Forever (19 page)

'But what if she never died?' he asked
softly.

'Of course she died. My God! Her funeral was
a world-wide event!'

'Rather convenient, her body being burned
beyond recognition, don't you think?'

'Now youre reaching,' she told him.

'Maybe. But how would you explain the
pianist?'

Her brow furrowed. 'I... I don't
understand.'

'Stephanie, every pianist has a style all
his own, as individual as your signature or my fingerprints.'

'So?' But she was looking at him
cautiously.

'So? Don't you realise who was accompanying
her on that song?'

She shook her head.

'Boris Guberoff.'

'And what's that supposed to prove? He is
still alive, isn't he? And he's been playing since when? The
thirties? The forties?'

'Stephanie,' he sighed, 'if you know your
music, you'll hear that he played that number too slowly. Also,
that he played awkwardly. He couldn't reach certain keys, because
of his arthritis, dammit! He had to make substitutions! And his
arthritis only got bad two years ago!'

'You're sure?'

'Sure as I'm sitting here.'

'And you'd know his playing anywhere?'

'Damn right, I would.'

She took a deep breath, feeling dizzy, as
though she'd somehow stepped into the Twilight Zone. 'Alan,' she
asked shakily, 'what are you trying to tell me?' Although deep down
inside, she already knew. But maybe - just maybe he would trip up
along the way, disproving his own theory! His own mad theory! Hope
burned weakly, a sputtering, dying flame that needed feverish
fanning.

Lili's voice, Guberoffs arthritic playing.
It couldn't be! Alan had to be wrong.

'Don't you see, Stephanie?' Alan's voice
intruded, sizzling with excitement. 'What you were listening to was
Schneider singing, with Guberoff accompanying her on the piano!
After he retired two years ago! After his arthritis got so bad he
could no longer perform or record!'

Inwardly, she quailed, wishing she could
make him disappear, or at least come up with some instantaneous and
eminently more reasonable solution.

'Stephanie!' Eyes aglow, Alan was leaning as
far across the table as he could, his voice the barest of whispers.
'After I got hold of this tape and realised what I had, what should
I happen to read but your grandfather's article on Lili Schneider
in Opera Now.' He paused. 'Have you read it?'

She shook her head. 'I know the magazine,
but it isn't exactly my cup of tea.'

'Anyway, he didn't come up with anything
earth-shattering in the article, but he did hint that he would in
the biography of her that he was in the process of completing. So I
called him, Stephanie! I called and told him about this tape! And
do you know what he said?'

She shook her head, unable to speak.

'He said, and I quote: "If that tape is the
genuine article, then it just may be the key I'm looking for." ' He
stared at her. 'Obviously, proof for what he had already discovered
for himself, but couldn't yet back up!'

'And what is it he was supposed to have
discovered?' she asked hoarsely.

'You know very well,' he whispered. 'That
Lili Schneider is alive.'

She sat statue-still, staring into his
eyes.

'Think about it, Stephanie,' he added
softly. 'What better motive is there for murder, than for the dead
not to want resurrection?'

New York City

'Where -?'

The word hung in the air between them,
hovering above the table like a threatening cloud. The other
patrons seemed to diminish, as though vanishing to some spiritual
plane, perhaps, their voices and movements reduced to nothing more
than distant shadows and distorted whispers. Alan Pepperberg
drained his caramel-coloured drink, sighed contentedly as he set
the jigger down, and hunched forward on his elbows, as if the two
of them were co-conspirators in an up-and-coming revolution.

Despite her dry throat, Stephanie hadn't so
much as touched the drink he'd ordered for her, nor the club soda
which she'd ordered herself. Both drinks sat forgotten in front of
her. She had nodded her thanks to the waiter and then watched as
Alan picked up his glass and polished it off in a single
swallow.

'Where?' she repeated. 'Alan, I've got to
know where that recording came from!' Her eyes bore into his. 'I
think you not only know how that recording came about, I think you
also know who made it.'

He expelled a noisy breath and paled. Then
he nodded slowly. 'Yes,' he said cautiously. Something wary came
into his eyes. 'First, I need your word of honour that you won't
tell a soul - and I mean nobody - where you got this
information.'

