Dangerous Melody (3 page)

The officer’s gaze flicked once more over the three of them. Then he nodded and excused himself to make a phone call.

Luca rounded on Tate. “Just so we’re clear. You’re no good for my sister,
and you’re not welcome here. You’re involved only until we hand this over to the police or decide on a plan to get our father back.”

“And my sister.” Tate’s lip curled. “You remember my sister, Maria, don’t you Luca? You two have a history, don’t forget.”

Luca’s face was a mask of rage. Stephanie stepped between them. “In light of the situation,” she hissed, “can you two knock it off?”
She felt the beginnings of an idea flash through her. “My files. I kept paper files when I worked for Bittman. Just odds and ends, bits that I found unusual in his business dealings. Maybe there’s something in there that might give us a search direction.”

She didn’t want to go back to those dark days, the path she had taken that whisked her away from her family, from her faith. The twinges
had been there when she first started doing some consulting for Bittman, a year before Tate’s father was killed. Tate hadn’t wanted her anywhere near Bittman. Tate’s words rang in her mind.

The way he looks at you...he wants you. You’ve got to quit working for him.

She’d brushed him off, chalked up his reaction to jealousy. Maybe she was even the tiniest bit flattered by it. In any case,
her stubborn streak would have prevented her from giving up a job she enjoyed. The work intrigued her, challenged her, but she’d felt the odd sense every now and again that something was not right.

God had been talking to her even then, but she hadn’t listened.

Luca nodded, eyes riveted to hers. “It’s the last effort before we go to the cops, Steph.”

She was already heading for
the door. “I’m going home to look.”

He shifted uneasily. “I don’t want you going alone.”

She smiled. “I’ll be okay. You need to stay here until Brooke arrives.”

Luca checked his watch. “She should be here in a few hours. Then I’ll come. Let me call someone to go with you.”

“I’ll go.” Tate’s tone was casual, but Stephanie could hear steely determination underneath.

“No
way.” Luca took a step toward her.

Tate hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. “Doesn’t matter what you want.”

“She’d be safer alone.” Luca’s green eyes shone with anger.

Stephanie didn’t want Tate around any more than her brother did. She also knew that every moment they wasted brought them closer to disaster. She went to Luca and hugged him. “I’ll be okay.”

He squeezed
her. “Don’t let him back into your life,” he whispered in her ear. “He’s trouble.”

Trouble.
Truer words were never spoken. She kissed his cheek and headed for the door, trouble following right along behind her.

THREE

T
ate parked the motorcycle on the curb outside Stephanie’s Victorian. She was already headed inside, the afternoon sun casting long September shadows over the neat yard, catching the gloss in her dark hair. The idiocy of his own actions came sharply home.

At worst, Stephanie despised him—and with good reason. He was, after all, a former drug addict who pushed her away,
ignored her repeated attempts to get him help, and nearly ran her down while trapped in a cloud of painkillers. As for Luca, he’d just as soon take Tate apart one piece at a time. Not surprising. The Gages were tight and, in times of crises, impenetrable in their solidarity. They’d been just that way when he had descended into addiction. Guilt flared anew, along with the pain in his leg.

The Fuego family was an altogether different bunch, he thought with bitterness. They scraped for every opportunity, earned their living through hard work. Truth was, he’d been lost in a narcotic haze when his sister needed him the most, when she moved in with Bittman, six months after Stephanie quit working for him. Tate had been too addicted to painkillers prescribed after his leg was ruined in the
accident that killed his father to do anything about it. Again the guilt stirred inside, but he fought it down.

His life had turned out scarily similar to his work as a demolitions expert. All the meticulous planning, endless mental rehearsal and the best of intentions was supposed to ensure that a condemned building would fall neatly, right on its footprint, with no overspray of deadly flying
debris or partial failures that left structures tilting dangerously, still primed to explode. His relationship with Stephanie had turned out to be more like the time he’d witnessed the deadly power of a shock wave, a wave of energy and sound released when Fuego Demolitions took down a building. The massive wave traveled upward as was intended, before hitting a heavy cloud cover that forced the
energy outward, exploding windows in the neighboring buildings. He could still hear the sounds of that shattering glass with the same perfect clarity that he recalled the end of his life with Stephanie.

He hesitated, trying again to steady his nerves. “Time to show some Fuego solidarity and do what you have to do to find Maria,” he muttered to himself. It would be difficult because it meant
sticking close to the most amazing woman he had ever known, a woman he could never have again, due to his own personal destruction.

Forget about your past with Stephanie. Find Maria. That’s all you’ve got left.

He marched resolutely to the door and let himself into a small kitchen, painted in soft yellow tones. In the next room he could see boxes stacked in neat piles. “Nice place. Just
moved in?”

“Couple days ago. I haven’t made the time to unpack.” She busied herself preparing coffee and pulling a plate of cheese from the refrigerator, along with a box of crackers, before she opened a can of cat food and put it on the floor. “Tootsie never misses a meal. She’s like clockwork.”

