Cut and Run (24 page)

Instinctively protective of her fingers, she shoved her hands deep into her coat pockets; she'd forgotten gloves. The brisk air revived her, pushing back the bone-deep fatigue and the thought of Matthew Stark's dark eyes searching hers in the stairwell of her uncle's tenement. Had he guessed yet that she had the Minstrel's Rough? What would he do when he did?

A group of corporate types had the entrance to the Club Aquarian blocked, anxious for their after-work drinks—maybe even to hear J.J. Pepper perform. They all looked so normal. She wondered if that was what she was missing in her life: normality. Sometimes she dreamed about living a nine-to-five life, what it would be like to put on dress-for-success clothes in the morning and rush out to a corporate job with a properly stodgy briefcase tucked under one arm, to be in an office with people all around her. After work she could dress up and go to a concert if she wanted to and sit in the balcony, anonymous. She would have a life she could count on, routines.

The long, daily hours alone at the piano were her only constants. She could wear whatever she felt like, and there was no clock to punch, no one to tell her what to do—except Shuji. But she didn't have to listen to him or to anyone else. And there was seldom anyone around to see her sweat, concentrate, hurt.

She thought of Matthew Stark again—his remoteness, his wry sense of humor, his strong sense of self. He didn't give a damn what
The New Yorker
or
Vogue
or anyone else said about her. Toots, he'd called her. Sweet cheeks. It was a change from the most beautiful concert pianist in the world.

She wondered where he was. What he was doing. If he was thinking about her as much as she was thinking about him.

Len was at the bar, and he didn't mention her lapse into classical the other evening. “Another time we'll talk,” he said. “You've got a crowd waiting.”

Nodding gratefully, she kicked off the vinyl boots and slipped on J.J.'s gold T-strap shoes from her satchel, then went straight to the piano. There was a crowd—an appreciative one. She didn't think she could do much for them. She was too tired, too preoccupied. She wanted to know what Aunt Willie and her mother were saying to each other. She wanted to know who was after the Minstrel. And why. What she was supposed to do about it. How Senator Ryder was involved. What Uncle Johannes had been doing in Amsterdam. Who Hendrik de Geer was. How Matthew's buddy was doing.

She wanted answers, and all she had were questions.

That wasn't true. She had one big answer: she knew where the Minstrel was.

She began with a few Eubie Blake pieces, slipped in some Cole Porter, and then was moving. Lost. Transported. She focused on the music, on her playing. She stayed with it. Controlled it instead of letting it control her. Then lost the need to control or be controlled and played only to play. She could feel the motivation, if not define it; feel the need. For the first time in months, she had something real to communicate. Mood, feeling, loss, confusion, terror. It was all there at her fingertips.

When she finished, she bounced up, filled with energy, sweating, exhausted. She grinned at Al, who had her Saratoga water waiting. Len was there at the bar, clapping with the rest of the crowd. It felt good. She'd moved them, but more important, she'd moved herself.

“See those walls?” Len said. “They're shaking, babe. I knew they would be when you put it all together. You're letting loose, not holding on so tight. I like it. Now what're—” He stopped and narrowed his eyes, watching her go white as she stared down the bar, mouth open, her entire body stiff. “Shit, not again. Stark?”

She gave a little shake of her head, unable to talk. She felt as if she were going to crack and crumble, like one of those cartoon characters, Sylvester the Cat or Wile E. Coyote when they'd slammed into a brick wall.

“Somebody I need to toss?” Len asked darkly.

“No.” It came out as a breath. “Please, no.”

“Okay, babe. You just tell me.”

“I will,” she mumbled.

She glided away, her feet not making a sound on the floor, and slid against the bar next to Eric Shuji Shizumi.

 

Matthew double-parked on the narrow tree-lined street in front of Senator Samuel Ryder's townhouse. Cars could just squeak by his. If they couldn't, the hell with them. They could back up and go another way. He wasn't going to be long. Although they lived within the same half-dozen blocks, he and Ryder never seemed to bump into each other. For a while they had, at least on occasion, but that was back when Stark worked for the
Washington Post
and was still being invited to some of the more desirable Washington parties. The ones where you didn't wear Gokey boots and drink beer and talk baseball. He'd still go to those parties when he didn't have anything better to do, like read the latest books panned by the
New York Times Book Review
or catch a game, and he'd provide the touch of cynicism and distance people expected from him. In drawing rooms filled with antiques and sterling silver and men and women who used poll results to tell them what was going on “out there,” he was a reminder of how different they all were. The chosen people. They'd all read
LZ,
of course—or pretended they had. “It's so realistic,” they'd tell him, as if they knew.

That was another thing about Juliana Fall, he thought suddenly: no damn pretending. If she didn't know who the hell you were, you got that blank look and that was that. Of course, with her pale beauty and international reputation, she'd get along just fine with the Washington crowd. Artists weren't supposed to keep up with current events. They could be forgiven their airheadedness.

He bounded up the curving front steps and gave the garnet-red door two firm whacks. Ryder's was a high-style Federal with black shutters, a Palladian window, pilasters, shiny brass fittings, and a delicate wrought-iron rail. An unadorned pine cone wreath hung in the middle of the door, put there, undoubtedly, by a conscientious housekeeper. The appearance of taste and perfection was important to the Golden Boy. Stark thought of his own townhouse. It needed renovating. Badly.

Ryder answered the door himself, in neatly pleated trousers and a casual sweater that made him look even more the rich, handsome, perfect young senator. They'd be begging him to run for president before long. Matthew wasn't fooled—or impressed. He knew what Sam Ryder was, and he wouldn't be getting his vote come election day.

Stark took no pleasure when Ryder went pale at seeing him on his doorstep. “What do you want?”

