_____
He put on the heavy molded-plastic ear pads and strapped on the clear Plexiglas eye protectors. Squinted at the target 100 yards away and squeezed off a round. The gun range was in Kenner near the airport. Nine o’clock at night he pretty much had the place to himself.
An acid bath churned in his gut, impossible to ignore.
Nothing was going right.
He couldn’t understand why Belinda had refused his offer to drive her to the airport. Two hours ago he’d driven past her house. Her blue Infiniti stood in the driveway. He’d thought about disabling it, decided not push his luck. Not after his talk with Marcus yesterday afternoon.
Ignoring the stabbing pain in his gut, he squeezed off another round. The kid had lied to him. He hated that. People who doubted his intelligence infuriated him. Eventually, Marcus had admitted he’d told the cop about the brownies. Not just any cop, Detective Frank Renzi.
Belinda’s new savior. His new rival.
His anger became a fulminating rage. He fired four shots at the target in quick succession. Ziegler’s death was causing problems, problems he had failed to anticipate. When Renzi got the toxicology report listing the curious substance in Ziegler’s body—his potion of oleander, ubiquitous in New Orleans, the poisonous leaves there for the plucking—Renzi would put him at the top of his suspect list.
Another problem to solve, one of many.
The Diva was treating him like dirt. Refusing a ride to the airport. Refusing to say when she’d be back. How could he persuade her to rehire him if she was in New York? What if she stayed for a week? By then Renzi might have the toxicology report.
He hit the button on the automatic retrieval system and slammed another clip into his Ruger semi-automatic as the target shimmied toward him. He pulled the target off the clip and studied it.
Perfect: every shot in the kill zone. When everything clicked, it was like a Mozart symphony, perfect from start to finish. That’s how it would be when Belinda gave in to her secret desires: She’d take off her clothes and do a sexy dance and beg him to fuck her. Unlike Rachel, his cock-tease sister.
He pictured her on stage in Atlanta dressed in her high-necked black dress with the long skirt, sawing away on her violin. Forget all those years of fucking Daddy-O. Rachel had found God. Six months after winning a seat in the Atlanta Symphony in 2000, she had joined one of those born-again Christian churches. The night she’d called to tell him this, he had to pinch his nose to keep from laughing.
Unaware of his amusement, she had prattled on about Pa, saying he’d moved back to Rhode Island and was working at a furniture store. He knew why she stayed in touch with Pa. She was obsessed with finding her birth parents. By then Ma was dead, so Pa was the only one who could tell her, something he’d refused to do, even when he was fucking her. The night she’d called him, he had just mustered out of the Army. Six years ago, but he remembered it like it was yesterday. Two days before Thanksgiving.
But Rachel wasn’t feeling very thankful, lamenting:
Why won’t Pa tell me?
Because Pa’s a prick, he’d said. Not saying what he was thinking.
It’s the one hold he’s got over you and he still wants to fuck you
.
He attached another target to the clip and hit the button to send it back to the far wall, ruminating about the screwed-up flakes that adopted them.
Ma was smart at least, and college educated, unlike Pa who’d barely made it through high school. A talented violinist, Plain Jane had dreamed of a career in music until her father died of Parkinson’s disease—a portent of things to come as it turned out. To support herself Plain Jane had majored in music education at a state college. Her dream was over.
Pa had no interest in college. He was into cars and guns. Good thing. The Army drafted him and sent him to Vietnam. Before he shipped out he met Plain Jane and got her pregnant. Wedding bells coming up. But while Pa was in Vietnam, Ma had a miscarriage, and Pa came home sterile, because of Agent Orange. Or so he’d said. That’s why they had adopted him and Rachel.
He clenched his fingers around the Ruger, recalling the humiliations he’d suffered, the things he’d been forced to do for Ma, the beatings from Pa, the taunts from Rachel. The favored child who’d won Pa’s love by fucking him. His bitch sister had bested him in every possible way, achieving her goal to play in an orchestra, surpassing him as a musician, while he had found only failure. But not when it came to Pa. Pa was crafty, but not crafty enough. In the end he had settled the score with his miserable excuse for a father.
He laughed aloud, recalling their final conversation and the sweet aftermath. Maybe he’d tell Rachel about it someday. That would be a kick.