He watched her put the cheese and crackers on the table.

“There’s bottled water in
the fridge.”

“You don’t have to feed me, Steph.”

She adjusted the crackers in the bowl, removing three broken ones and tossing them in the trash. “It’s going to take hours to go through the files. You’ll be on your own.”

“Is this your way of keeping me out of your hair?”

She looked at him then, eyes like melted chocolate. Suddenly she was the sixteen-year-old girl he’d met
while running the track in high school, eyes sparkling as she challenged him to a race. His stomach jumped. For a moment he thought she would say something, but her expression changed and she headed for the front room. “My files are in here.”

He sighed. Stay in the kitchen and be quiet, was the unspoken command. She ought to know that
idle
wasn’t his natural state. The kitchen window framed
a view of the street, quiet and empty except for a few parked cars, two Prius and another one. He leaned forward. The other was parked a good block away, a streamlined black Mercedes. Something about it struck a familiar chord.

As he turned it over in his mind, another thought occurred to him. “Steph?” He poked his head into the front room. “Where’s the cat?”

“What?” she said, blinking
at him, a file folder in her hands.

“The cat. You said she was like clockwork about her food.” He gestured to the kitchen. “Hasn’t been touched.”

Stephanie’s brow furrowed. “I’ll bet she’s stuck in the upstairs bedroom again. The door swings shut and she gets locked in.”

“I’ll check.” He eyeballed the front door before he left and made sure it was locked. Probably nothing but his
paranoia in action, but he doubled back and locked the kitchen door, too, before he made his way quietly across the hardwood floor and up the creaking stairs, which emptied out onto the long hallway, with three doorways. Two were open, the one on the far end, which Tate surmised was the extra bedroom, was closed. He walked slowly, scanning the two open rooms: a bathroom and another small room filled
with more boxes. One more door beckoned. He approached slowly, put an ear to the wood and listened. No sound.

He felt slightly ridiculous prowling the property, but if Stephanie was right, Bittman had nearly killed Victor and taken her father. He wanted something from Stephanie, and he would no doubt do anything to get it. Tate told her flat-out when she started working for him that something
wasn’t right, but she’d laughed it off, accused him of being the jealous type.

Not jealous, just perceptive. Bittman was crazy, and she should have trusted Tate. He felt a flash of anger followed by another surge of guilt. Who was he to blame her for not trusting him? He’d proven later that he was not a man she could count on.

Tate put a hand on the knob and turned it, inch by inch,
until the door released. Pushing it open, he scanned the inside. A small bed, neatly made. Another door leading to what must be a bathroom, and one more, a paneled closet. He started with the closet, rolling it open slowly. Empty, not so much as a forgotten coat. The stack of three boxes nearby indicated she’d not yet gotten around to the spare room. This was odd for Stephanie, who was manically organized,
a woman who arranged her books on the shelves according to size and color. It was not like her to leave anything half done, even after only a few days in her new space.

A soft thump came from the bathroom. He froze, listening. Another thump and a soft scuffling noise. The cat? Maybe. Maybe not. He crept closer to the door, which was pulled mostly closed. Since he hadn’t turned on the light,
the room was dim. Easing along one footstep at a time, he hoped the squeak of the worn floorboards under his feet would not give him away.

Drawing close enough to see through, he caught the flutter of movement. He did a slow count to three and threw open the door. It crashed into the wall behind as he leaped through. A pigeon with iridescent feathers around its neck fluffed in alarm from
its perch on the rim of the old-fashioned bath tub. With an irritated flap of feathers, it flew back to the window and scuttled through the gap.

He watched the pigeon disappear through the open window.

It took only a moment for him to notice the scuff mark on the sill, a black heel mark that could only have come from a man’s shoe.

* * *

Stephanie shoved the papers into the
folder in disgust. What did she hope to find? How could she win against Joshua Bittman when he held the ultimate card? Her father’s life. She tried to take a calming breath and offer up a prayer, but her mind was too scattered. She had to figure out a way, without Tate’s help. His lazy smile replayed itself in her memory. His sister was so like him, though neither one would admit to it, except for
one important difference. Maria led with her emotions, her passions and disappointments written on her face for all the world to see.

Bittman saw that need in Maria and exploited it, no doubt, after Stephanie quit his employ and tried to remove him from her life. Futile effort. Everywhere she went, he kept tabs on her, reminding her in the subtlest ways that he remained in her life in spite
of her feelings. Phone calls, texts, jewelry delivered to her various apartments, even the smell of his peculiar cologne wafting through her car told her he was close, so close, with unrestricted access to her.

And now, it seemed, to her family and Tate’s. Stephanie closed her eyes, thinking once again that the blame for Maria’s relationship with Bittman lay squarely at Stephanie’s feet.
She did not believe, however, that Bittman had disposed of Maria in some violent manner. He didn’t need to. With his wealth and enormous power, he could cut her out like a diseased patch of flesh. She would never get close to him unless he desired it. So Tate was wrong about the fact that Bittman made her disappear. If he would listen to reason, she could explain it to him.