“We need to talk.”

“I can't, I haven't the time—I'm going out.”

“It'll just take a minute.”

Matthew pushed past him into the foyer, elegantly simple with its cream walls and Queen Anne furnishings. Such perfection. Ryder left the door open, and a chilly breeze floated into the warm house.

“I don't want you here,” the senator said, his tone an unconvincing mix of arrogance and fright. “Get out before I—”

“Before you what? You're not going to do anything, Ryder. You couldn't risk it, not with Phil Bloch on your ass.”

The baby blue eyes widened, and Stark could feel his former platoon leader's tension. But then Ryder gave a small supercilious laugh, as if he'd found relief in Stark's words, as if to say, oh, so that was what all this was about. Just Phil Bloch.

“Bloch? I hate to disappoint you, Matthew, but I haven't heard that name in years. I can't believe you two are still at it. What's he up to these days?”

Stark's gaze was relentless. “You tell me.”

“Look, Matthew, honestly, I don't have time to talk. I'm due at a dinner in half an hour—”

“I don't care if you're due at the White House.”

Matthew spoke in a level, deadly voice. “I want to know what you're in with Bloch for, what you're doing about it. And I want to know where he is.”

As he straightened up, Ryder made the mistake of looking into Stark's black-brown eyes, and Matthew watched the air go out of him. “I—dammit, I don't know what you're talking about!”

Matthew clenched and unclenched his scarred fists. He wanted to choke the bastard—not that it'd do any good. Some people you could count on never to change. “Weasel's been snitching to me,” he said. “The dumb bastard thinks he's helping you. Bloch knows what's been going on. I want to get to him before he gets to the Weaze.”

“That's not my problem.”

“You owe him.”

“I don't. He was just doing his job.”

“And you weren't.”

“Look, I didn't ask for his help.”

“I know. Weasel still thinks you're worth more than he is. I don't, Ryder. If Otis Raymond gets himself killed because he was trying to help you, I won't forgive and I won't forget. And I won't keep my mouth shut. Not this time. Count on it.”

“If he gets himself killed, it'll be because he trusted you!”

“Talk, Ryder.”

Matthew could see the sweat pouring down the senator's face; he took no pleasure in it. “Otis Raymond is a drug addict and a loser,” Ryder said. “Whatever he told you about me I'll deny. You have no proof, and you'll get none.”

“Where you're concerned,” Stark said, “I don't need proof.”

Ryder licked his lips. “Don't threaten me, damn you!”

“Tell me about the Minstrel's Rough, Sam.”

“I—I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Okay, then let me give you an idea of what I know. Rachel Stein, the woman you were with the other night at Lincoln Center, said something that made you decide you could get your hands on the Minstrel, give it to Bloch, and solve all your problems. The Dutchman, de Geer, is your connection to the diamond. He went to Johannes Peperkamp in Antwerp, who took him to Amsterdam to get the stone—only it was a wild-goose chase, wasn't it?” Matthew had no sympathy for Ryder's white, stricken face, graying slightly around the mouth as he realized how much the former helicopter pilot already knew. Stark kept his voice steady, unemotional. “You're not going to collapse, Ryder, so don't pretend you are. The old man didn't have the stone, did he?”

“Matthew…” Ryder's voice was little more than a pathetic whisper. “Matthew, you don't know what you're talking about.”

“Did he, goddamn you?”

Shit, Stark thought. Shit, damn,
hell.
The old man didn't have the stone. Did that mean one of the Peperkamp women did? Is that what Ryder thought—de Geer, Bloch? With Phil Bloch, thinking something was so made it so. Matthew focused again on Ryder, barely able to control the impulse to back the senator up against the wall and make him talk. But he'd never operated that way, and he wasn't going to start now.

“If anything happens to the Weaze or to the Peperkamps, Sam, I'm coming after you.” He didn't raise his voice. “I don't care what shitpile you're hiding under. I'll keep digging until I find you.”

“You're a has-been, Stark.” But Ryder's voice squeaked, undermining his words. “You're grasping. You want a story so badly you'll listen to nonsense. I don't know what Otis Raymond told you, and I don't care: I'm not involved. I'm not afraid of you, Matthew. Now get out.”

With the knuckles of one hand, Ryder brushed at the drops of sweat on his upper lip. Stark knew he had him scared, but not scared enough to talk—or at least not scared enough of him. Ryder had Phillip Bloch to worry about; the sergeant didn't have any of Stark's scruples getting in his way.

“I should have tossed your stupid butt out of my ship in Vietnam after the stunt you pulled then.”

“Get out, Matthew,” Ryder said hoarsely. “Damn you, get out!”

Stark's dark eyes never wavered. “Make sure I don't get a second chance at you, Sam. I might not resist.”

 

Shuji's mouth was a grim, thin line, and his black eyes were two tiny pits of fury. He looked just as she'd envisioned he would at this moment—as if he was going to go after someone with one of his authentic short swords—namely, his sole student, one Juliana Fall, aka J.J. Pepper.

“Hello, Shuji,” Juliana said, surprised at how relaxed she sounded.

He looked at her. “A turban,” he said. “For Christ's sake, a rhinestone-studded turban.”

“Usually I leave my hair down.”

“And no one recognizes you?”

“No, because it's never blond. It's pink or lavender. Sometimes blue.”

“Goddamnit,” Shuji said.

“How did you find out?”

“I have friends who frequent SoHo clubs
and
Lincoln Center and Carnegie Hall. One thought he recognized you, but he believed he had to be seeing things. I…my God, you look ridiculous.”

Juliana tried to smile. “I know. Fun, isn't it?”

“It is not fun, Juliana.”