He studied the target. Raised his weapon. Took aim and squeezed off one round after another, a barrage of hatred.
_____
Seated in Kelly’s kitchen, Frank sipped some of the Shiraz he’d brought, watching her move around the room, long-legged and sexy in her coral-blue top and cutoff jeans.
“What does your father do?” she asked, glancing at him over her shoulder as she took salads out of the refrigerator. “Is he still in Boston?”
“Yes. Seventy-two and still going strong. He’s an appellate court judge.”
Earlier his father had called to wish him a happy birthday. A nice gesture, but their stilted conversation brought pangs of regret. After his divorce, their relationship, once close, had deteriorated. Judge Salvatore Renzi had no use for adulterers, and Frank made no attempt to explain, knowing it would be fruitless. Over time the rift had lessened, but the freewheeling gab-sessions they had once enjoyed, ranging from legal and law enforcement issues to the Boston Celtics, had not resumed. At the end of today’s conversation Frank had promised to visit, no specific date stated. And no suggestions from Judge Salvatore Renzi.
Kelly set platters of asparagus and salmon on the table and flashed a mischievous grin. “I had a Betty Crocker moment this afternoon.”
He laughed. “I don’t believe it. The witness is lying.”
His cell phone rang and Kelly rolled her eyes.
For you, the job always comes first, Frank.
He wanted to shut the damn thing off. It was his birthday. Let someone else handle the emergency
.
But he couldn’t.
When he answered, Otis Jones said, “Sorry to bother you on a Saturday night, but we got a situation I think you should know about. Got a missing NOCCA student, a kid named Marcus Goines.”
His first reaction was relief. It wasn’t Antoine. But if Marcus was missing, that was also bad news. Very bad news if his drug-dealing theory was accurate. “Since when?”
“His parents said he never came home from school yesterday. They thought he might be out with his friends, got concerned when he didn’t show up for dinner. They started calling his friends but nobody’d seen him. They reported him missing early this morning. His father’s a preacher. Half the congregation’s out looking for him. You know this kid?”
He looked at Kelly, who gazed at him, blank-faced.
“Yes. I interviewed him yesterday about another case. I think he might be dealing drugs. He knows Antoine Carter. Probably knows AK, too.”
“If he’s messin’ with drugs and knows AK,” Otis said, “that puts a whole new twist on it. We put out a BOLO on his car. It’s not in the NOCCA lot, so he must have driven somewhere after school.”
“Meet you at the District-One station in half an hour.”
He shut the phone and braced himself for Kelly’s reaction.
To his surprise, she said, “Give me ten minutes to put away the food and change my clothes. I’m coming with you.”
_____
It was midnight by the time they left the District-One station. Reverend Goines was still there, a forlorn figure slumped on a wooden bench, looking like a horse had kicked him. Mrs. Goines was at home with friends, hoping for a phone call from Marcus. When they got to the station Frank had told Otis about his interview with Marcus but said nothing to Reverend Goines. The man didn’t need to hear about tainted brownies and drug deals now. His only child was missing. Otis had dispatched three squad cars to Iberville, but at eleven-thirty they had reported back: No one at Iberville had seen him. None who would admit to it, anyway.
A NOCCA classmate had seen Marcus leave school after classes ended Friday afternoon. No sign of him since. And plenty of people might want Marcus dead. Silverman, for one, AK for another. If Marcus was dealing drugs and crossed AK for some reason, AK wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. And then there was Antoine. If Antoine believed Marcus had ratted him out to AK, Antoine might have decided to get rid of him.
He pulled into Kelly’s driveway at twelve-thirty. Earlier, they had eaten the Subway sandwiches Otis had ordered for them. A far cry from Kelly’s grilled salmon, but it was too late to eat now.
“Come on in, Frank,” she said, opening her door. “I’ve got something for you.”
“Uh-oh. You’re not gonna shoot me for ruining dinner are you?”
She left the car without answering. Mystified, he followed her inside. The faint aroma of Teriyaki salmon still permeated her kitchen.
“Have a seat,” she said, gesturing at the table.
She poured two glasses of wine and brought them to the table. “I’m glad you came over, even if we didn’t get to eat dinner. Cooking for one all the time gets boring.”
