take place about half an hour after the concert started when the lights would exude enough heat to detonate the charges and blow up the stage.

The head electrician had words with Grady after he caught him under the stage, an area the police had marked as off limits. The chief electrician warned Grady that if he were caught in that area again, he would be fired on the spot. And he was, the day before the concert. It put him in an ugly mood.

The afternoon of the concert Davina got into a police helicopter in her front yard. The police insisted on taking her to the stadium. They were just being careful.

It felt strange to Davina without Jacques at her side. She tried to dismiss Jean’s warning, that Simon Grady would be stalking them, no matter where they went in Miami. Maybe she should have cancelled the concert. Davina grew impatient with herself. It was just nerves, she told herself. This would be the first time she would be singing in front of an American audience. She forced herself to contemplate the sunset painting the city into a canvas of colors. Sun, sky and sea were a blend of persimmon and tangerine, lilac and lemon, and blue. The effect was dazzling.

As was her custom, she arrived extra early, with several hours to spare. She wore a simple white shirt, jeans, and athletic shoes. She headed for the backdrop of the stage. Clinton Benton and Sergeant Ernesto Martinez met her halfway there. As Davina went to hug B.A., he lifted her into the air.

“How are you, little monkey?”

Davina had not heard that name in a long time. “Put me down, you big gorilla!”

“Okay, okay,” he said, giving her a gentle landing. He introduced Martinez. They said they intended to remain
glued
to her side.

Plainclothes agents and police officers were already stationed at each entrance, in each corridor, and in each bleacher section.

Davina met with her own people. She warmly greeted her maestro, the orchestra, the sound and light crew, the stagehands and the stadium personnel. One by one she thanked them. Davina was one of
them
and she wanted to make sure they understood this. They were a team.

By now everything was ready, perfected to the last detail. The stage, the lights, the instruments. They were all there, machines and humans alike, all waiting with the usual before-the-show excitement.

Simon Grady squatted in the bushes just outside the stadium. He wore a pair of faded jeans and what looked like a batik shirt that had been dyed with different shades of red. He reached into his pocket for a tiny package of white powder. He took a crisp new one hundred dollar bill from his wallet and neatly folded it into a thin tube. He then made two symmetric lines of the powder on the back of his hand. Finally he took the paper tube, closed his nostril with one finger and inhaled deeply. The cocaine exploded into what he thought were millions of minuscule stars. He did the same with the other line in the other nostril and again felt the explosion followed by a numbness. He closed his eyes for a few seconds and then started laughing uncontrollably. “Yeah man,” he said aloud. “Fourth of July in September!” He kept repeating himself, as if he were a small boy about to see a fabulous pyrotechnic display.

“Hey,” he said, kicking the dead man next to him, “want some, man?” He kicked the body again. “Asshole,” he said, licking the rest of the cocaine off the back of his hand. He put on the electrician’s baseball cap and picked up a small bag and proceeded toward the entrance.

The audience began to enter the stadium, taking their seats on the chairs in front of the stage and in the bleachers. Plainclothes police and FBI agents intermingled with them. The musicians were behind the curtains, and the sound and light crews were checking the microphones and spots on stage in the middle of the field. Twenty minutes before the concert was due to start, the stadium was almost packed to capacity. The VIP’s were being ushered into their respective reserved seats. Prominent politicians, businessmen and entertainers were in attendance.

Jean, Rodrigo and Alejandro went to Davina’s dressing room where they met B.A. and Martinez.

Alejandro’s cellular phone rang. Davina saw the troubled look on his face as he took the call. He felt her eyes on him as he hung up.

“
Amor
, I need to speak to you,” he said, taking her by the arm and leading her away from the others. “I’m afraid I have to leave immediately for Havana. The plane is waiting for me at the airport. I am not supposed to tell anyone this but there is some problem at the embassy, apparently very serious. I am sorry. You will forgive me,
querida
?”

“Of course, but please be careful. Do you know when you will be back?”

“No, I have no way of knowing, my love, but I will return as soon as I can,” he said, hugging her. He turned and quickly left the stadium.

“Davina, it’s time,” B.A. said. “Everybody’s ready. I’m just sorry that we can’t be standing next to you while you’re singing.”

