DIVA (11 page)

He loved that. But why bother with this insignificant little bitch?

Belinda wanted him. Belinda was a star, a ripe juicy peach ready to fall in love with her defender.

CHAPTER 11

Tuesday, 24 October

At ten o’clock Frank stopped at a traffic light beside the Iberville project and took a swig of his take-out coffee. Chantelle Wilson had been missing for eight days. The knot in his gut tightened. Eight days and eight long nights.

He’d posted her mug shot in every district station so the patrol officers could be on the lookout for her. Nothing so far. Using the same photo with the height chart edited out, he’d made a flyer—
Have you seen this girl?
—and put his cell phone number at the bottom. She looked indescribably sad, staring into the camera with angry eyes. He’d given flyers to three black ministers he’d befriended since coming to New Orleans and asked them to post them in their churches. On the off chance that she was panhandling, he’d posted a dozen more in the French Quarter. Other than a few crank calls from drunks and weirdoes, he’d heard nothing. No one had seen her.

The light changed and he drove into Iberville. His first attempt to locate Chantelle had been fruitless, but this time he knew where to go. It had taken him a week to navigate the Housing Authority’s bureaucratic maze, locate the apartment Chantelle’s mother had rented prior to Katrina and get a search warrant. Any other case the judge wouldn’t have swallowed the bullshit he’d put on the application, but mounting outrage fueled by the incessant media drumbeat over the Lakeview incident had convinced the judge.

Everyone was hot on that case, the NOPD top brass and local politicians fielding calls from angry residents. Not a word about the black kids shot earlier that day. Then again, he hadn’t paid much attention to the incident Jake Ziegler and Belinda Scully had reported that night either. Until someone ran Belinda off the road.

He hoped she had the sense to hire some security.

He parked in front of a red-brick building and dug his digital camera out of the glove box. A warrant search without a police photographer to document it was against protocol, but their only photographer was on another case, and the urgent signals from his gut told him not to wait.

Slinging the camera strap over his shoulder, he got out and walked into Iberville. Halfway down a cement walk littered with mangled beer cans, candy wrappers and shards of glass, he arrived at Chantelle’s former abode. No sign of AK or his thugs, but the same creepy sensation on his neck he’d felt on his previous visit told him they were watching.

Inside the building the usual foul odors assaulted him. He jogged up two flights of stairs, his feet thudding on the hollow metal steps. The stench wasn’t as bad on the third floor, but it didn’t smell like the Ritz either. Not a soul in sight. More creepy-crawlies on his neck.

He walked down the hall to unit 314, eyed the security peephole and stepped to one side. If some thug with a gun was inside, he didn’t want to take a shot in the gut. He tapped on the door and waited.

The building was eerily quiet, as silent as a cat stalking a mouse.

He used the Housing Authority key to unlock the door, turned the knob and pushed. With an audible creak from its rusty hinges, the door swung open onto a living room. No one in sight. No garbage or litter on the shit-brown carpet. Below a grime-streaked window, a dilapidated couch without seat cushions faced the door. No tables, no chairs, no TV, no stereo, no nothing. All items of value had been removed.

He stepped inside. The air was thick with humidity and the odor of spoiled food, the noxious stench Katrina had bestowed upon New Orleans.

“Chantelle,” he said softly. “You in here?”

The apartment remained deathly quiet. Too quiet.

The hackles rose on his neck. He unholstered his SIG. Racked the slide. Felt his heart thud against his ribs. He and his partner had faced a similar situation up in Boston once, and all hell had broken loose.

On the wall to his right a door was ajar. At some point the door had been painted sky-blue. Now the paint was peeling and streaked with dirt. Hyper-alert for sounds or movement, he edged to the door and pushed it open. A small room, ten-feet square, a child’s bedroom at some point, maybe. A tattered shade covered the lone window. No furniture, no trash.

And no occupant.

He heard a distant thud and froze. Someone was in the building.

Moving silently, he returned to the entry door and stuck his head into the hall. Saw no one. Heard nothing.

His heart was racing, juiced by adrenaline. And anxiety.

Coming here alone might have been a mistake.

