DIVA (31 page)

“You got evidence AK did the Lakeview woman?” Rouzan said.

“We got the getaway car,” Vobitch snarled. “We got prints off the steering wheel and the back door. We got the wounded cop’s description of the robbers.”

Frank gestured at the tape deck. “I taped Antoine’s confession.”

“You read him the Miranda, right? No coercion.”

“It’s on the tape! You heard me do it.”

“Yeah, but the judge might not like it. The kid refused an attorney.”

“I told his uncle they could call one. They declined.” When that failed to erase Rouzan’s skeptical expression, he said, “How about a lineup? Haul AK in and have Officer Robichard identify him.”

Rouzan yawned. Fifteen months post-Katrina the overworked D.A.’s office was short of prosecutors and plagued by a skyrocketing crime rate.

“We pull in AK and his thugs,” Vobitch said, “one of ‘em might flip.”

“I doubt it,” Rouzan said. “These ‘bangers turn in their mama ‘fore they rat on a brother. Morgan, I know you want to clear this one. We’re under pressure, too, but I won’t go to court with a weak case, hang it on a witness that might split.” He rose from his chair. “This case is high-profile. I don’t want it to blow up in my face. Get me a match on the prints. Get me a solid ID from the cop. Get me some evidence so I can win the case.”

As soon as Rouzan left, Vobitch exploded. “Fuck Rouzan and the DA’s office! All these prosecutors want everything tied in a nice pink bow. Let’s get an arrest warrant.”

He loved it when Vobitch went ballistic. They sometimes had their differences, but when the chips were down, Vobitch usually did what Frank considered to be the right thing. Not necessarily the most prudent thing, the one most likely to get results.

His cell phone rang. He checked the ID and held up a wait-a-minute finger. Vobitch nodded and raked stubby fingers through his silvery hair.

When he answered, Kelly said, “Hi Frank, you busy?”

“You mean that interview I told you about?”

Speaking in the low husky voice he found so enchanting, she said, “Oh, you can’t talk now, huh?”

Nice to know they were on the same wavelength. “Right,” he said, aware that Vobitch was waiting, impatiently tapping a pen on his desk. He felt a zing of adrenaline, talking to his lover while his boss was waiting, the thrill of the forbidden.

“I’m working topless today.”

He couldn’t believe she’d said it. Maintaining a serious expression, a major effort, he said, “I’d better check that out ASAP.”

A seductive chuckle. “I’ll set a timer, see how long it takes you.”

He punched off, wiped his sweaty palm on his pant leg. Talk about living dangerously.

“I’ll write the fucking warrant myself,” Vobitch said, “hand it to the judge personally! If he doesn’t okay it I’ll stick a gun in his fucking ear.”

“Bad idea, Morgan. Play it safe and send it by courier.”

Vobitch glowered at him. “You’re not the one taking phone calls from pissed-off Lakeview residents. And when
they’re
not calling me, I got some bleeding-heart social worker on the line, wants to play hug-a-thug, make sure we don’t railroad some innocent black kid.”

“I might have a new angle on the case.”

“Good news I hope,” Vobitch said, wearily rubbing his eyes.

“Remember that hit-and-run incident with the VIP?”

“The one where you called London and talked for twenty minutes on account of some flute player got in an accident?” Vobitch said, icing him with another look, his slate-gray eyes full of fury.

“Right. Belinda Scully. Last Wednesday her manager died under suspicious circumstances. The emergency room doc thinks he might have been poisoned. We’re waiting on the tox report.”

“So? You got a suspect?”

“Yes. Scully’s driver. Ziegler fired him two days before he died.”

“Well, you got motive. What’s this got to do with the Lakeview case?”

“Ziegler’s autopsy indicated he’d eaten chocolate. One of Scully’s flute students gave her brownies. She hates chocolate, gave them to Ziegler. I interviewed the student on Friday. He said Scully’s driver asked him to give them to her. I was planning to have the kid come in with his father to sign a statement, but that’s out the window now. His name is Marcus Goines.”

Vobitch’s eyes went wide as a satellite dish. “The kid that’s missing?”

“Bingo. Here’s the Lakeview connection. Turns out Marcus has been dealing pot. AK is his supplier. Antoine confirmed it, but I didn’t want to bring it up while Rouzan was here.”

