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  “Not a whole lot, far as I know.”

  “You know anybody that lives at Iberville?”

  “Nah. I grew up in the St. Bernard project. We didn’t hang with the Iberville kids.” She puffed her cigarette. “But I know who runs it.”

  “Who?” He already had a name, but he’d let her tell him, make her feel important.

  “AK-Forty-Seven. He run it before Katrina, he runs it now.”

  “Him and his crew selling drugs?”

  “What I hear, you get most anything you want over there. Weed, crack, uppers, downers, X.” She looked at him. “I don’t do that stuff, Frank.”

  “I know you don’t and you better not start.”

  She smiled, teeth gleaming white against her dark skin like a model in a toothpaste ad. “No drugs for me. Got my boys to think of.”

  “A kid got shot at Iberville two days ago.”

  “What I hear, things are tough over there.”

  “What do you hear about the Lakeview robbery?”

  “Ain’t heard nothin.”

  “There’s a big reward out to finger the robbers. Ten large.”

  “Can’t spend it in hell. Don’t need it in heaven.”

  “Somebody put the word out to keep quiet?”

  She stared straight ahead, puffing her cigarette.

  “Who wants it kept quiet?”

  “I dunno, Frank, honest. I just, you know, talk to my friends. They say the cops gonna pin it on some black kids, white lady died, white cop in the hospital.” She tossed the butt out the window. “Be hell to pay, anybody finds out I’m talking to you.”

  “No one’s going to find out.” He pulled out a photo of Chantelle. “You know this girl?”

  She tilted the photo to let the streetlight shine on it and shook her head. “Never seen her before. Pretty girl. She a hooker?”

  “No, just a messed-up teenager. She’s fifteen. Chantelle Wilson.”

  Angela gnawed her bottom lip. “She mixed up with that robbery?”

  “She’s missing. Her mother’s worried.” He didn’t want to lie to Angela and rarely did, but he needed information.

  “Uh-huh. Okay, I’ll ask around.” Facing him with a flirtatious smile, she said, “How come you working on a Saturday night, Frank? We could go someplace and have a good time.”

  “Angela, I’ve got a daughter your age. You’re smart and attractive. Find some guy your own age and—”

  “Get real, Frank. Guys my age be doing drugs, selling drugs or in jail.” She heaved a sigh. “My moms never married my daddy, and I ain’t never gonna find a guy to marry me, neither.”

  His heart ached for her. Much of what she said was true. Few black men wanted to take responsibility for another man’s kids. He reached behind the seat for the Popeye’s bag. “Get your GED and find a job at Target or Starbucks, some guy comes in, sees you at the register he’ll fall in love with you.” Hoping this would actually happen.

  She took the Popeye’s bag and opened the car door. “You best get yourself a girlfriend, Frank. Working on a Saturday night? You need some lovin’, baby.” Her high-pitched giggle trailed her to her car.

  He smiled ruefully. Angela was right: Get a new girlfriend because Dana Swenson had kissed him off.

  ____

  He checked the side-view mirror and eased away from the curb outside Arrivals. Tons of traffic on a Saturday night, people eager to party in the Big Easy. The sleek black limo was insured but his boss had made it clear he’d have to pay the deductible for any damages. A thousand dollars.

  Fuck-all! That would wipe him out. He was already mired in debt.

  “Hotel International,” his passenger instructed from the back seat.

  “Right-O, sir. I’ll have you there in a jiffy.” He studied the man in the rearview, a sourpuss with horned-rim spectacles and lots of luggage. He sucked the knuckle he’d scraped heaving the two heavy suitcases and matching suit-bag into the trunk. “First time in New Orleans, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad. I was hoping to show you around.” And get a big tip. “I showed Nick Cage a few hot spots.” A lie, though he had seen the actor once outside his Garden District mansion. “When Sean Penn was here filming All the King’s Men I was his driver.” He wished.

  “I’m really tired. It was a long flight.”

  He got the message: Shut up and don’t bother me. Fine. Let Sourpuss find his own way around. And if he wanted his bags schlepped into the hotel, he’d better have a big tip ready. Alert for careless drivers, he eased onto the I-10 and focused on London. The airfare had maxed out one credit card and reserving a hotel room for three nights had cost 420 pounds.

