DIVA (14 page)

Seemingly flustered, she twisted a lock of hair around one finger. “I was wondering if you could advise me on a rape case. Not now, but later maybe? I interviewed the victim at the hospital and—”

“You’re doing double duty these days? Homicide and Violent Crimes?”

She shrugged. “They call me if they can’t get another female cop. It happens a lot these days. I don’t mind.”

This was their first real conversation, but he’d watched her lift weights at the gym where a lot of the cops worked out. She had a rangy body, slim but muscular, five-seven, nice ass, great legs. A tempting package.

He realized she was waiting for him to speak. “I’ll help if I can.”

“I think we might have a serial rapist on our hands, and I know you’ve had experience in that area.”

Word got around if a cop had taken courses at the FBI training school in Quantico. Maybe that’s why she’d volunteered to go to Chantelle’s funeral. She wanted help on the rape case.

“Sorry,” she said, grinning at him. “That sounds like I’m calling you an experienced rapist.”

“True,” he deadpanned. “I knock off at least one woman a night.”

Equally deadpan, she said, “That’s what I figured.”

“How about I buy you a beer someplace and we talk it over?”

“No, how about I buy
you
a beer. You’re the one doing the favor.”

“We’ll argue about it over the beer. Where and when?”

And gave himself a dope-slap. He’d just agreed to have a beer with this attractive female cop, a big violation of his rules. But who was he kidding? That’s what he’d been angling for when he waited for the others to leave.

“How about The Bulldog Bar?” she said. “Tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow’s Friday, right?” He mentally checked his schedule, seemed like he had something Friday night. Then he remembered. Belinda’s NOCCA concert. Maybe he’d invite Kelly to go. No, bad idea. Should he ask her to have the beer tonight? No. That would seem overeager.

“I can’t do it tomorrow, but Saturday night I’m meeting my CI. She’s kind of skittish, likes to meet me after dark. Can we meet afterwards, eight o’clock, eight-thirty?”

“Fine,” Kelly said, gazing at him with her mesmerizing eyes. “See you at the Bulldog.”

His pulse increased a notch. Then he saw Kenyon Miller outside the door, watching them. Great. The rumor mill would be grinding tomorrow.

“Thanks for volunteering to go to Chantelle’s funeral,” he said.

Kelly’s eyes turned somber, an angry squint. “Maybe the maggots that killed her will be there.”

“If they are, you better cuff me so I don’t strangle them.”

_____

Friday morning at eight he unlocked the front door and stepped into Belinda’s foyer. His second day with his beloved. His heart sang a triumphant tune. Soon he wouldn’t be walking in the front door. He’d be waking up in bed with her. “Ms. Scully,” he called. “Are you ready?”

She came through a door at the end of the hall that bordered the stairs to her second floor bedroom. Her hair looked lovely, as though she’d brushed her coppery tresses an extra hundred strokes, just for him.

“I need to change. Could you wait in the foyer, please?” Dressed in shorts and an emerald-green top, she came down the hall, gave him a perfunctory smile and went upstairs.

He watched her, admiring her well-muscled legs. Too bad he couldn’t watch her undress. Ziegler had been reluctant to show him her bedroom, but he had insisted. He’d expected something luxurious, a mirror lined with lights over an elegant dressing table, a plush chair to use while she brushed her hair. But there was just an oak bureau and a double bed with a gold quilt drooping onto the polished-oak floor. He couldn’t wait to get her in bed.

They would have an orgy. A royal fuck-fest. His groin throbbed as he surveyed the foyer. Two black umbrellas sprouted from a metal urn beside a settee with stubby legs and claw feet. Restless with energy, he went around the corner to her studio. He was dying to play her Steinway baby grand. Belinda was sure to be impressed. Not today, but soon.

He crossed the hall to the other room that faced the street. Through the half-open door he saw Ziegler hunched over a computer keyboard. He stepped inside. “Good morning, Mr. Ziegler. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Ziegler looked up, his eyes cold and distant. “Do you need something? As you can see, I’m busy.”

“Just saying hello. Belinda’s upstairs changing. We’ll be off soon.”

Ziegler swiveled back to the computer. “Fine. Have a nice day.”