He quietly closed the door and flipped the lock. Dust motes danced in the sunlight slanting through the filthy window behind the couch. He fought down an urge to sneeze. Four feet to his left, an archway opened onto a dark hall. Raising his SIG-Sauer, he eased into the hallway.

Chunks of plaster had fallen from walls painted a sickly yellow, littering the wood floor. With silent stealth, he crept down the hall to an open door on the left. An empty bathroom smelling of lavender.

The sink was dry, but a bar of soap sat in a cheap soap dish screwed to the wall above the sink. Beside a tub with serious rust stains, a raggedy blue bath towel hung from a chrome rack. No shower curtain on the tub. He checked the medicine cabinet above the sink.

The only item was a small bottle of Walgreen’s acetaminophen. Whoever had stripped the apartment would have emptied the medicine cabinet. Someone was living here. He eased across the hall into the kitchen. Bits of food caked a filthy stove. No refrigerator. After Katrina the city had been infested with no-see-ums, minuscule bugs that flew out of the refrigerator the instant you opened it. Once out, you couldn’t get rid of them.

Signs of life on the kitchen counter: a box of saltines, a jar of Winn-Dixie peanut butter, a table knife and a cracker spread with peanut butter.

Someone had left in a hurry.

A cockroach skittered out from under a bag of Doritos and disappeared behind a squat can of baked beans. He opened the cabinet door below the sink, closed it fast when he saw roaches scatter inside.

He stepped back into the hallway. Still no sounds, just an eerie quiet.

Sweat dampened his forehead. Off to his right, the door at the far end of the hall was shut. No telling what was behind it. Alert for the slightest sound, he edged down the hall, arms extended, hand clenched around the SIG. Five feet from the door he flattened himself against the wall.

The wooden door had been painted lavender. Like the door to the child’s room, the paint was flaking and streaked with dirt. A rush of adrenaline jumped his heart rate. Was someone in there?

Slugs would penetrate the wooden door like butter.

Ready to drop to the floor if a barrage of bullets came through the door, he rapped on it. Got no response. He held his breath and listened.

No telltale sounds. No footsteps.

He waited a full minute, crouched, flung open the door and burst inside.

The room was empty. Through a tattered window-blind, rays of sunlight dappled a thin mattress on the floor. On the mattress were a tangled sheet and a flattened pillow inside a dingy pillowcase. On the floor beside the mattress, a nine-inch aluminum pie plate held a stubby red candle. A sea of melted wax at the base of the candle gave off an odor of cinnamon.

Wire hangers hooked over the top of the window molding held an oversized T-shirt and a pair of denim cutoffs. He went over and touched them. They were damp, freshly washed. By Chantelle? If so, they were her only spare clothes. Nothing but empty hangers in the closet.

He holstered his SIG, powered on his camera and photographed the room, making sure each shot overlapped the previous one. Room by room, he went through the apartment, methodically snapping shots from all angles to document what he’d seen.

During his last visit AK had denied knowing Chantelle, but that was bullshit. Was AK one of the Lakeview robbers? Judging from the gold front tooth and the bling on his wrists, AK made big bucks dealing dope and pills. Why rob a dinky little convenience store? He hated to think Chantelle was involved, but she had been in Lakeview that night.

Eight days ago she’d run away from Mama LeBlanc’s. No one had seen her since. No one he knew about, anyway. No one who would admit to it.

Certain that Chantelle had been there, he left the apartment and went downstairs, his gut churning with acid even worse than before. Something or someone had interrupted Chantelle’s peanut-butter-saltine snack.

On the way back to his car he saw no signs of life, no thugs, no mothers with children, not even a stray cat. He got in the car and cranked the engine and his cell phone rang. It was Kenyon Miller.

“Frank, they just found your girl’s body behind some bushes over near Bayou St. John.”

His gut cramped and bile spurted into his throat, sharp and acidic. He took a deep breath. Swallowed hard.

“Chantelle? You’re sure?”

“Yes, unfortunately. We ID’d her from the mug shot.”

“Be right there.”

He tossed the cell on the passenger seat and slammed his palms on the wheel, recalling the fear in Chantelle’s eyes when he left her at Mama’s, the fear and the sadness and her whispered
Thank-you
.

The memory tore at his heart. Taking her to Mama’s had been a big mistake. If he’d put her in the lockup, she’d still be alive.