“Right. He’d have blown it off as hearsay or some fucking thing. You think AK whacked the Goines kid?”

“That’s one possibility. Scully’s driver is another. I need to call London again and get a better handle on the guy.”

“Okay, but keep it short,” Vobitch said. “I gotta find a friendly reporter, plant a bug in his ear that we got something going on the Lakeview case.”

Vobitch was desperate to clear the Lakeview case, but even if they got the warrant, nailing AK for murder would be tough. Being an NOPD cop these days was like Jelly Roll Morton playing piano in a Storyville brothel. The Jellyman couldn’t control what happened in the rooms upstairs any more than Vobitch could control what the DA did.

Frank went outside to his car and dialed Kelly’s cell phone.

“Is this the deceptive detective who speaks in riddles?” she said.

“Is this the temptress that blindsides me with phone sex while I’m in a meeting with my boss?”

A low throaty laugh. “That’s where you were when I called?”

“Yes. Morgan and I were telling ADA Rouzan about Antoine and the Lakeview case. Rouzan’s afraid Antoine won’t testify. Morgan’s gonna go for an arrest warrant, grab AK and put him in a lineup. If the judge goes for it.”

“He will if it relates to the Lakeview case.”

“I hope so. Why’d you call me? Pining for my irresistible voice?”

“Yowza, listen to the man’s ego! Your irresistible voice is nice, but I had other reasons. A woman got raped Saturday night and Violent Crimes asked me to interview her.”

“Your serial rapist?”

“No. Different MO. The asshole beat her up and broke her nose. The good news is she identified his vehicle. She used to work at her father’s Ford dealership. She said she’s positive it was a Ford E-series van.”

“Hold it. Silverman drives a Ford E-series van.”

“A black one?”

“No, his is white.”

“Uh-oh, Warren just came out and spotted me. Listen, I can’t meet you tonight after work. I forgot I promised to have dinner with Terry’s mother. Can we do it tomorrow night instead?”

Unwilling to show his disappointment, he said, “Sure, no problem. I’ll see you tomorrow anyway. Morgan’s calling a meeting so we can set up a plan to nab AK and his thugs.”

He went back to his office. Kelly was hot on her latest rape case, but his mind was on Ziegler. He dialed a number and waited.

“State Toxicology Lab, Annette speaking.”

“Hi, Annette, Detective Renzi, NOPD. I’m waiting on a tox report for Jacob Ziegler, died last Wednesday. Could you check the status for me?”

“Hold on.” He heard papers rustling as she muttered, “Everyone wants their tox reports yesterday. And we’re working fourteen hours a day on Katrina bodies.”

After Katrina the state had set up a temporary lab at the hospital in Carville that had once housed victims of Hanson’s Disease. The hospital had closed years ago, but many still called it the leper hospital. Hundreds of Katrina victims remained there, awaiting identification.

“Sorry,” Annette said. “The Ziegler report isn’t back yet. I’ll put a pink sticky on it, might have it for you by the end of the week.”

He thanked her, rang off, and punched a string of numbers into the phone: country and city code, then the six-digit number of Smythe-Jones, former employer of Barry Silverman. He heard the doop-doop ring of the international call. Then a mechanical voice: “
The number you dialed has been disconnected. No further information is available.”

He slammed the phone in the cradle. Smythe-Jones was a phony and so was Barry Silverman. Silverman was no security expert, he was a stalker. He might also be a killer. And so far all their attempts to find him had failed.

CHAPTER 31

Humming a snippet of
I Got Rhythm,
she fixed a salad to go with the barbequed chicken she’d bought for dinner. Twenty minutes ago, after a perfect run-through of the Zwilich, she’d put the chicken in the oven to reheat, returned to her studio and played her
Gershwin Variations
twice, flawlessly. The Louisville audience was sure to love it. A limo would meet her at the airport Friday afternoon and drive her to the hotel. The only rehearsal was at seven, but she wasn’t worried. The Louisville Orchestra was topnotch.

She cut a plum tomato into quarters, dropped them on a salad plate of greens and drained the broccoli in the sink. Hearing the long rolling rumble of distant thunder, she leaned over the sink and looked out the window. The setting sun had disappeared behind sullen gray clouds.

The phone rang, shrill and insistent in the silence of her kitchen.