He left before Ziegler could see his flush of embarrassment. Here he was trying to be friendly and the prick was treating him like a servant. That needed to change. He returned to the foyer and studied his image in the gilt-framed mirror over the settee. He looked splendid in his black Armani suit. But it had cost seven-hundred-dollars. Another maxed-out credit card.

Hearing footsteps on the stairs, he turned, and his breath caught in his throat. Belinda had changed into a blue-knit dress that hugged her luscious body. The tingle in his groin became a full-fledged erection.

She swept past him and opened the front door. “I need to buy some shoes at a little boutique where I shop. I’ll tell you how to get there.”

He followed her, hurrying to keep up as she strode toward his van, trailing a hint of perfume. He slid back the door to the passenger compartment. “Any time you want to ride up front, just let me know.”

“Thanks, but I prefer to ride in back. Go south on Esplanade.”

Anger warmed his cheeks as he climbed behind the wheel. “Have the police found the person that caused your accident?”

“They’re working on it.”

“Do they have any leads?” He drove off, slowly, so he could watch her in the rearview, but she didn’t look up. “Did you give them a description?”

“Please, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Fuming, he turned right on Esplanade and drove past two Victorians and a row of towering oaks dripping Spanish moss. She was being a Diva. He had read every article ever written about her dozens of times. Most were complimentary, but a recent one said that flute virtuoso Belinda Scully could be rather haughty. But not if he charmed her.

“I think you’re very brave, Ms. Scully. You’re a strong, self-reliant woman. Do you take after Dad?”

A short silence, then, “We were very close, yes.”

“That was a terrible tragedy, losing your parents in that accident.”

“I don’t care to discuss it, Mr. Silverman.” An icy tone and a frosty look.

“I really admire you for not discussing it with reporters. You’re a talented soloist. That’s what people should remember. Your talent.”

He glanced over his shoulder. She was staring out the window. How could she be so ungrateful? Here he was lavishing sympathy and emotional support on her, and what did he get in return? Icy looks and bad attitude.

“Thank you, Mr. Silverman. That’s precisely how I see it.”

A crumb of appreciation. Emboldened, he said, “Remember that lunatic that ran onto a tennis court and stabbed Monica Seles years ago? It’s even more dangerous for celebrities now. Not that you need to worry. I served in the military. I’m trained to take out the enemy in all sorts of situations, even hand-to-hand combat. I’ll protect you.”

Her sapphire-blue eyes locked onto his in the rearview. Inwardly smiling at her anxious expression, he went for the kill. “I think it’s best if I drive you to your concert tonight. You never can tell. Some nutcase might be there. What time shall I pick you up?”

His clearly-frightened Diva gazed at him. “Six-thirty would be good.”

CHAPTER 14

A halo of golden sunlight hovered over the bell tower of Holy Ghost Church. A stark contrast to the somber ceremony inside, Frank assumed. Bells and sunshine sure as hell didn’t match his mood. Four days ago a brutal bell had tolled for Chantelle Wilson, ending her short troubled life. An hour ago her coffin had arrived in a white horse-drawn carriage driven by a black man in a tuxedo, top hat and white gloves. A heart-wrenching sight.

Seeing it now, he wished the carriage was awaiting a pair of happy newlyweds, not the body of a teenaged girl.

Beside him, leaning against the trunk of an oak tree, Miller said, “They spent some bucks on the funeral, probably been out collecting donations.”

“The funeral director told me her mother didn’t have enough money to buy a burial dress.” A statement that had led him to write a hundred-dollar check to help pay the funeral expenses.

“I told the step-dad to ask the Crime Victims Reparations Board for help,” Miller said, “but they didn’t give him a dime. They said Chantelle was involved in criminal activity. Man, was he pissed.”

Where was he when Chantelle needed him? Frank thought, eyeballing the houses across the street from the church. Nobody out on the stoop enjoying the cool October breeze, plenty watching from inside probably. Nothing like a funeral to liven up your day.

Nothing like the murder of a young girl to darken his mood.

“I’m glad Kelly volunteered to go inside,” Miller said. “Man, I hate funerals.”

“Me, too.” His mother’s funeral six years ago had been the most painful day of his life. The only funeral he had attended since was at another black church in Boston. Another girl dead before her time.

Miller waggled his eyebrows. “How you getting on with Kelly? Fine looking woman like that, time she got back in the saddle.”

“Yeah?” he said, irritated. “You an expert on grieving widows?”

“Can’t grieve forever. She’s only thirty-eight.”