Getting to her
feet, she heard a soft meow from the room earmarked for a guest room if she ever managed to put down roots.

She pushed open the door, calling up the stairs as she did so. “I found her, Tate.”

There was an answering shout from upstairs, but she did not respond, her attention riveted by the man sitting ramrod straight in her grandmother’s old rocking chair.

“Hello, Stephanie,” Bittman
said, stroking the cat curled in his lap. “You look breathtaking.”

The folder slipped from her fingers, papers floating to the floor around her feet. She wanted to scream, to yell to Tate, but nothing would come out of her mouth. Bittman eased the cat from his lap and brushed at a few hairs left on his pants. His face was smooth and unlined, approaching his mid-thirties. Long, dark hair combed
away from his high forehead accentuated the pale skin, brown eyes glinting through small angled glasses.

He gestured to the bed. “Please, sit down. I imagine your oaf of a boyfriend will be here in a moment.”

He’s not my boyfriend,
she wanted to whisper. Instead she took a deep breath, fighting down the fear that clawed at her throat, anger rising along with it. “I don’t know what kind
of sick game you’re playing, but I want my father back right now.”

Bittman chuckled, his glasses glinting in the dying sunlight. “Impatient as ever. I will hold off until Mr. Fuego makes it down the stairs.”

They didn’t wait more than a few seconds before Tate crashed through the door. His eyes sought hers, simmering with a mixture of anger and something else. “You okay?” he asked softly,
pulling a phone from his pocket.

She nodded.

Bittman sighed. “Mr. Fuego, put away the phone. You will not be calling the police or anyone else. Stephanie doesn’t want you to do that.”

His lips quirked into a smile. As much as she wanted Tate to call the police, to have the supreme satisfaction of watching Joshua Bittman go through the demeaning process of being handcuffed on his
way to jail, she knew the cost was too high.

“Put it away, Tate. I have to know what he wants from us.”

“Where’s my sister?” Tate demanded.

“I imagine this is why you intruded on my property.”

“Where’s Maria?”

Bittman’s delicate eyebrows arched a fraction. “Mr. Fuego, you bore me. Running all over town like some Keystone Cop is not becoming. Stick with your current job.
Blowing up buildings is more suited to your intellect.”

Tate took a step forward. “Tell me.”

Bittman gave him a cold stare. “Why would I tell you anything? You are, in the common vernacular, a loser. Addicted to painkillers, barely able to keep your father’s business out of the red and, if my information is complete, the very same man who almost killed Stephanie, a woman who is far too
good for you.”

Stephanie’s heart twisted, and she grabbed Tate’s wrist before he could go after Bittman. “Just tell us what you want.”

Bittman nodded. “Nothing from Mr. Fuego. His presence is strictly an annoyance, and I believe he went so far as to upset my birds, for which a price must be paid at some future date. They are blue mutation, yellow-naped Amazons—very rare, you understand.”
He gestured to the other wooden chair. “Please, sit down, Stephanie.”

Stephanie remained standing, Tate next to her. “Where’s my father?”

“Right to the point. No catching up?” His eyes swept over her body, making her face flush.

Tate grunted. “Get on with it.”

Bittman ignored Tate. “Your father is fine for the moment, housed at a location which you will never find on your own
until we conclude a business transaction. I need you to locate something for me, and once you do, he will be returned to you in mint condition. Simple as that.”

Stephanie tried to read the feelings in his eyes, but failed. There was never any emotion to take note of, not in all the years she had known him. Only when he spoke of his own father did she see a spark. “What is it? This thing you
need me to find?”

Bittman folded his arms and looked out the window, scrutinizing the view. “A violin.”

“A violin?” Tate snapped. “You’re loaded. Go buy your own.”

Bittman kept his eyes on Stephanie. “This particular instrument was my father’s. It was made in 1741. It is unique, virtually a living thing and it is worth, to put a crude price tag on it...”

“Eighteen million dollars,”
Stephanie said with a groan. “It’s one of only a few made by an Italian craftsman named Guarneri del Gesu.”

“How do you know that?” Tate asked.

“Because it was reportedly destroyed in a fire at Bittman’s father’s shop.” Her stomach tightened. “I read about it.”

Bittman’s eyes flickered. “That information is incorrect. The Guarneri was not burned, and I have recently acquired proof
that it has surfaced right here in California. Someone has finally shown their hand by approaching a music store owner for repairs.” His smile was terrifying. “I want my family’s violin back. The person who possesses it can identify the arsonist who burned down my father’s shop and killed my brother. I will be able to deliver the proper punishment, finally, after all these years.”

Stephanie
shivered. “There are plenty of other investigators and treasure hunters out there.”