A troubled look flitted over her face. He knew what she was thinking. Two years ago she was cooking for her husband. “It’s okay,” he said.
“No it isn’t.” She touched his hand and smiled. “I like you, Frank. Have you noticed?”
He smiled back. “I noticed. I like you, too. When you called this morning it made my day. Unfortunately, things went downhill after that.”
“What happened?” She shook her head. “Wait. Scratch that. We don’t have to talk about work. That was just my excuse to call you.”
“You don’t need an excuse to call me.”
“Yeah, well, I like to pick your brains, oh brilliant one, master of all detectives.”
He laughed aloud. “You keep slinging bull like that and I might have to take you to bed.” She grinned, but he could tell she had more to say.
His gut tightened.
“You never stop being a detective, Frank. I, on the other hand, get bogged down with other things. I was pretty blunt when we talked at the Bulldog Thursday night.”
“About needing space because of Terry?”
Or about me not having time for a relationship,
he thought but didn’t say. Why ask for trouble?
“I need to stop thinking about Terry,” she said, gazing at him with her beautiful sea-green eyes. “I need to stop living in the past and enjoy the present. And that includes you. Tell me what happened after I called you.”
“I drove past Antoine’s house. His parents are still in Houston so he lives with his uncle.”
“You’re worried about him because of AK, right?”
“Big time. I saw Antoine’s car and figured he was inside with his uncle, safe and sound.”
“I keep thinking about his girlfriend. Chantelle.” Kelly shook her head. “Murdered at fifteen.”
“Today would have been her sixteenth birthday.”
Kelly raised an eyebrow. “And you know that how?”
“The memorial T-shirts at the funeral. And your next question?”
She spread her hands in a gesture of defeat. “Sorry, Great One. I have no clue.”
“Why did I remember Chantelle’s birthday?” He grinned. “And the answer is . . . it’s the same day as mine.”
Her lips parted in a smile. She rose from her chair, went to a cupboard, took out a plate and brought it to the table. On the plate was a chocolate frosted cupcake with one candle in it.
She brushed his lips with a kiss. “Happy birthday, Frank.”
He stared at her, dumbfounded. “How’d you know it was my birthday?”
“Frank. I’m a detective. You think you’re the only genius in the room?”
He pulled her onto his lap. “I’m not the only wise-ass, either.”
She ruffled his hair. “No cake till you tell me what happened today.”
“Okay.” But he didn’t want to. Digging up his birth date was one thing. Surprising him with a cupcake was another. He hadn’t had a birthday cake in years, not since before the divorce when Maureen and Evelyn would serenade him and make him blow out the candles.
“After I drove past Antoine’s house I spotted a Lincoln Town Car with two desperados behind me. One had a shotgun. I figure they were AK’s thugs, keeping an eye on Antoine.”
Kelly gripped his arm. Her fingers were icy. “What happened?”
This is a bad idea,
he thought,
too reminiscent of her husband not coming home one night.
But he was into it now, too late to stop.
“They must have recognized my car. I’ve been at Iberville at least three times in the past two weeks. They put a bullet in the trunk of my car. Pissed me off, big time. So I drove to Iberville to talk to AK.”
“By yourself?” Kelly stared at him, aghast. “These punks would as soon kill you as look at you. Why didn’t you call me?”
“What, and mess up your dinner preparations?”
Her face worked with emotion. “Don’t joke about stuff like that.”
He hugged her. “You’re right. But the maggots pissed me off.”
“Jesus, Frank, you’re worse than my brothers. They take no shit from anyone, but when they settle a score, they go together, all three of them.”
“Huh,” he said, deadpan. “You think they’d whup my ass?”
She grinned. “I’m not touching that one with a ten-foot pole.”
He pulled her close. “I got a ten-foot pole for you.”
“Yeah, yeah, you wish,” she said. But her eyes were ripe with invitation.
“Want to take advantage of it or would you rather stay here and share my cupcake?”
“Cupcake or bed. Geez, Frank, these are tough choices.” She frowned in mock-concentration but a mischievous smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Then she pulled him close and whispered, “Bed first, cupcake later.”
CHAPTER 27