'Hey!' She spread her hands and grinned
disarmingly. 'Haven't you heard? Journalists never reveal their
sources.'

He looked at her stonily. 'For your sake and
mine, I hope to God you don't. Especially after what happened to
your grandfather.'

It was like a physical blow. Despite the
warmth in the restaurant, she could feel a sudden cold chill, as if
something evil was crawling across her skin.

Finally, he said, 'Okay.' He raked a hand
nervously through his spiky platinum hair and glanced over his
shoulder. 'I got hold of it last month. From the same person who
sold me the Callas recording I told you about earlier.'

'The one illegally taped in Mexico
City?'

'Yes.' He nodded. 'That one.'

She got a pad and pen out of her bag. 'I'll
need to know this person's name,' she said, flipping the spiral pad
open. 'Also, how to contact him or her.'

'Unh-unh.' He laughed shortly. 'No way,
Jose.'

'Why not? All I want to do is talk to
him.'

'So do a lot of people whose copyrights he's
violated.'

'Alan, I already told you. I never reveal my
sources.'

'Stephanie,' he said, shaking his head, 'you
don't understand. No one in this pirate recording business wants
any attention. I mean, drug dealers aren't half as secretive. Would
you believe, there are just a handful of unauthorised recording
dealers like him in the entire world?'

'I didn't know that.'

'Now you do. And they're not exactly listed
in the Yellow Pages, believe me.'

Without hesitation she urged, 'Then
recommend me to yours, Alan. Please?'

'No way.' He shook his head adamantly. 'The
moment they find out who you are, I'll be blacklisted from here all
the way to Macau. Not one of them will ever do business with me
again.'

She sat forward. 'Then just supply me with a
name,'1 she pleaded. 'All I'm asking is for you to point me in the
right direction.'

He looked at her through a cloud of smoke.
'Hell, Stephanie, even if I could, I don't know whether the name my
guy goes by is his real name or not. He's very clever, very cagey.
There's no known address for him. No telephone number. No post
office box. Nothing.' He paused for a moment. 'When he has a
recording he thinks I might be interested in, he calls me, and we
take it from there. Usually we meet in a hotel somewhere.'

She drummed her fingernails on the tabletop
and looked thoughtful. 'All right. Since that's a dead end, let's
try to approach this from another angle. How, exactly, did you get
hold of the Schneider tape? I take it your dealer called you about
it?'

'Well, he called me about the Callas tape,
and naturally, my ears perked up since I'm a Callas freak from way
back when. And, bad as the recording was, I just had to have it!'
He smiled wanly. 'Anyway, I told him that ten grand sounded a
little steep, and he said he'd throw in a recent recording of
Guberoff's to sweeten the deal.

He tapped a length of cigarette ash into the
ashtray. 'Anyway, I didn't get around to playing it for some time.
Then, a couple of weeks back, I sat down and listened to it. You
can imagine my shock when -'

' - you recognised Lili Schneider's voice!'
she finished softly for him.

'That's right.' He nodded. 'There's no
mistaking it.'

'And your dealer? You mean to say he had no
idea at all of what he was giving away?' Her face held a look of
disbelief.

'Apparently not. But then, why should he?
Listen, Schneider's supposed to have been dead for - what? - over
four decades now?' Suddenly a faint thoughtful frown crossed his
face. 'Come to think of it,' he said, rubbing his chin, 'I do
remember him mentioning how he got hold of it. Apparently there was
no great need for secrecy, or else he would never have uttered a
word.

Stephanie waited for him to go on.

'Although he didn't give me a name, he did
say it was from someone on board the
Chrysalis
. It seems
Boris Guberoff was on a cruise of the Yucatan Peninsula, and was
secretly taped while playing the piano on board.'

'The
Chrysalis!
Stephanie searched
her mind. 'Is that a new cruise ship?'

Alan laughed, it might as well be, big as it
is. It's a yacht. A megayacht. Or, to be more precise, the de Veiga
yacht. But whether the tape was made by a guest or a crew member,
my dealer wouldn't say.'

Stephanie frowned. 'De Veiga . . . de Veiga
. . . ' she repeated under her breath. 'Now where have I heard that
name before?'

