T. Bunn - Winner Take All

“And if things go wrong?”

“The biggest risk is a C-section, of course. It cuts all the lower breath muscles in half. These lower muscles are a singer’s greatest support. Most singers who have a C-section never recover their full range.” She sipped her tea and studied the diminishing storm. “Sometimes even the best of pregnancies can destroy a soprano’s career. The muscles may never recover their full strength. Or worse still, there may be a long-term hormonal imbalance. If the hormones are off, the vocal chords can swell. The voice becomes raspy, the notes not as clean. It can also generate extra fatigue, which is death for a singer who must hold the spotlight for four or five hours a night.”

“It would take a cold and ruthless woman,” Marcus said slowly, “to become pregnant for the sake of her voice.”

Evelyn was saved from responding by the sound of a key slipping into the electronic lock. Kedrick Lloyd let himself in, coughing lightly in the manner of one drained of all energy. Then he turned and saw them. The shock wrenched him from his exhaustion. “What is the meaning of this!”

“Marcus and I were having a most delightful conversation. Shall I pour you a tea?”

He took a single step toward them. “You permit the enemy into our ranks?”

Evelyn held to her steady calm. “Are you absolutely certain this is how you would care to consume your remaining strength?”

“I assure you, sir,” Marcus said. “I’m not Dale’s enemy. I’m doing everything I can-”

“Spare me the lies and invectives!” He jabbed his finger at the door. “Get him out of here!”

Evelyn raised her chin a fraction. “Just precisely whom are you ordering about?”

The raised hand formed a trembling fist. Kedrick spun about and stalked to the bedroom. He slammed the door with a thunder louder than that outside the windows.

Evelyn mused to the closed door, “He insists on continuing with his affairs and pretending that all is well. Do you know why we were in court yesterday? Because my husband insists on personally concluding the sale of several hotels down on the coast.” She shook her head. “What a vain and idiotic man.”

“He’s probably just trying to see to your welfare.”

A bitter humor stretched her features. “I doubt that very much, since he used my money to acquire them in the first place.”

As she walked him to the door, Marcus said, “I still don’t understand why Erin took the child.”

“I am certain you will uncover the truth, if it is there to be found. But one thing I can tell you with utter certitude. Erin Brandt’s reasons do not even approach love.” She offered him a cool hand and a carefully controlled smile. “I will bid you farewell. The doctors are arranging for Kedrick to receive further treatments from our New York oncologist. He is only scheduled to return in four months’ time. Which, given his present state, I very much doubt will occur.”

The nicest thing about the American Embassy was how summertime trees made it impossible to view the entire monstrosity at once. Three sides of Grosvenor Square were formed of symmetrical Georgian facades, which only made the embassy more conspicuous. The building was one gigantic blunder, from the cracked stairs and vault-like entrance doors to the eagle on the roof, which a postwar British contractor had pointed in the wrong direction. Kirsten helped an elderly couple wrestle open the bombproof door, gave her name to the Marine trapped at attention inside his glass coffin, and entered the vast marble lobby.

She seated herself by a central pool that did not work. Dead presidents glared down from their high perches, clearly dissatisfied with her presence. She shut her eyes, weary from lack of sleep and the ceaseless torment. Her mind returned to the previous night with such vividness she was surrounded by Erin’s spicy perfume. Once again she stared at the candlelit reflection of her own lost and empty gaze. She felt convicted, a woman undone by her own hand. Either she returned to lies that she had already rejected as unsatisfactory, or do the unthinkable and trust Marcus. As footsteps approached across the marble tiles, she heard herself whisper the same words again. Help me.

“Ms. Stansted?”

“Yes.”

“Adam Ross.” He offered her a hand as cold as the lobby. “Assistant political attaché. This way, please.”

He waited until they were safely inside the elevator to continue, “The ambassador was woken up this morning by a call from Senator Jacobs himself. Jacobs said you needed a detective.”

“That’s correct.”

“Jacobs also said we were to treat any further request as though it came from him personally. If you’ll excuse me for saying, that’s some impressive clout.”

“Apparently I’ve become involved in a pet project of his.”

“A staffer by the name of Brent Daniels also left a message for you.” He consulted his notes. “The lady in question has booked a flight back to Düsseldorf this afternoon.”

“Excuse me?”

The attaché repeated his message. “He indicated this left you with very little time to make a connection.”

“Did he tell you how he got this information?”

“I’ve told you all I know.”

“Can you get a message back to him?”

“Absolutely.”

“Could you ask him for a family court lawyer and another detective, this time in Germany? Would you also book me a flight to Düsseldorf and a hotel in the city center?”

“No problem. This way, please.” The upstairs foyer was carpeted and painted a muted gray. At their entry a stocky man in a crumpled navy suit rose to his feet. “Kirsten Stansted, Chris Faber. Mr. Faber was formerly a detective-lieutenant with Scotland Yard.”

“Ma’am.”

“You can use the conference room at the end of the hall, if you like.”

“That won’t be necessary.” She took a pair of steps away from the staffer. The detective followed, moving in close enough to catch her whisper. Swiftly Kirsten outlined what she required. The detective listened with the dead-eyed calm of one who had heard and seen it all many times before.

When she was finished, he said, “I’ll meet you at the Savoy Hotel’s main entrance in two hours.”

“Thank you.”

The hovering staffer had his secretary walk the detective out, then asked Kirsten, “That’s it?”

“I do have one further matter I could use some help with.”

“Anything.”

“I was wondering,” Kirsten said, “if you know of anyone in the embassy who is fanatical about opera.”

He registered her request with a single slow blink. Then, “Actually, I do.”

Fifteen minutes later the staffer ushered Kirsten into the basement cafeteria, and over to where a gray-haired couple were seated. “Kirsten Stansted, meet Elizabeth and Richard Powell. Elizabeth is one of our administrative aides. Richard is retired military, now working with embassy security.”

The woman was both kindly and authoritative. “You have a question about opera?”

“Made every premiere at Covent Garden last season,” her husband interjected. “Great season.”

“Richard and Elizabeth love to test our patience after every performance.” The staffer smiled tightly. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Actually,” Kirsten said, “I’m interested in one particular singer.”

“Have a seat, why don’t you.” The man was bulldog in appearance with a gravelly bark. “Take a coffee?”

“No, thank you. I wanted to ask you about Erin Brandt.”

Both their faces brightened. “A brilliant singer. One of the best.”

Elizabeth asked, “How well do you know opera?”

“Hardly at all.”

“So why are you interested in Erin Brandt?”