And you never buried a spouse
, Frank thought.

Solemn organ music wafted from the church as the doors opened. A white casket emerged carried by eight grim-faced young men, hands encased in white cotton gloves as they muscled Chantelle’s casket down three steps. Behind them came Anna-Mae Wilson, thin as a knitting needle in a black dress with shiny black buttons, eyes hidden by sunglasses, wailing, her mouth open to reveal the gaping holes of missing teeth. Frank figured she wasn’t much over forty. She looked sixty. Crack could do that to you.

The stepfather, a broad-shouldered man with a gray-speckled beard, had one arm around the mother’s scrawny frame. His free hand clutched the fingers of a little boy dressed in a miniature black suit, his eyes big and round and brimming with tears.

Walking stiff-legged, the pallbearers reached the horse-drawn carriage and hoisted Chantelle’s casket into the back. Unable to bear it, Frank turned away. Clumps of teenagers emerged from the church, hugging each other, the girls wiping their eyes with tissues, the boys wearing dark glasses. He marveled at how quiet they were. No chatterbox teens here, just silent mourners, wearing the memorial T-shirts that seemed obligatory at the funerals of young New Orleans residents these days.

“Dig the shirts,” Miller said. “It’s a cottage industry nowadays, ‘banger gets shot, family takes his picture to the T-shirt joint before the coroner’s released the body.”

Frank’s throat tightened as two sobbing girls passed them. Centered on their memorial T-shirts was a photograph of Chantelle, laughing, her eyes full of sparkle, looked like she was having the time of her life. A life cut short by a retaliatory bullet. Above it was her birth date: 11-11-1991.

The coincidence shocked him. They shared the same birthday: November 11. Next month he’d be forty-four. Chantelle hadn’t made it to her sixteenth birthday.

Below the photo:
CHANTELLE “Song Sista” WILSON, R.I.P. 10-23-2006.

Song Sista. The girl who loved to sing. The girl who loved a tune called
Nowhere
. The senseless tragedy tore at his heart. Tears blurred his vision. But he would shed no tears for Chantelle. He would find her killers and get her the justice she deserved.

Lost in thought, he jumped when Kelly touched his forearm and said, “There must have been a hundred kids in the church, but no sign of AK.”

She looked trim and businesslike today in a black pantsuit that made her sea-green eyes look even more alluring. But they were bloodshot, looked like she’d been crying.

“Thanks, Kelly. You did the tough part.”

“No problem,” she said.

But he got the feeling it had indeed been a problem.

“The maggot’s probably in some bar,” Miller said. “Having a beer with his buddies.”

“No,” Kelly snapped. “The little maggots are crawling the bottom of some garbage pail.” About to say more, she turned as toots and honks sounded behind the church, then upbeat drums.

He studied her profile. A strong chin—she was stubborn, he’d bet—and distinctive ears, shaped like seashells, with gold studs in them.

A rousing rendition of “Rampart Street Parade” cut into his thoughts. Teenagers playing trumpets, trombones and saxophones marched around the corner of the church. Ahead of them, two boys carried a six-foot banner with more pictures of Chantelle. Walking between the banner and the band was a tall slender kid in sunglasses, his hair in dreadlocks, carrying an instrument case. Judging by its size and shape, Frank pegged it as an alto sax case.

Why wasn’t he playing? Frank wondered.

Two stragglers leaving the church in memorial T-shirts and baggy pants caught his attention. What set them apart: a spider web tat on the tall kid’s neck, bloody daggers on the shorter kid’s forearms.

He drew Kenyon and Kelly closer. “Don’t turn around. I just made two of AK’s thugs coming out of the church.”

“You think they’re the shooters?” Kelly said, gazing at him.

Mesmerized by her sea-green eyes, he said, “Could be.”

Would those eyes mesmerize him tomorrow night at the Bulldog Bar, he wondered.

______

Inside the walk-in closet beneath the eaves of her bedroom, Belinda flipped through her gig suits and selected a pair of black velvet pants. Slinky but comfortable. Perfect for tonight’s concert. Figuring the only people at the NOCCA concert would be students and their friends and families, she had planned to wear a plain white blouse.

That was before she invited Frank. Now that the London concert had won her a fabulous recording contract, she could focus on the intriguing homicide detective. And the deep connection she felt when she was with him.