“Trying to steal the show?” Ernesto joked. He was on edge and at the same time confident. During their last altercation with Grady, he managed to put four police cruisers out of commission and wound two of his men. The officer thrown off Grady’s car died in intensive care of internal wounds. Martinez could see the bright side. At least now Simon Grady, wherever he was, would not be able to get off on any technicality. He was wanted for murder and attempted murder.

“Time!” a voice shouted from outside the door.

That was her cue.

Rodrigo and Jean went to one side of the stage and Ernesto and B.A. went to the other.

Grady had no problem getting through security at the Orange Bowl. He had the pass of the electrician he had killed. This was
his
show. Nobody was going to keep him out. He kept his head low, mumbled a hello at the guard who was checking passes at the door and went to the first restroom he could find. He went into one of the stalls, closed the toilet cover and pulled a mirror out of his pocket. He smiled at his reflection. This was
his
day, the one he had been waiting for, and the more he thought about it, the more he could feel an erection coming on. He thought of Jean as he masturbated, imagining the effects of the explosion. He ejaculated onto the wall in the stall. He took off the electrician's overalls and the red shirt he wore underneath and once again, he positioned the mirror. He took out a razor and shaved his beard. Then he dabbed the perspiration from his face and torso and proceeded to apply black theatrical stain to his face, neck, upper body, hands and arms. He adjusted a wig over his hair. The cops might go looking for a white man with a beard or a balding electrician with blue overalls and a cap, but not a black man.

He threw the other clothes in the garbage in the bathroom and ventured outside, losing himself in the crowd.

The audience was growing impatient. They clapped and whistled. Finally, the orchestra opened the show. The lights dimmed to almost complete darkness and Davina slowly walked unseen to the center of the stage. The enormous spotlights formed a single tiny spot of light on a microphone at the center of the stage. As the circle of light opened a little wider, a hand could be seen holding the microphone. The sounds of the orchestra softened and from the darkness, Davina Walters' crystalline voice danced ahead of her into the audience. As the sound of the music and the voice grew, the stadium became eerily quiet. Slowly the spotlights opened up and a perfect circle colored by soft orange gels formed on Davina's face. Her chin was tilted slightly upward and the microphone, which she held with a finger and thumb, carried her voice throughout the arena. The sphere of light kept widening until her entire spectacular form was illuminated. Throughout this first song, she stood in the same spot, letting the full impact envelope the audience.

When the first song came to an end, the audience loudly proclaimed their approval, but the whistling threw Davina off, at least initially. In Europe, whistling was not a compliment as it was in the U.S. She quickly composed herself. It was an odd time, and she felt it. Alejandro and Jacques weren’t there. Jacques had never missed any of her concerts before.

"Martinez!" Lieutenant Peterson hissed to his sergeant behind the curtain.

"Yeah, what's up?"

He beckoned him over. "We reran a check on everyone working for the show. Everyone checks out except one, Sy Goodman. He doesn't exist."

Martinez felt a tightening in his stomach. It took him only seconds to figure it out. Sy Goodman was Simon Grady. Of course.

"He was working with the light crew. Chief electrician fired him yesterday.” Peterson paused. "Ernesto, the bastard is here. We just found two bodies."

"
Two
?"

"Head electrician’s right outside the grounds in some bushes. Slit his throat. His pass is missing. We also found traces of cocaine.”

"Damn it. I'm going to look for him.”

"No, stay here. He might just try to get to the singer or his ex-wife before we get to him.”

"Yes, sir. What about the second body?"

"Prostitute on Biscayne. Late last night, same MO.

“Grady."

"Yeah. He’s getting sloppy. Maybe it's the cocaine. We've got an eyewitness who saw him come in with the girl." Peterson put his hand around Martinez’s shoulder. "I need you here two hundred percent.”

An embassy car took Alejandro to the airport, onto the tarmac directly to the jet that awaited him. The co-pilot saluted him. "Don Alejandro, please fasten yourself in your seat. Our orders are to depart immediately.”

"
Entendido.
Understood," Alejandro said as he clipped his seat belt into place, anxious and irritable at the same time. He did not know what was happening in Havana and he hated missing Davina's performance. They only had tonight and tomorrow together before he was supposed to return to Cuba. Why couldn't this have waited another twenty-four hours? It better be important. That was his Davina down there singing to the world. “I will you see soon,
mi amor
,” Alejandro said softly as he watched the lights of Miami fade into the black horizon.