______

The man who called himself Barry Silverman entered his apartment, hung his dry-cleaning in the hall closet and glanced at the small wire-mesh cage wedged under the breakfast bar.

“Hello, Oz, you sweet thing. Happy to see me?” Inside the cage Oz hopped up and down, delirious with joy. A dwarf bunny no bigger than a three-month-old kitten, Oz had silky white fur, floppy ears and sky-blue eyes.

He dropped his keys on the breakfast bar. The yellow Formica was edged with cigarette burns from the previous tenant. The sight offended him. Everything about this shitty little apartment offended him.

But he wouldn’t be here much longer. Soon he’d be working for Belinda.

He opened the cage door and his adorable bunny hopped onto the carpet. Rabbits made excellent pets. They were quiet and did as they were told. He hated dogs, always barking and asking to be walked. Cats were worse. They’d as soon scratch you as look at you.

Sinking onto the futon, he scooped Oz onto his lap and petted him, relishing the feel of the soft fur. “It’s going to work out, Oz,” he crooned. “Belinda wants me to protect her.”

Needles of doubt crept into his mind. Why hadn’t she called to hire him? He’d faxed his credentials twelve hours ago. With a glow of pride, he pictured her snatching pages from her fax machine, studying his fabulous two-page CV, the recommendation letters, and the eye-catching cover sheet he’d created with
SILVERMAN SECURITY
at the top.

His beloved was sure to be impressed.

He set Oz down, went in the kitchen and opened the half-sized refrigerator. Oz hopped after him but stopped at the doorway. When he adopted Oz at the shelter, he’d been amazed to learn that rabbits, unlike cats, had no pads on the bottom of their feet, just fur. His precious bunny had no traction to negotiate the slippery linoleum.

He tossed sprigs of cilantro onto the dingy brown carpet, and Oz set upon them with enthusiasm. He opened the door to the cabinet under the sink, took out a bag of dry food and filled the food container in Oz’s cage. Removed the water dish and dumped it in the sink. Refilled it with fresh water and put it in the cage.

“See how well I treat you, Oz? And I’ll take even better care of Belinda.”

The needles of doubt returned. Why hadn’t she called? So what if his credentials were bogus? His military training qualified him for the job. No thanks to Sergeant Asshole.

“Sergeant Asshole said I was uncoordinated, Oz, just because I fell once on the obstacle course. What did he know? Could he play piano well enough to accompany a violinist like I could? Fuck, no! You need good hand-eye coordination for that, and mine’s damn near perfect. When I got the top score in marksmanship, Sergeant Asshole had to eat crow. And so did Pa.”

The macho-man who had adopted him when he was four months old.

His lip curled with distaste. As a teenager, he used to fantasize that his real father was a renowned piano soloist, like Vladimir Ashkenazi or Daniel Barenbohm. Someone with talent, intelligence and flair.

He stroked Oz’s silky fur. “Pa didn’t appreciate me, either. People don’t realize how much smarts you need to play piano. First you have to learn the piece. Then you have to blend with the violin. That was the hardest part, Oz. Blending with my sister, keeping up when she rushed a passage. I had to accommodate
her
. I always had to make
her
look good.”

His cheeks burned at the memory.

“I hate that bitch, Oz. Sometimes you do things for people and they don’t appreciate it. But you do, Oz, and Belinda will, too.”

He arched his back and yawned. The past twenty-four hours had been arduous, but the crucial work was done. Something deep inside Belinda, some secret yearning, had made her realize how much she needed him. His ingenious plan was about to bear fruit.

He shooed Oz into his cage. “Be good while I take a nap, Oz. I have to work tonight.” Six fucking hours of saying
Yes-sir
and
No-sir
to snotty businessmen, humping their luggage into hotels. He was sick of working for people who didn’t appreciate him. He’d done that all his life for Ma and Pa and his bitch sister, always doing for them, having no time for himself. And not a word of thanks from any of them.

Pain stabbed his temples, the pulsing white-light of a migraine. If he weren't so desperate for money he’d call in sick. But an ominous notice had appeared on his last American Express bill:
This account has been given to a collection agency
. Those bastards were merciless, harassing him day and night, waking him out of a sound sleep.