  “That’s nine-hundred-thirty dollars,” the silly twit had said in her cheery voice. As if nine-hundred bucks were a pittance to stay in her precious hotel.

  “Could you turn the AC down? It’s freezing back here.”

  “Certainly, sir. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

  No thank-you from Sourpuss. His fists clenched reflexively around the wheel as he pulled into the high-speed lane. Forget Sourpuss. Focus on Belinda. He envisioned the smooth white flesh of her breasts, imagining how her nipples would stiffen when he rubbed his cock through her coppery hair, imagining the other delights he had in store for her.

  By the time he pulled up to the hotel, his crotch was throbbing with desire. He opened the door for Sourpuss and muscled his luggage out of the trunk. Sourpuss gestured for him to carry the luggage inside. As if he was a servant. He hauled the bags inside and set them beside a plush sofa. If this didn’t merit a big tip, what did? “That will be forty dollars, sir.”

  Sourpuss handed him two twenties and added a two-dollar tip.

  A flush burned his neck, flamed upward and blazed his cheeks.

  He wanted to kill the bastard. Wanted to stick a dagger into the bastard’s eye and watch it burst and spew fluids and blood.

  He pasted on a smile. “Thank you, sir. Enjoy your stay.”

  CHAPTER 5

  A faint sound floated down the hall.

  Chantelle froze, one foot in the kitchen, one in the hall, her heart beating her ribs like a drummer in a Mardi Gras parade. Mama would whup her ass if she caught her out of bed at this hour, the woman no bigger than a flea but had murder in her eyes, anybody screwed up.

  She held her breath. Heard it again. A soft footstep. Then another.

  A floorboard creaked.

  Please, God, don’t let it be Mama.

  A ghostly shadow appeared in the shadowy darkness of the hall—her roommate—the little bitty Hispanic girl who’d run away from home, fifteen years old, knocked around by her uncle before he knocked her up, belly swollen, seven months along now.

  “Wha’ you doin’, Chantelle?”

  “Shh. Ain’t doin’ nuthin. Go on back to bed ‘fore Mama hears us.”

  Ramona gazed up at her with sad brown eyes.

  “G’won,” Chantelle whispered, gesturing with her hand.

  Ramona shook her head, eyes sorrowful. “Don’t leave, Chantelle.”

  Last night Ramona had blurted out her sad story, said she couldn’t talk to the other two girls, one busted for shoplifting, the other selling pills, hard-ass bitches thinkin’ they were hot shit ‘cause they’d been here two months and had the biggest room. She only spoke to them at the dinner table to be polite. Please pass the beans and rice, Tameka. Please pass the milk, Linyatta.

  ‘Bout made her sick, the bitches giving her hard-eyed stares and fake-smiles. Ramona was different, a sweet little girl, a baby about to have a baby. Going nowhere. Getting knocked up was a dead-end, forget singing. She and Antoine always used a condom when they made love.

  She gripped Ramona’s arm, whispered, “I’m outta here. Don’t you dare snitch on me. Morning comes you didn’t hear nuthin, didn’t see nuthin.”

  Bright shiny tears glistened in Ramona’s dark eyes. “Good luck, Chantelle. Go with God.”

  “You too, baby. Now go on back to bed r
eal quiet so’s you don’t wake nobody.” She gave her a shove and Ramona shuffled back down the hall toward their room.

  She slipped into the kitchen, the moon shining through the window over the sink, enough light to see her way to the back door. Sweat dampened her palms. If the cops caught her, they’d put her in the lockup. She felt in her pocket for the card the cop had given her.

  Detective Renzi wasn’t so bad. Not like some of them.

  Silent as smoke, she drifted toward the door, tracing her fingers along the counter. Lord be praised! There was Mama’s cell phone plugged into an outlet, charged up and ready to go, a sign from God calling out to her! She unplugged the cord, wrapped it around the thick plug, stuffed it in one pocket of her jeans, put the cell phone in the other.

  Bust out of here and call Antoine, halleluiah!

  She got the deadbolt open no problem. Hard part was the Yale lock. She twisted the knob with one hand, worked the little button with the other to keep it open. Gave the door a gentle tug so the wooden door wouldn’t creak.