Her pulse pounded. She checked the Caller ID.
Unavailable
.

Her neck tensed and her diaphragm tightened. She massaged her icy fingers. The phone had rung twice while she was practicing, but she had ignored it. After she finished, she had checked her voicemail.

No message from the five o’clock caller, but at six there had been.

Why don’t you answer, Belinda? I know you’re there
.
Your car’s out front and the office light is on.
She had run to the window and scanned the street. Silverman’s van was nowhere in sight, but she was no longer sure its absence meant anything. No longer sure she was safe.

Her eyes flicked to the wall calendar beside the refrigerator. Today’s date was circled. Monday, the thirteenth of November. Unlucky thirteen.

More thunder, an ominous rumble. But nowhere near as ominous as her ringing telephone. Now it was seven o’clock. It had to be him.

She rubbed the goose bumps on her arms, aware of how empty her house was. Aware of how alone she was without Jake. And Frank was no help. He was busy with work, busy romancing that woman detective.

The ringing stopped as her voicemail kicked in. Not wanting to listen, afraid not to, she ran to the office and heard the tone sound. Then his voice.

What a wonderful rendition of the Gershwin you just played, Belinda. Note perfect.

She felt like a horse had kicked her in the gut. He’d been outside her house, close enough to hear her.

Pick up the phone and talk to me, Belinda. I’ve got a great surprise for you.

Surprise? She didn’t need surprises. She needed peace and quiet. She needed to get her life back on track and play a perfect performance in Louisville and . . .

Why won’t you talk to me? After all I’ve done for you it’s the least you can do. Maybe you’re nervous about your concert in Louisville. It’s your first since Jake died.

She clapped a hand over her mouth. How could he be so cruel?

Jake won’t be with you, but I will. I’ll be in the front row so don’t slip up. Don’t let your fingers freeze in the middle of the Gershwin. Everything would be perfect if you’d just pick up the phone. Then I’d come over and we’d have a glass of wine with dinner. You’re having barbequed chicken, right?

Her heart slammed her chest. How did he know?

I wish you’d talk to me, Belinda. I hate talking to machines. But have it your way. I’ll call you later.

A click and the line went dead. But for how long? Would he call again at eight? Bile filled her throat and tremors wracked her body. She felt like a prisoner in her own house.

With a terrible feeling of dread, she returned to the kitchen and took the chicken out of the oven. The greasy odor nauseated her. How could she eat when this horrible man kept calling every hour on the hour?

She was at his mercy. Helpless.

She leaned against the kitchen counter and massaged her throbbing forehead, eyeing the telephone. Normally an innocuous convenience, it had now become an instrument of evil.

Then it dawned on her. She wasn’t helpless.

She grabbed the phone plug, yanked it out of the socket, ran to the office and did the same. Two down, one more in her bedroom. Energized, she raced upstairs, traced the wires from the phone on her bedside table to the phone jack and pulled the plug. Now Silverman could call to his heart’s content, but her phone wouldn’t ring.

Still, not having a phone by her bed made her nervous. But Silverman didn’t have her cell phone number. With her cell phone on her bedside table, she could climb into bed and have a secure restful sleep, uninterrupted by disturbing phone calls.

_____

2:45 A.M.

It was a perfect night for a break-in. A thick blanket of clouds obscured the moon. He shut off his headlights and drifted past Belinda’s Victorian. Not a speck of light seeped through the windows. Every house on the street was dark, not even a porch light on.

Two blocks over he parked on a narrow street with an upscale market, a coffee shop, and a French bakery with baguettes in the display window. He slipped out of the van, blending into the darkness in his black sweat suit, a black-knit cap pulled low over his forehead. Standard attire for Special Ops night missions. He hadn’t darkened the skin on his face. He doubted that he’d run into anyone at this hour, but if he did, a man in blackface would draw unwanted attention.

The Army had turned him into a lean-mean fighting machine, a far cry from his pudgy physique in high school. After leaving the Army he had maintained a daily routine of pushups, sit-ups and a five-mile run. Even now he could cover a hundred yards as fast as an NFL running back and not break a sweat. His long determined strides got him to her house in two minutes.

Moving silently in rubber-soled shoes, he skulked along the side of her house, antsy with anticipation. He couldn’t wait to watch her, a vision of loveliness tucked safely in her bed.