'Ernesto de Veiga,' Alan supplied, 'the
Brazilian multibillio- naire. One of the richest - if not the
richest - men in the world. He's into tin, lumber, banking,
pharmaceuticals. You name it, his fingers are in it.'

She nodded slowly, thinking to herself: So
he must be the man named Ernesto on the tape!

Alan exhaled a streamer of smoke. 'So don't
say I didn't point you in any direction.' His eyes met hers. 'Now
you've got two places to start.'

She nodded. 'Guberoff and de Veiga,' she
said softly.

'And remember. You don't know me. You never
even heard of me.'

She watched as he punched the EJECT button
of the Walkman and took the cassette out. He slid it across the
table to her, his face expressionless, and placed the unengineered
tape on top of it.

'These are just copies,' he said. 'I've got
the originals.'

She stared quizzically down at the tapes and
then over at him.

'They're yours,' he said, gesturing. 'You
can do what you like with them.'

She looked surprised. 'Thanks!' she said. 'I
owe you one.'

He dragged silently on the cigarette.

She dug in her bag for a business card and
scribbled her private home phone number on the back, if you need to
get hold of me for any reason,' she told him, 'any reason at all,
don't hesitate to call me at this number. If you get my answering
machine, leave a message. I'll get back to you.'

Alan nodded and stubbed out his cigarette.
'Just remember,' he warned softly. 'At the risk of repeating
myself, you never heard of me. And while we're on that subject,
don't be offended if I give you a friendly piece of advice.
Okay?'

'Okay. Shoot.'

If you decide to play detective, exercise
extreme caution. Do it quietly. Furtively. Above all, don't do what
your grandfather did, and announce an upcoming Schneider scoop.
Having done that in his Opera Now article could very well have led
to his death.'

She nodded soberly. 'I'll bear that in
mind,' she promised.

She got out her wallet to pay for the
drinks, but he motioned her money away. 'My treat,' he said.

When they were back outside in the bright
sunshine, she and Alan parted company. 'I'm catching a cab,' she
offered. 'Can I drop you off somewhere?'

He shook his head. 'No, thanks. I'm going
down to Greene Street. It's not far, and I like to walk.'

They shook hands, and she stood on the
corner, watching him stride off in leathery, metallic glitter, the
studs on the back of his jacket spelling: CLEAN UP OR DIE. She
couldn't help smiling. Definitely an ecologically minded punk, Alan
Pepperberg.

An approaching taxi caught her eye and she
started to raise her arm to hail it. Then she decided against it.
No. She would walk, too. She could use the exercise and fresh air.
Besides, it wasn't that far up to the Osborne. Forty-three blocks.
At a brisk pace, she could walk it in about three-quarters of an
hour, stoplights included.

Yes. Walking was just what the doctor
ordered! She could use the cleansing qualities of crisp fresh air
and bright sunshine, the invigorating activity of leg muscles in
motion. More important, she did some of her best thinking on foot.
And, come to think of it, while she was at it, she would stop at
the first electronics store she passed. Buy herself a Walkman.

So she could listen to the two cassettes
along the way.

New York City

Restlessly Johnny Stone prowled the
sidewalk, unaware of the throngs of people brushing past him. He
had tried, unsuccessfully, to banish Stephanie from his mind. Now
his strong, unshaven jaw was set in an expression of obstinate
determination as he kept a longing, melancholy eye on the Osborne,
across the street. Countless times, he'd almost begun to go over
and see if Stephanie was in, but each time, Sammy's advice held him
back.

'Give Stephanie a little time to heal... to
sort things out in her head

But good advice couldn't keep him away
completely, hadn't managed to deter him from this vigil. Moving
along the sidewalk with the crowd, then turning on his heel and
backtracking the way he'd come, he must have stalked the length of
the stately building a hundred times already, never once taking his
brooding eyes off the windows of the fifth-floor corner
apartment.

He wondered if maybe, just maybe, he
shouldn't dismiss Sammy's good-intentioned advice? Perhaps he
should confront Stephanie now and get it over with, instead of
waiting and hoping to kiss and make up in the future?