  A shrill alarm sounded, Jesus-God, loud enough to wake the dead!

  Fear clawed her throat.

  She blasted through the screen door, down the steps and ran like the wind, didn’t stop till she rounded the corner on the next block, heart pounding, gasping for breath, wanting to scream: I’m free! I’m free!

  But she wasn’t. Not with Mama’s alarm shrieking, cops headed this way right now probably, or a National Guard hummer full of men with machine guns. She touched Mama’s cell phone, aching to call Antoine, desperate to hear his voice. Please God let him be safe.

  No. Better wait till she got home. Better stay off the sidewalk too, so nobody in a passing car saw her. In the distance a dog barked. She hated dogs, sensing you were near and yapping.

  That’s what tipped off the detective up in Lakeview.

  She ran in the opposite direction, cut through a yard between two dark houses. At Rampart Street she stopped to catch her breath, Interstate traffic thundering above her head, lights blazing in the Shell station on the corner, stay away from there, cops stopping in all hours of the night to buy coffee. Sheltered by the overpass, she darted across one lane of Rampart, hid behind a concrete abutment, let two cars go by and crossed to the opposite side.

  A siren whooped, coming her way.

  Her heart slammed her chest. She ducked around a corner onto a side street, ran past two boarded-up houses and spotted a bike leaning against the porch of a dilapidated cottage. No fenders, but the tires looked okay. The windows of the cottage were dark, no light inside, not even a creepy blue flicker like when you watched TV in the dark.

  She ran up the walk and grabbed the bike and wheeled it to the street, teeth clenched, heart pounding, expecting a shout any second: Stop thief! She ran beside the bike to get it going, hopped on and peddled away. Get herself home fast as her legs could pump, call Antoine and see if he was okay.

  Didn’t want to think what she’d do if he wasn’t. She’d read the story in Mama’s newspaper. AK had shot a cop and taken a white lady hostage. Now the lady was dead. Bad news. About as bad as it could get.

  Tears burned her eyes. Please God, let Antoine be safe.

  The sirens wailed, louder now, and closer.

  ______

  Monday, 16 October 8:30 A.M.

  “Thanks for coming in, Mr. Ziegler. I was about to call you,” Frank said, a preemptive strike to pacify the visibly angry man. “Sorry I didn’t get back to you, but it’s been hectic around here.”

  Ziegler gazed at him, stony-faced. “I read the papers.”

  Like everyone else in the city.

  He glanced at Jim Whitworth, a white-haired florid-faced man seated at the desk to his right, the veteran detective working the phone, putting his own caseload on hold to troll for leads on the Lakeview robbery.

  He took out the Incident Report, the one with Ziegler’s name on it because Belinda didn’t want him to use hers. A beautiful flutist with secrets.

  Ziegler fingered his beard with long slender fingers, his nails bitten to the quick. “There are some things you should know. Things I didn’t want to say in front of Belinda.”

  He said nothing, waited for the bombshell.

  “Belinda’s parents and her brother were killed in a car accident.”

  Not what he was expecting. “I see. When was this? Recently?”

  “No. On Columbus Day in 1993. Last Thursday was the thirteenth anniversary. That’s why we had dinner together. We do it every year.”

  Thirteenth anniversary. He did a quick calculation. Belinda had to have been a teenager when her parents died. “Where was the accident?”

  “In Connecticut. Her parents were taking her older brother back to Yale after the Columbus Day weekend. A drunk driver got on I-95 going the wrong way and hit them head-on. Belinda’s brother and father died at the scene. Her mother died at the hospital.”

  Such tragedies happened all the time, but the self-confident women he’d met Thursday night had given no hint she had survived one. She was focused on her career. Belinda had big ambitions. There were a million flute players, not as attractive as Belinda maybe, but competition in the music world was fierce. Only a handful of soloists achieved stardom.

  “Blaine was a prodigy too, on French horn. Belinda was devastated, but she won’t talk to the press about it. She doesn’t want to be viewed as some sort of pathetic victim.” Ziegler shrugged. “Her words, not mine.”

  “And Thursday’s incident is related to this how?”

  Ziegler gnawed what was left of his thumbnail. “I screen Belinda’s mail. I didn’t want to say this in front of her, but she’s gotten some creepy notes.”

  “Creepy in what way?”

  “Saying how he loved her lips and her hair and . . . sick stuff like that.”

  He said nothing, digesting the information. Over the weekend he had visited her website. The photos were stunning: Belinda posed with her flute in a low-cut gown, lips parted seductively. Sexy. The Internet was great for some things, not so good for others. Lots of weirdoes out there.

  Beside him, Whitworth slammed down the phone and muttered, “Useless.” Whitworth looked over and shook his head. “Nobody’s talking.”

  “Par for the course,” Frank said. Except for Ziegler. Ziegler wanted to tell him Belinda’s life story. He wanted to go talk to Chantelle.

  “When did the notes start, Mr. Ziegler?”

  “A few years ago when we were in Boston. In one note, he asked her to meet him outside the stage door entrance to Symphony Hall. It’s on—”

  “I know where it is, I used to work that district. Were they signed?”

  “Yes. Your adoring fan, B. Just the initial.”

  “I need to see them. When can you bring them in?”

  A flush rose on Ziegler’s cheeks. “I threw them away.” He spread his hands in supplication. “I didn’t want Belinda to see them. It would have been too upsetting, you know? Like, B is for Blaine.”

  Maybe. Or maybe Boyfriend was a conspiracy nut.

  “She got a note last week postmarked New Orleans.”

  “Did you throw that one away too?”

  “Yes.” A muscle worked in Ziegler’s jaw. “A week before the anniversary? It would have put Belinda over the edge! She’s a high-strung soloist. Under enormous pressure.”

  Frank wanted to smack him. “Tell me what it said.”

  “You know how much I love you, Belinda. Soon we’ll be together. Love, B,” Ziegler said. “Postmarked New Orleans, a week before the anniversary. And the night of the anniversary a car comes out of nowhere and almost hits Belinda. Someone tried to kill her!”

  Whitworth looked over, cocked an eyebrow that said: You got a problem?

  Frank waved him off and gave Ziegler a hard stare. “You seem ultra-protective of Belinda. Is she your girlfriend?”

  Ziegler blinked rapidly and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “No. More like a sister. We met when I was a
grad student at New England Conservatory. Belinda was studying flute there. We met in the hall one day, got talking and became friends. After her family was killed in the accident, Belinda was terribly distraught. She poured her heart out to me.”

  He tried to make sense of the blitzkrieg of information. Was someone stalking Belinda? Or did Ziegler have an overactive imagination? He didn’t buy the like-a-sister disclaimer. He studied Ziegler’s well-groomed mustache and beard, the long slender fingers, the dark sorrowful eyes. Maybe Ziegler was gay. That would explain the odd interactions he had observed: tension between them, but no sexual vibes, none of the usual touching by lovers.

  Ziegler leaned back, looking relieved, as though he’d gotten a ten-ton truck off his chest. Maybe he had. Or maybe the notes were a fairytale.

  “I want you to tell her about the notes.”

  “Now?” Ziegler gasped. “She’s got a huge performance in London this weekend!”

  “Listen,” he said, leaning on the word. “If someone is stalking her, she may be in danger. I'd like to see all the notes to determine if they came from the same person, but you threw them away. Tell her about the notes. Today. If she gets any more, bring them to me. Right away.”

  His cell phone chimed. He checked the ID and answered.

  “Detective Frank?” Mama LeBlanc said in her something’s-wrong voice. “I know you not gonna like this, but Chantelle? She’s gone.”

  “Gone?” A sick feeling invaded his gut. “When?”

  “She was here for bed check at midnight, but my security alarm went off at three this morning. When I roust the girls outta bed, Chantelle’s gone.”

  He didn’t want to think about where she’d gone or what she was doing. If Chantelle was mixed up in the Lakeview robbery, she was running with some bad hombres, a fifteen-year-old girl on her own in a city full of thugs, with no one to protect her.

  “Okay, Mama. I’ll be right over.” He punched off, silently cursing.

  Whitworth looked over. “The girl split?”

  “Looks like it.” To Ziegler he said, “I’ve got to deal with an emergency. When I get back, I’ll write an Incident Report on what you’ve told me.”